The Exiled by William Meikle Read Free Book Online Page B

of him taking a fancy to kids?”
    The older man wasn’t slow on the uptake.
    “You think Daft Davie is the man they’re after? No—it won’t be him. The birds were his thing—he was obsessed. And in the end it drove him mad. They put him away years ago, and he’s rotting in a home somewhere in the Borders last I heard.”
    Alan shook his head and lowered his voice.
    “They let him out—two months ago. Care in the community, they call it—a way to save money on looking after him. Any idea where he’d go?”
    The older man tapped his wedding ring on a now empty beer glass.
    “I might.”
    Alan gave in to the inevitable and went back to the bar. When he returned, he got what he’d been after all along.
    “Davie never went far from the farm,” Weir said. “He liked to be close to his mammy. She died, but Davie’s brother took it on after that. Last I knew he was still alive and the farm’s still there, just off the New Lanark road. Galloway’s farm—you can’t miss it.”
    * * *
    It was nearing ten o’clock by the time Alan turned off the main road onto the farm track, and the only lights to be seen were his own headlights.
    He was aware he was pushing this hunch to the limits, aware that he might just be heading for a rude expulsion, maybe even bodily, from the farm.
    But I have to know.
    The detail about the black birds and the castle were just too closely related to be coincidence. That, and the fact that there was no news on any of the missing children, forced his hand. He switched off the headlights and drove, as slowly and carefully as he could manage, up the short drive to where a squat stone building stood in a thicket of spindly trees.
    No lights showed in the dwelling, or in the various outbuildings scattered at the rear of the property. Alan killed the engine, rolled the window down and sat there in the dark, listening. The only sound was a slight rustle of wind in the trees and the far-off muffled noise of tires on tarmac on the main road. It looked like the journey had been for nothing.
    I should have a look around. Just in case.
    The thought didn’t fill him with enthusiasm, but he was a reporter, on a case that might make his name. If he didn’t do his job now, he knew he would spend every night from here on wondering if things might have been different.
    The vision from earlier still had him spooked though, and he was loath to leave the safety of the car without a backup plan. There was only one person he trusted to do the right thing with the information on hand. He got out his phone and texted Galloway’s name and the farm’s address to John. It would be more than enough to get things moving should things go wrong.
    He got out of the car and made for the main farmhouse. He’d already decided that the bold approach was the only option—he didn’t have the nerve for skulking around in the shadows, not out here in the dark. He walked up to the front door and rapped on it, hard.
    Shave and a haircut—two bits.
    No one answered, but something shifted in the house, not too far from the door, as if someone had come to stand, silent, on the other side.
    “Mr. Galloway? I just need to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”
    There was still no reply, but now Alan was sure there was someone there on the other side of the door, listening. He bent down and pushed open the brass letterbox. He peered inside. All he could see was blackness.
    “Mr. Galloway?”
    Without warning the door opened, startling Alan so much that he almost tumbled headfirst onto the hall carpet. When he recovered his composure, he looked into an empty hallway, so dark that only the first couple of feet inside the door were visible.
    “Mr. Galloway?”
    Something shuffled, deep in darkness.
    Alan walked forward into the hall.
    The door slammed shut at his back with a concussion that echoed in his ears before fading to silence. He was in pitch-black stillness except for the thud of his racing heart in his ears.
    Bugger