The Lighthouse Witches(55)

“Weird?” he offered.

“Well, yes. But I was trying to figure out what all the drawings meant. I asked around in case they were from Scottish folklore but nobody appears to recognize them.”

“If I know Patrick Roberts, it’ll either be some kind of corporate logo or a satanic symbol.”

“Is there a difference?”

He grinned. “Touché.”

“You don’t like him very much, do you?”

“Oh, you picked that up, did you? I thought I’d done a fine job of hiding it.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

He screwed up his face. “It’s nothing personal. He’s just a bit of a bawbag.”

In the kitchen, I set about opening the bottle of wine and poured us both a short glass each.

“Smells nice,” he said, nodding at the oven, taking a glass from me. “I’m surprised it works. Patrick didn’t exactly bother to upgrade the amenities in the place, did he?”

“I suppose he doesn’t live here, so why bother?”

Finn grimaced. “I think it’s fair to assume that he holds that attitude for everything he buys.”

“What do you mean?”

He sipped at his wine. “Well, just look at the Longing. Doesnae even fix the place up. Hires you to paint some weird graffiti on it. He owns most of the island. Did you know that?”

“Most of Lòn Haven? Isla said he owned some properties . . .”

“About twelve houses, I believe. Also land. Twelve thousand acres and counting.”

“What on earth does he need all that land for?” I asked.

“That’s what me and the team have been asking ourselves for months now.”

“?‘Team’?” I said, folding my arms.

“Oh, it’s just a side project,” he said. “Me and a few of the boys from the village got together a few years ago, decided we’d like to rewild a bit of the island. Replant some native trees, that kind of thing.”

“Is this another ‘on-the-side’ job?” I said with a wink.

He smiled. “Aye. Something like that.”

He told me that the ancient forests that once spread across the island and the rest of Scotland had been wiped out by timber companies, and that many plant and animal species had been obliterated as a result. “So it’s not just about the trees,” he said. “Though it’s no secret I’m quite a fan of them.”

“I don’t think anyone can be neutral about trees, can they?” I said.

“Aye, you’d think that was the case, given how they provide, oh, oxygen, wood, paper, and a few other things. But folk like Patrick Roberts aren’t so keen. One of the first things he did when he bought Haven Forest was raze half of it to the ground and sell the timber to a merchant.”

“I bet the islanders had a thing or two to say about that.”

“Yup, they did. But it made him money. The fella has more money than all the rest of us put together.”

“Is that why he keeps buying so much land? To sell it off for profit?”

Finn shut the kitchen door quietly, then stepped closer to me. “The archaeologists are all but digging the whole place up. They’re always rooting about the place, finding Neolithic tools and bracelets and what have you.”

He’d lost me at this point. “And . . . what has that to do with Patrick buying the land?”

“Ach, it’s just a theory.”

“Which is?”

He stroked his beard. “Well, with kids going missing and all that . . . Some folk say that archaeologists are going to dig up murdered bodies. And that’s why Patrick’s buying so much land. To control where they dig.”

I followed his train of thought. “So he doesn’t get caught for murder?”

He turned to me, the answer written all over his face. I recalled what Isla had said. He’s an odd one, that Roberts. I work for him to keep an eye on him.

I said, “But if everyone thinks he’s a murderer, how come he hasn’t been picked up by the police?”

“Well, Bram’s head of police,” he said. “And who is Bram married to?”

“Isla,” I said. He was implying that Isla’s influence reached right into the police department. That she had sway on who was investigated and who wasn’t. But Isla had told me she found Patrick to be odd. What would her motive be for keeping an investigation away from him?

“Anyway, enough conspiratorial talk,” he said suddenly, waving a hand in the air to disperse our speculations. “How’s about I propose a toast?”

“To?” I said, lifting my empty glass.

“You, Ms. Olivia Stay.” He raised his glass. “For all the work you’ve put into making the Longing a little less crap.”

I laughed. “Cheers.”

The timer on the oven buzzed. I set down my glass to retrieve the quiche I’d made. I could never cook very well, but quiche I could do, having learned at art school that eggs tended to be heavily marked down at supermarkets close to student digs because no student could be bothered with the faff. We called the girls to the dining table and I lit a candle.

“One minor detail,” Finn said, biting his lip. “I’m allergic to eggs. Sorry.”