Kitabı oku: «The Pretender’s Gold», sayfa 2
Chapter 2
‘Is that Ewan McCulloch?’
The caller spoke in a local accent. His voice was throaty and deep, marked by a pronounced lisp that somehow sounded familiar to Ewan, though very distantly so. He tried to think where he might have heard the voice before, but couldn’t place it. His head was spinning from the whisky. Glancing at his watch he saw it was nearly midnight. He managed to get it together enough to reply, ‘This is he. Might I ask who’s calling?’
‘Never mind who I am,’ said the lisping voice. ‘It’s what I know that should concern you. It’s what I saw. I cannae keep it tae myself any longer. It’s not right.’
Ewan blinked, paused a beat in confusion. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand. What are you talking about? Do I know you? Look, it’s very late and I’m kind of tired.’
‘Shut up and listen tae me. I’m talkin’ aboot yer man Ross Campbell. That was nae accident, get it?’
‘No, I don’t get it,’ Ewan replied, thoroughly bewildered. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘And in case you thought he did it tae himself, think again.’
‘Who is this?’ Ewan demanded. ‘Are you sure I don’t know you? Have we met?’ The more the caller talked, the more Ewan was certain he’d heard the voice before, as if in some other life he could barely remember.
‘They killed him.’
‘They what? Say that again.’
‘You heard me,’ the caller went on tersely. ‘The basturts caught him in the woods, dragged him doon tae the loch and tossed him in the water tae make it look like he drowned hisself.’ He let out a sigh. ‘There. Now you know the truth.’
Stunned, Ewan carried the phone back to the sofa and slumped into it. Was he dreaming? No, the caller sounded perfectly real. And very sober, serious and sure of what he was saying. ‘But … you’re talking about …’
‘Aye, I am. That’s what this was. No other word for it. Cold-blooded murder.’
‘I … what … how …?’
‘How do I know?’ the caller finished for him with a sour chuckle. ‘Because I was there, that’s how. Fishin’ for salmon that it’s not my right tae fish, if you get my meaning. I was checkin’ my nets when I saw these five men appear from the woods. Thought they were a bailiff patrol at first, so I hid deep in the bushes, wonderin’ how the hell I was gonnae get away. They’ve caught me before. But they didnae see me. They had other business on their minds.’
Ewan pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to think straight. ‘I … this is just insane.’
‘It was near dark,’ the caller went on. ‘But I saw the whole thing clear. As they came closer it wiz obvious that the fifth man, he wasnae one o’ them. They were holdin’ him by the arms like he was a prisoner. He was fightin’ and strugglin’. Yellin’ at them tae let him go. But the poor guy couldnae get away from them and he never had a chance. They hauled him tae the edge o’ the bank. I couldnae believe my eyes. Didnae want tae watch. Next thing there was a big splash as he hit the water. Two o’ them were carryin’ boat hooks with long metal poles, them telescopic ones. He tried tae drag himself up the bank but the fuckers kept pokin’ him and shovin’ him under. Again and again. Took five, six minutes. Maybe longer. I wanted tae do somethin’ tae help. But I was scared what they’d do tae me. Then when he stopped fightin’ and I could see him floatin’ in the water, they prodded him a few more times tae be sure. I heard one o’ the basturts laugh. Then they turned an’ walked back tae the woods. And that was the last I saw o’ them.’
Ewan couldn’t speak, could barely even breathe. His mind was swirling from much more than a bellyful of booze. Ross, murdered? Was this some kind of crazy dream? Ewan dug his fingernails into his flesh and nipped himself until it hurt, but the caller went on talking.
This was no dream.
‘I could’ve gone tae try an’ pull him from the water,’ the caller said. ‘But I knew he was dead already. I was shocked. Ma heart was thumpin’ so bad, I thought I was gonnae faint. So I just waited until they were gone, and then I legged it. Ran like hell, an’ kept runnin’. I wish I hadnae, but that’s what I did. I just wanted no part o’ it. It wisnae until the next day, when they found the body, that I even knew who they’d murdered. Been frettin’ over it ever since. Cannae shut it oot o’ ma head.’
At last, Ewan was able to marshal his wits together enough to ask the obvious question. ‘These four men. Who were they?’
There was a pause on the line as the caller mulled over his reply. When he spoke again, he sounded scared. ‘I’m sorry, Mr McCulloch. It would be mair than my life’s worth tae tell you another word.’
