Tormentor Read Online Free Page A

regular coffee breaks out on the patio and spent Saturday evenings in the Dunvegan Arms where I was almost getting treated as a regular, if not yet one of the locals. I still couldn’t get anyone to talk to me about the house’s history though, but that seemed less important now, given there had been no recurrence of the strange e-mails and no sign of any nocturnal intruders.
    I was starting to feel like I had found a new home, somewhere I could settle.
    On the second of the month, I had to go into Portree to pay my council tax, so I took the opportunity to visit Alan Bean—he was only too happy to be invited to lunch.
    “I need a break. I’ve been wrangling with the land register over an old farm property all morning,” he said. “Some of this stuff goes back to Bonnie Prince Charlie’s day, and, around here at least, they bought and sold land like they were lending and borrowing books from a library. It’s a bloody mess.”
    He stood from his desk and stretched.
    “It might be a long one,” he said to his secretary—a small, timid-looking girl who couldn’t be long out of school—and led me out into the main square. We didn’t head for the George this time, but around past the harbor wall to a more modern restaurant perched on a corner of the Uig road. There was a line of what looked like tourists waiting for a table, but Alan waved at one of the waiters and we were shown to a window seat with a view out over the fishing boats to the hills beyond. It was one of those days where you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else—turquoise sky with fluffy white clouds, a slight breeze on the water and gulls doing aerobatics overhead.
    Alan saw me looking.
    “So you’re not regretting coming then?”
    “Not for a second,” I replied.
    The waiter interrupted any further conversation by bringing a menu.
    “I can recommend the Chicken Jalfrezi. My treat,” Alan said. “I’ll slip it past Dad on expenses. And they’ve got some fine island beers on tap too.”
    The curry proved to be very good indeed—fiery yet subtle, and the ale—a local wheat beer, complemented it perfectly. Alan’s conversation danced over the top of both, always lively and humorous, with an underlying sarcasm that suited my temperament. He told me of the goings-on in the island, and I told him what little there was to tell of my first month.
    I wasn’t going to mention it, but I did let slip about the writing on the wall in the old cottage, and the two words I’d read both there and in my e-mails.
    “Kids, most like,” he said. “They’re always on the lookout for somewhere to have a quiet smoke away from the eyes of their parents.”
    I wasn’t convinced—not at all—but Alan was such a convivial companion, and it didn’t feel like an issue worth arguing over, so I let it drop, and conversation quickly turned to the Dunvegan Arms.
    “How are they treating you?” Alan asked.
    “Very well,” I replied. “They’re a talkative bunch, when it suits them.”
    He picked up on my sarcasm.
    “Don’t push it, Jim,” he said quietly. “Yes, they like to talk—we all do over here. It’s our favorite pastime—after sex of course, but there’s only so many times you can look at a sheep.
    “We all keep secrets—I’m sure you’ve got some of your own. Just relax, enjoy your house, and trust me—there’s nothing you need to know that’ll help you in the knowing of it.”
    I let it lie—it was a niggle, but no more than that, and not enough of one to be worth too much attention. Alan had a second beer and I had a coffee, aware of the forty-five-minute drive I still had ahead of me to get home. He looked like he was just getting started.
    “Come down in a taxi sometime,” Alan said, as we parted in midafternoon. “We can make a day of it, have a few beers—more than a few beers—and maybe if you get me drunk enough, I’ll tell you some of those stories you seem so keen on hearing.”
    I laughed.
    “If I wait until you’re