Daisy Field is a tough young environmental lawyer and activist, campaigning against an international conglomerate marketing agrochemicals with nasty side effects. Their profitable pesticide, Silveron, appears to be causing serious illness in the British farming community, but Daisy is struggling to prove it. When famous pop star Nick Mackenzie loses his wife to a crop-spraying incident, it seems that Daisy has finally found the powerful, deep-pocketed ally she needs. But will the handsome musician remain on her side or will he be persuaded that Daisy is fighting a lost cause? And what about the hired thug who seems to be anticipating Daisy’s every move?
Originally published in the UK under the title Requiem (1991), The Killing Winds takes us from the Scottish highlands to corporate London and from Chicago to New York City.
Daisy Field is a tough young environmental lawyer and activist, campaigning against an international conglomerate marketing agrochemicals with nasty side effects. Their profitable pesticide, Silveron, appears to be causing serious illness in the British farming community, but Daisy is struggling to prove it. When famous pop star Nick Mackenzie loses his wife to a crop-spraying incident, it seems that Daisy has finally found the powerful, deep-pocketed ally she needs. But will the handsome musician remain on her side or will he be persuaded that Daisy is fighting a lost cause? And what about the hired thug who seems to be anticipating Daisy’s every move?
Originally published in the UK under the title Requiem (1991), The Killing Winds takes us from the Scottish highlands to corporate London and from Chicago to New York City.
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Overview
Daisy Field is a tough young environmental lawyer and activist, campaigning against an international conglomerate marketing agrochemicals with nasty side effects. Their profitable pesticide, Silveron, appears to be causing serious illness in the British farming community, but Daisy is struggling to prove it. When famous pop star Nick Mackenzie loses his wife to a crop-spraying incident, it seems that Daisy has finally found the powerful, deep-pocketed ally she needs. But will the handsome musician remain on her side or will he be persuaded that Daisy is fighting a lost cause? And what about the hired thug who seems to be anticipating Daisy’s every move?
Originally published in the UK under the title Requiem (1991), The Killing Winds takes us from the Scottish highlands to corporate London and from Chicago to New York City.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781480479210 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 04/19/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 727 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Killing Winds
By Clare Francis
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1991 Clare FrancisAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-7921-0
CHAPTER 1
It was just after midnight when Nick slipped away from the house. The moon cast shards of pale light across the wide parkland and illuminated the beeches like giant white-sailed ships. The shadows were very deep, and he wondered if he would be able to find his way up through the glen. He'd never walked the glen in darkness before; usually he drove, and then in daylight with Alusha or Duncan, the estate manager, at his side. He could have done with Duncan's special knowledge to guide him now, but Duncan had been told nothing of this little expedition: Duncan wouldn't approve.
From the post-and-wire fence marking the end of the park, rough pasture rose gently towards the dense woodland which covered the lower slopes of the hills. The direct route to the glen led diagonally across the pasture, but anxious to avoid the obvious paths, keen to start as he meant to go on, Nick struck off at a tangent, making for a dark mass of oak trees on the fringe of the woodland.
He paced himself for the long climb ahead. The shotgun in his hand felt awkward, absurd and rather obscene. He wasn't quite sure why he'd brought it. Maybe because here, in what was possibly the safest place in the world, he still felt unsafe. Time had done nothing to alleviate the unease; if anything, it had increased it, and he needed the reassurance of the weight in his hand, even if the idea of ever firing the thing frightened him to death. He had no skill with the weapon. Duncan had given him some rudimentary tuition on pointing it in the right direction and not accidentally shooting friends in the backside, but even Duncan, with his boundless optimism, had given up hope of making a good shot of him. Alusha hated him even to pick up a gun. She would be far from happy if she knew he was carrying one now – and far from happy if she knew he was out here, playing cops and robbers in the middle of the night.
But he couldn't have stayed away, the chances were too good. For a week the weather had been foul even by West Highland standards, with blustery westerlies, lowering clouds and almost continuous rain. Then early that evening the sky had cleared, the wind had died, and a brittle blue-washed moon had risen over the hills of Cowal. It was then that Duncan's prediction had flashed into his mind, the prophecy that they would come after the rain, as soon as there was a touch of moon to light their way up the glen. Well, the rain had come all right, buckets of it, and now there was a touch of moon.