‘You recognised them, didn’t you?’
Another heavy pause. Then, ‘Two o’ them. That’s all I’ll say.’
‘Please,’ Ewan said. ‘I need to know.’
‘Forget it. I’ve already told you too much. Goodbye.’
‘Hold on. Don’t hang up. Please! If you don’t want to tell me, then at least report what you saw to the police. Better still, we could go there together. Tell me who you are. I could meet you somewhere, right now. We could drive up to the police station in Fort William first thing in the morning.’
‘Mr McCulloch—’
‘We don’t have to tell them about the salmon poaching, if that’s what you’re worried about. Under the circumstances I don’t think they’d even be bothered about—’
‘Look, I just wanted you tae know the truth o’ what happened,’ the caller said. ‘Or as much o’ it as I dare tae tell. Dinnae make me regret that I called you. Nobody except you has any clue what I witnessed. I intend tae keep it that way. And if you have any sense, you’ll keep this tae yourself too. That’s all I have tae say. Good night, God bless and good luck.’
And Ewan was left holding a dead phone. He tried dialling 1-4-7-1-3 to find out the caller’s number and call them back, but the information had been withheld.
It was only just gone midnight, but Ewan was certain he’d get no more sleep. He couldn’t even close his eyes. He frantically paced the floor, his mind awhirl. Was this some kind of sick joke? The enormity of the mystery caller’s claim was staggering. Ludicrous. Impossible.
And yet … what if it were true?
As he went on pacing for the next hour, Ewan reflected on the trouble and anger that the golf course development scheme had stirred up. A lot of folks in these parts were furious about it, not least the self-proclaimed ecowarriors who, vowing never to give up the fight, had plagued the construction company until they downed tools and walked away. A few months back, someone had made a threatening anonymous call to the McCulloch & Campbell office, saying their firm would regret it if they remained connected with the project. Of course, Ewan had reported the call to the police in Fort William, who’d appeared to do nothing about it. For the next several weeks he had kept expecting to find his car tyres slashed or an office window broken, but nothing more had come of it and he’d quickly forgotten the episode.
However, a lot of other people, including Mairi the firm administrator, had been convinced that it was only a matter of time before someone got seriously hurt. Some of the protesters were a militant bunch. Who knew what they might be capable of?
Breaking windows and vandalising construction machinery were one thing. Murder was something else entirely. But given that both Ewan and Ross were widely known to be associated with the project, albeit only indirectly, what if …
Jesus. Maybe it was true!
The more Ewan thought about it, the deeper his panic grew. He wanted to call Mairi to tell her. But he didn’t want to alarm her until he could be more certain of his facts. Who to talk to, then? The police again? Perhaps Grace Kirk? Even if he’d had her number, she’d only think he was crazy. He had no real evidence. What if it was all a lie?
It took a long time for Ewan to think of who to call for help and advice. His uncle was retired and had been enjoying a quiet life in the Italian countryside for the last few years, with his Neapolitan wife Mirella. He’d always been there for his nephew, since Ewan’s parents had passed away. He’d spent his career in the army, though he’d seldom ever spoken about the things he’d done and his crazy adventures back in those days.
Though you weren’t supposed to talk about it, everyone in the family had known Ewan’s uncle was no ordinary soldier, but was involved for a long time in the secretive and hidden world of Special Forces. He was older now, but still strong and wise, a rock you could cling to. Someone you could truly confide in.
Yes, that’s what Ewan needed to do.
He soon found the number in his address book. Feeling a little more settled, he managed to doze off for a few hours on the sofa. At six in the morning, seven a.m. in Italy, he brewed a strong coffee, then picked up the phone.
Chapter 3
Ewan’s uncle was called Archibald, but nobody called him that. For some reason that had never been too clear to Ewan, the name his uncle had always gone by was Boonzie. Boonzie McCulloch. Ewan thought it might have been an old army nickname that stuck.
It was a great relief to hear his voice on the phone. Despite having lived for years in Italy, Boonzie’s accent was still as strong as the day he’d left Scotland. He was delighted to hear from his only nephew. But Ewan thought his uncle sounded tired, his voice a little weaker than the last time they’d spoken.
After spending a couple of minutes on the usual pleasantries, Ewan bit the bullet. ‘This isn’t just a social call, Uncle. I wish it was. Fact is, I’ve got a problem.’
