Read Evil for Evil for Free Online Page A

home and take over. Then Matt Lovatt arrived and wouldn’t grant a new tenancy, leaving Steve with no job and a scruffy croft that didn’t offer a decent living. There was only one man hated Matt Lovatt more than Derek did and that was Steve.
    Sorley’s fingers were drumming on the window sill. He wasn’t going to accept this. He could see it so clearly – armlets, twisted brooches, dirty after years buried, but rubbed with his thumb revealing the dull tint of old gold.
    He’d offered at the time to split proceeds but Lovatt hadn’t listened, red in the face with rage, apart from the scar that stayed deathly pale. That, as well as the devil dog, had spooked Sorley.
    Steve’s croft had some burial sites as well – barren sites, unfortunately, when Sorley had checked. But if he could get at the stuff on the island – if he took it across to Steve’s place … The sort of money you’d be talking, he wouldn’t grudge splitting it two ways for provenance. An amateur trying for a no-questions-asked sale could be stitched up, cheated on the price, definitely – maybe shopped to the police too. Legal and above board was safer, and more profitable as well.
    But how could he dig there? He could slip across – as indeed he had, to leave his poisonous message in revenge – but disturbance round the graves would soon be spotted.
    As the drumming of his fingers became a thumping with his fists, an idea came to him. The island must be abandoned again and there was only one way: drive the bastards out.
    His brow furrowed in thought, he took out his mobile and tapped in Steve’s number, but frustratingly there was no answer.
    Sorley went back to his binoculars. The woman was climbing the hill, heading for the grave, no doubt. His mouth flickered in an unpleasant smile. She’d be running back down soon, sobbing. ‘
We must leave this awful place!
’ he imagined her saying. But there she was, sitting down instead.
    His smile faded. Someone must have cleaned it off. Disappointed, he turned away and his eye lit on
Gaelic for Beginners
lying on the rickety coffee table. He might as well put in a bit of time on that. There certainly wasn’t anything better to do.
    He’d started learning Gaelic because the Scottish Nationalist government was shovelling money in that direction and, if he got fluent, there were cushy jobs for the asking. But who’d have thought his studying would have such an early benefit? It was how he’d discovered the meaning of the island’s name, Tascadan: it came from
taisgaedan
, the Gaelic for treasure.
     
    Kerr Brodie had unlocked the gun cupboard, tipping some bullets into his hand from a box of ammunition then dropping them into a capacious pocket of the shooter’s waistcoat on a peg alongside. He took a .243 rifle from the rack to check it over; he was fanatical about preparing his equipment and he was irritated when the phone rang. He propped up the gun and reached the kitchen extension just in time to stop the answer service cutting in.
    Brodie glanced at the number that came up – not one he knew, but the Glasgow code. ‘Yes?’ he said.
    The voice was husky, tentative. ‘Sarge?’
    Brodie frowned. ‘Who is this?’
    ‘Crawford. Fergie Crawford.’
    The frown deepened. ‘Crawford? What are you wanting?’
    He didn’t sound encouraging, but a frantic outpouring came from the other end. He listened with increasing concern.
    ‘No, no, don’t do that. Give me a moment.’ Kerr was scowling now. Then he said, ‘OK – I’ll tell you what to do.’
    He gave instructions, then rang off and swore violently. This he didn’t need. He walked back to the gun cupboard in an evil mood.
     
    It was half past eleven when Marjory Fleming drove up to Mains of Craigie. The outside lights were on, but the rest of the house was in darkness, apart from the middle window above the front door where a light was still burning. Cat’s bedroom.
    Her heart lifted just slightly. At least she could go and