Almost as he thought it, the outline of the approaching woods became less distinct, blurring into the sky, and he saw that fingers of cloud were creeping across the moon from the west. Would the cloud be enough to put them off? The thought brought him a mixture of disappointment and relief. But it didn't make him turn back; it was too late for that now.
On reaching the woods, he had intended to follow a small footpath that wound between a succession of overgrown dells and hazel thickets, but the darkness was so great that he lost the path almost as soon as he found it and was forced back to the pasture, to skirt the edge of the woods.
At first he had been conscious of few sounds except his own breathing and the soft squelch of his feet on the sodden ground, but now, close under the trees, the night came alive with faint rustlings and scratchings and suggestions of movement. He felt an absurd pride, as if the untouched forest, complete with its small unseen residents, was his very own creation. And in a sense it was. Duncan was forbidden to touch this part of the estate, apart from cutting the worst of the bracken and erecting protective fences around rare plants. Fallen trees rotted where they lay, saplings were left to compete for light in tangled thickets. In the early days this non-interference policy had driven Duncan mad but, despite dark mutterings, he had never actually left. Nick liked to think that, after eight years, Duncan was beginning to see the point of it all.
The clouds slid past the moon and the trees sprang into relief again. Coming to the corner of the pasture, he re-entered the woods, taking the path that would lead him west towards the deep cut of the glen. Now the forest was mainly oak and sycamore with the occasional Scots pine, the trees high and well-spaced, so that the moon filtered down onto the ground in delicate droppings of light. Either side of the path was the inevitable bracken, but also wood sorrel and wild garlic. He knew their names because he'd looked them up.
As he hurried on, the distant whisper of the river grew steadily until the rush of fast-falling water drowned all but the most distinct sounds.
A pale ribbon appeared through the trees: the track that ran up the glen in a long lazy loop from the house. Stopping just short of it, he crouched in the shadows and, glancing up and down the empty road, strained to hear over the gush and rumble of the water. He became aware of how ludicrous he must look, hiding there like an overgrown boy scout, and, whether from nerves or amusement, he chuckled aloud. The chuckle died in his throat as the shadows at the bend in the track shifted and sent his heart thudding against his ribs. The shadows quickly settled into the benign shapes of trees and shrubs, but after that nothing seemed remotely funny.
Once his heart was back under some sort of control, he tried to plan his next move. How would the men come? By car? If so, there was only one way they could get onto the track without driving past the house itself – something even they, brass-nerved as they were, wouldn't dare. Some quarter of a mile down the glen a narrow overgrown track, hardly more than a wide path, ran off the main track towards the main lochside road. Entry to this path was barred by a gate which Duncan had reinforced and locked with a massive padlock and chain. This hadn't stopped their visitors from entering in the past of course; they'd merely used larger bolt cutters. Nor had a three-night stakeout by Duncan and the local constabulary – all two of them. The enemy had merely bypassed the gate and trailed up the glen on foot.
So what would they do tonight? Would they break the padlock and drive up? Or come on foot?
Whichever way they chose, they were bound to use the track, which followed the glen and the racing river for miles, up through the forest to the high moorlands. It wouldn't be a good idea for him to be spotted dawdling along the middle of the road. On the other hand, he wasn't too sure he could manage the full commando approach, crawling through the undergrowth with a mud-daubed face.
Taking a final look both ways, he crossed the stony surface of the track and entered the woods on the far side. Here the ground fell steeply away to the river. Clambering down through the undergrowth, he made for the small path that ran close beside the rushing water, and began to follow it up the glen. The path was tortuous and narrow, climbing between high boulders, over steep ledges and under low-hanging branches which pulled at his hair and spiked his face. Now and again, when the moon slipped behind the clouds, he had to reach a hand out in front of him to feel his way forward. Once he stumbled, jarring his shoulder against a rock and the shotgun barrel struck the surface with a loud crack. The sound was quickly swallowed up by the thundering water, but he paused, sweating coldly, before pressing on. Finally Macinley's Rock came into view, a massive outcrop that obtruded into the river, deflecting the flow against the far bank and squeezing the water into a thundering cataract. Above the rock was the Great Pool. According to Duncan, this was where the vermin, as he called them, were to be found. Twice since April Duncan had found evidence of their visits in the form of trampled ground, cigarette butts and peg holes.