‘What kind o’ problem, laddie?’
‘The kind I need someone like you to advise me what to do about.’
Boonzie listened calmly and quietly as his nephew related the whole story: Ross’s death, Ewan’s initial speculations about possible suicide, and the anonymous phone call from the man he could only refer to as ‘the poacher’, which had blown away all the previous theories about the drowning and left him, Ewan, in such a quandary. He told it exactly as it had happened, leaving nothing out. When he finished, Boonzie methodically broke down the facts and went through all the questions that had been flying around Ewan’s mind. Was this real? Could it be some kind of prank? How plausible was the witness’s claim? Could it be verified? Was there any way to identify this mystery caller and get him to come forward, or at least reveal more about what he’d allegedly seen?
Nobody with a background as tough and dangerous as Boonzie McCulloch’s could have survived as long as he had without being extremely cautious. He was nobody’s fool and his mind was as sharp as the wicked double-edged blade on a Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger. But after a long discussion, Ewan’s uncle could come to only one conclusion. ‘I trust ye, laddie. If it sounds real to you, then it sounds real to me.’
‘Part of me wishes you’d dismissed the whole thing as total bollocks,’ Ewan said. ‘I’d have been happy to believe you, and try to forget this nightmare ever happened.’
‘Ye say this person sounded familiar,’ Boonzie said thoughtfully.
Ewan replied, ‘I thought so at the time, yes. I was sure I’d heard his voice before somewhere. But the more I try to remember where, the less sure I am about it. I might have imagined it. I’m going out of my head with confusion. What the hell am I going to do?’
Boonzie’s reply was unhesitant. ‘Do nothing. Sit tight and wait for me tae get there.’
Ewan realised how foolish he’d been not to anticipate that this would be his uncle’s instant reaction. ‘No. I can’t accept that. I’m not asking you to drop everything and come here. I just thought … to be perfectly honest I don’t know what I thought.’
‘Aye, well, two heads’re better than one. Give me a day to sort things oot here and make the travel arrangements. I’ll be with you as quick as I can.’
‘I hate to drag you away from your home.’
‘The middle of winter’s no exactly the busy season for us,’ Boonzie said with a chuckle. He and Mirella had a seasonal business growing tomatoes and basil, which they canned into purée and pesto for the restaurant trade in their region of Campobasso. They’d never be millionaires, but it was a blissfully peaceful life and exactly what the couple wanted to be doing.
‘All the same. I feel like shit about it.’
‘Wheesht. It’s the least I can do. We’ll have this thing worked oot before ye know it.’
Despite his sense of guilt Ewan was already feeling much better. ‘And then? Take it to the police?’
‘Maybe. First let’s make sure we know what’s going on here. One step at a time, Ewan. One step at a time.’
‘Thanks, Uncle. You’ve no idea how much this means to me.’
‘I promised yer father on his death bed that I’d look after ye, Ewan. That’s what I mean tae do. You’re like the son I never had.’ The fearless Boonzie McCulloch wasn’t afraid of sounding corny, either.
‘Och, stop it. You’re embarrassing me.’
‘I mean it. So you stay put, keep yer head doon and dinnae move a muscle until I get there. Okay?’
‘I will.’
‘Swear?’
‘Absolutely.’
But despite his promise, as the hours passed following their conversation Ewan found it progressively harder and harder to sit twiddling his thumbs waiting. The morning seemed to drag on for ever and he didn’t know what to do with himself. Impatience was building like steam pressure inside him. Shortly after eleven a.m. his rising tension was suddenly interrupted when his landline phone rang again, louder than a train whistle, making him jump.
As he hurried over to pick up, the thought hit him that this could be the poacher calling back to say he’d had second thoughts and would agree to meet and tell him the rest of what he knew. Or else maybe it was Boonzie, telling him he was already at the airport and would soon be winging his way to Scotland. Boonzie to the rescue!
It was neither.
‘Oh, hello, Mr Campbell.’ Ewan felt awkward talking to Ross’s father and didn’t know what to say. The agony of the man’s grief was palpable over the phone line. He sounded like death.
‘It’s about Ross’s van,’ Mr Campbell explained. ‘It’s still here and I suppose you’ll be needing it back.’
Ewan had forgotten all about the van. For some bizarre reason the police had had the recovery service tow it to Ross’s place. Now that he was effectively running the business alone for the foreseeable future, Ewan had little use for two company vehicles, but he replied, ‘Oh, aye. Yes, I suppose I will.’ Then he gritted his teeth and asked how he and Mrs Campbell were doing.
Not well, came the predictable answer. They were both sleep-walking through a nightmare. Eileen was on heavy medication and pretty much comatose. Their doctor was waiting for them back in Inverness, where they would be returning that afternoon to pick up the pieces of their life. Ewan offered some more lame condolences and said he’d come right over and collect the van. Not a task he particularly relished, but at least it’d get him out of the house for a while and give him something to do.
Ross had held a mortgage on a small ground-floor flat in a handsome double-fronted stone house a couple of doors down from the Kinlochardaich Arms, on the other side of the village. It was within easy walking distance of Ewan’s place, and he set off on foot. The wind was cold; he wondered if snow might be on the way.
Seeing the white Peugeot Bipper van parked outside Ross’s flat brought a lump to Ewan’s throat. Mr Campbell appeared at the window, and came outside a moment later to greet him with the same grim-faced demeanour as before. They shook hands and spoke only briefly. Ross’s father handed over the set of vehicle keys that had been among his son’s possessions recovered by the police. Then Ewan got into the van and drove off, feeling miserable.
With nothing better to do when he got home, he set about cleaning out the inside of the van. Ross had not been the tidiest of people. His flat had always been a tip and he kept the company vehicle like a pigsty: crumpled fish and chips packaging tossed negligently into the back, crushed empty Coke cans rolling about the floor, crisp packets stuffed into the glove compartment, dirt everywhere. Tons of dirt. It looked as though his friend had been wallowing about in a bloody farmyard. Tutting and shaking his head, Ewan chucked the rubbish into a bin bag, then went and fetched the vacuum cleaner and started dejectedly hoovering out all the bits of dried mud. Honestly, Ross. Sorry to say it, but what a slob you were.
Ewan was cleaning beneath the driver’s seat when he came across the strange object that had somehow made its way under there. He picked it up and stared at it.
‘Holy shit.’
Chapter 4
The gold coin seemed to glitter between his fingers with a life of its own. Ewan had never seen anything like it before. He turned off the hoover and sat at the wheel of the van to examine the coin more closely. Its markings were ingrained with dirt, as though it had not long ago been dug up out of the ground. But they were still clear enough for Ewan to make out. One face bore the head of a regal-looking individual with long, flowing locks of hair and a noble, patrician profile. Inscribed around the circumference were the letters LVD.XV.D.G.FR. ET NAV. REX. The reverse of the coin was inscribed with a crown and more writing: CHRS.REGN.VINC.IMPER.1746.
None of which meant anything to Ewan except the obvious 1746 date mark. And the fact that it was most definitely not a piece of brass. But now the question was burning inside him: what on earth had Ross been doing with it?
On an impulse, he got out of the van, knelt down by the open driver’s door and reached an arm under the seat to see what else might be under there. To his even greater amazement his fingers closed on a second coin. As with the first, he stared at it for a long moment. It was virtually identical except for the date mark, which was a year older.
Where could Ross have possibly found these? Surely, not even an inveterate slob would leave valuable gold coins lying around for any length of time in their car. They couldn’t have been here long. Perhaps this explained where all the mud had come from. Was this what Ross had been doing on his trips into the countryside, rooting up old coins?
Scotland as a whole was incredibly rich with history, but nowhere more so than this region. Myths and legends of buried treasure had for years drawn legions of dreamers and speculators to the Loch Ardaich pine forest and surrounding glens looking to get rich in other ways, armed with metal detectors and shovels and divining rods and God knew what else. Nobody had ever found anything of significant historic interest, barring a few rusty old arrowheads and, on one exciting occasion, a medieval Scottish claymore sword so decomposed that it looked like a rotted stick. Gradually, the treasure hunters had dwindled to a bare few – while the sceptics and naysayers became both more numerous and vociferous. ‘There’s nothing there’ had become the received wisdom.
But it looked as though Ross might well have proved the naysayers wrong. Why hadn’t he shared the news of his discovery?
Reflecting, Ewan felt a pang of betrayal. He’d always considered Ross his friend. Friends didn’t hide things from one another. Ross’s deliberate act of secrecy smacked of mistrust and deviousness. What did he think, that Ewan would try to steal his precious coins? Claim his share, because they’d been discovered on company time?
But hold on a minute, Ewan thought. This wasn’t making any sense. What were the coins doing lying about in the van in the first place? Who wouldn’t have brought them inside and made sure they were safely hidden away? Which meant, or implied, that the reason Ross had left these two particular coins in the van was that he didn’t know they were there.
Which in turn also meant, or implied, that the reason he didn’t know they were there was that he’d accidentally dropped them, in his typically clumsy and negligent style, while his attention was taken up with something else. And what else could possibly have distracted him in such a way?
One logical answer sprang to mind.
More coins.
Ewan could picture it perfectly. Ross, delirious with greedy joy at his find, scrambling home in such a rush that the gold was literally slipping through his fingers. How many more coins could he have found? Enough, obviously, that he hadn’t bothered even counting them until he got back to his flat, or else he’d surely have missed these two. Dozens of them? Scores? Who could say?
But then Ewan had another thought that made his blood turn cold.
If these two coins represented only a minor fraction of Ross’s haul, as logic suggested, then where were the rest? What if Ross had had them on his person, keeping them close, when the alleged killers struck? What if the killers had taken them?
And worst of all, what if the gold was the reason they’d killed him?
Suddenly this whole dreadful thing made some kind of sense.
Ewan pocketed the pair of coins and pulled out his phone to call his uncle. No reply, and no messaging service on which to leave a voicemail. Ewan only had the Italian landline number to reach him on. He wasn’t even sure if Boonzie possessed a mobile. Knowing him, perhaps not. There was an email address for him and Mirella, but Ewan had given up sending messages to it long ago.
Ewan couldn’t stand passively waiting any longer. He had to do something. People must be told about this. Now there was not only a potential witness to the crime, but a likely and compelling motive to boot.
Kinlochardaich had a church, a pub, a garage, a small convenience store and its own tiny primary school with about twenty-five pupils, but it had no police station – something many residents regarded as a blessing. The only cop hereabouts was Grace Kirk, and so Ewan clambered into his van and drove hurriedly over to the rented cottage in which she lived alone, just beyond the outskirts of the village. He was a little nervous about going to see her. They hadn’t been alone together since they were both sixteen years old and sort of, kind of, on-and-off going out. Not that it had been much of a relationship. A bit of hand-holding, a few awkward kisses and some sweet talk, nothing more serious. But Ewan had secretly worshipped and pined for Grace for years afterwards, and in fact was willing to admit to himself that he’d never quite got over her. The news of her return to Kinlochardaich a few months back had got him rather worked up, though he’d never had the courage to speak to her, let alone ask her out again. The local gossip mill had it that she and Lewis Gourlay, a regular of the drinking fraternity at the Arms, were an item. Ewan stubbornly refused to believe the rumour.
In the event, he needn’t have felt nervous because Grace wasn’t at home. Ewan’s remaining option was now to drive the thirty miles south-east to Fort William, the nearest town of any real size, and talk to the police there. The journey took an hour, thanks to the narrow and winding roads.
The police station was a generic slab-sided office building located out of town near Loch Eil, with misty hills looming in the background. On arrival Ewan blurted out his story as best he could to a duty officer, who became thoroughly confused, asked him to calm down and showed him into an airless, windowless interview room with a plain table and four plastic chairs. Locked in the room and made to wait, Ewan felt strangely like he was under arrest. The beady eye of a video camera watched from one corner.
Half an hour later, the door opened and in walked two middle-aged plainclothes men who introduced themselves as Detective Inspector Fergus Macleod and Detective Sergeant Jim Coull. Macleod was a large burly man with a neck like an Aberdeen Angus bull and a florid complexion, and Coull was a smaller sandy-haired guy with a brush moustache, lean and whippy in build, whose hands never stopped moving. They sat at the table and asked him to run through the account he’d told the duty officer.
Ewan patiently laid the whole thing out to them in detail. They listened gravely and Coull scratched occasional notes on a pad he kept close to his chest. When Ewan reached the part about the coins, the detectives asked if they could see them.
‘I only brought the one with me,’ he said, showing them the slightly newer one from 1746. It was a lie; the other was still in his pocket, but some mistrustful instinct made him keep it hidden. The detectives examined it with impassive faces, then Macleod asked if they could hang onto it as evidence. Ewan, who had seen this coming, reluctantly agreed. Coull put the coin in a little plastic bag and assured him it would be well looked after.
‘Don’t forget to drop the other one into the station when you get a chance,’ said Coull.
‘Of course,’ replied Ewan, thinking he’d do no such thing.
‘Now tell us again about this poacher who claims to have witnessed the alleged incident,’ Macleod said, leaning across the table with his chunky square hands laced in front of him. The term ‘alleged incident’ grated on Ewan somewhat, but he patiently and politely repeated what he’d already told them.
‘Like I said, that’s all I know about the man. I don’t know his name, or exactly who or what he saw, other than he witnessed four men pushing Ross into the loch and deliberately drowning him. He couldn’t swim, anyway.’
‘Couldnae swim, eh?’ Coull asked, glancing sideways at his colleague as though this were some suspicious detail critical to cracking the case. By now Ewan was starting to get peeved by their lacklustre response. He asked them what they intended to do about this, now they had the facts of the matter before them.
Macleod heaved his thick shoulders in a shrug. ‘To be honest, Mr McCulloch, I would hardly say we had the facts. What you’re reporting is essentially no more than hearsay. These are very serious allegations and require more than this kind of flimsy anecdotal evidence to support them.’
‘Well, if you wanted something more substantial to go on, you could try to identify the witness, for a start,’ Ewan said.
‘Alleged witness,’ Coull corrected him.
‘Okay, alleged witness,’ Ewan said with a flush of impatience.
‘And how do you propose we do that, Mr McCulloch?’
‘Given that he seems to be in the habit of poaching salmon on the loch, he might not be that hard to find. He told me he’d been caught before. So maybe he’s already on file somewhere. I mean, you must have a database of all the people who’ve been prosecuted for that sort of thing.’
‘You’d have to narrow it down to something a wee bit more specific,’ Coull said. ‘We don’t know when he was caught, or doing what exactly, or where. That’s an awfy lot of potential names to trawl through, each one of which would have to be processed individually. You’re talking an enormous expenditure of manpower.’
Ewan stared at him, thinking, Isn’t expending manpower what the police are meant to do when somebody gets murdered? ‘Okay, but it must be possible to identify him one way or another. Then maybe you could find out what he knows. Maybe in exchange for turning a blind eye to what he gets up to. Like a plea deal.’
‘That’s not what a plea deal is,’ Coull said, like a real smart-arse.
‘Whatever you call it, then.’
Macleod pursed his lips and breathed heavily. ‘I see. You’ve got this all worked out, haven’t you, Mr McCulloch? Maybe you should be doing our jobs for us.’
‘There’s a thought,’ Ewan snapped back and instantly regretted it.
The interview didn’t get any more productive from that point. Twenty minutes later, Ewan left the police station wishing he’d never gone there. On the long drive homewards he was wondering angrily why the hell he’d agreed to let them hold onto one of the gold coins as ‘evidence’, if they had little to no intention of taking the murder claim seriously.
Oh, what the hell. Boonzie would soon be here to help set things straight.
But there was no phone message waiting for him when he got home. Ewan’s heart sank in dismay.
He spent the rest of the day trying to alleviate his frustration with mundane tasks like fixing the broken wall tile in the bathroom. That evening he immersed himself in the internet, typing in search keywords like GOLD COINS LOCH ARDAICH PINE FOREST and noting down whatever he could find on a pad. There wasn’t much. Then he began checking out numismatical websites, a strange and obscure corner of the web devoted to the study of old currency.
Researching the coin’s inscriptions and 1745 date mark online he was able to determine that what he had in front of him was what was known as a Louis d’or, a gold Louis, the eighteenth-century precursor to the later French Franc. Its value, from what he could glean, was something in the region of five thousand pounds. Holy crap.
French coins buried in Scotland? Ewan investigated the history behind that, too, and made more notes. Lastly he spent a while hunting for information about illegal salmon fishing in the vicinity. Again, he discovered a few details, though nothing specifically useful to him, and scribbled them down on his pad.
He looked at his watch. Getting late, and still no word from Boonzie. Ewan didn’t want to pester his uncle by trying to call again, but maybe he could send an email. Thinking Boonzie ought to know about the coins, he used his phone to take a photo of it, then attached the image to a brief message that just said, ‘Ross found this. It gets weirder. Hope you get here soon.’
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