It took some time for Nick to find a suitable spot for his watch. Finally he picked a rocky ledge a few yards up the sloping bank, opposite the widest section of the pool. It was rather open, but if he'd gone higher the trees would have obscured his view of the approaches.
He lay on his stomach on the damp grassy earth, and peered over the edge. The Ashard was by no means a broad river – for much of its ten-mile length it was only a few yards wide – but after heavy rain the Great Pool flooded into a wide basin some fifteen yards across. After the commotion of the lower reaches, the pool was quiet, its surface satin-smooth in the moonlight, only the occasional ripple hinting at movement and eddies beneath. Often Alusha and he climbed onto Macinley's Rock and sat looking out over the pool, sometimes talking, but just as often silent, watching the fish plop lazily in the water and the dragonflies chancing their luck near the surface, half hoping for a glimpse of otter or eagle or some other treat. Sometimes they crawled to the overhang and, lying face down, peered down over the cataract and watched the salmon making their inexhaustible assaults on the watery equivalent of the Eiger.
A mournful bird-cry made him start slightly. It sounded again, a cross between a moan and a hoot. A tawny owl – well, an owl anyway. He wasn't quite up to positive identifications; The Oxford Book of Birds wasn't something one got to grips with overnight. Still, he could almost term himself a bird-fancier, an idea he found rather pleasing. What with his interest in birds and wild flowers, it was sometimes hard to recognise himself. When he was fifteen – an unbelievably long time ago – birds were just girls wearing short skirts, and flowers were something his mum cried over because she only ever got them once in a blue moon.
He rolled onto his side and felt something sharp dig into his hip. He remembered the shotgun cartridges in his jacket pocket. He pulled one out and fingered it. An unpleasant thought came to him. Might they be carrying a shotgun too? As he understood it, there was a sort of unwritten code in these parts, the sporting men's version of the Queensberry Rules, which said that gamekeepers waved shotguns and sometimes even fired them in anger, but that poachers remained unarmed and bolted when caught. He hoped the rules would be in full operation tonight.
If they weren't carrying anything, would they turn and fight? He nursed the idea with a mixture of fear and unexpected excitement. He'd been no hero in the early days. Once, years and years ago, after a gig in Sunderland, a group of the local lads had decided to exhibit their particular brand of machismo by lying in wait for him at the stage door and beating him up. He'd put up the best fight he could muster, which wasn't saying a great deal, but all that his meagre bravery had got him was a broken jaw and the lost earnings from five cancelled gigs. Not long after, he'd sworn a personal non-aggression pact with the world. It had lasted a long time – something like fifteen years – until six years ago and the incident in the Fifth Avenue apartment.
After that, all sorts of things had developed the power to make him angry. Most of all anybody or anything that threatened Alusha. Then, as a close second, anything that threatened this fabulous patch of earth that had somehow become his own. Yet it wasn't just because Glen Ashard belonged to him that he was up here playing games in the middle of the night – though that would have been enough for most landowners hereabouts – it wasn't even the idea of all his and Duncan's painstaking work being ruined, it was the thought of having his space and peace invaded by money-grubbing oiks that he really couldn't stomach.
He never admitted as much of course; he talked about responsibility, a word he used to avoid like the plague but which he now said quite often, along with other words like obligation and conservation, which in these feudal parts were usually bandied about by tweedy aristos and retired army officers. According to Alusha, it was all to do with middle age. She said he was finally growing up.
He put the cartridges back in his pocket. There didn't seem much point in keeping them out, when he had no intention of loading them.
It was well after one when the moon dimmed for the last time, lost behind the rim of the hills. The darkness wouldn't last – the midsummer night up here was barely three hours long – but would they have the gall to come in the light? He resigned himself to the possibility that, if they were coming at all, they'd have shown by now. Yet he wouldn't leave, not while there was still the slightest chance. He rested his head on the crook of his arm, pulled his jacket higher round his neck, and, ignoring the damp chill of the earth, tried to doze.
He woke after what seemed a very short time. Shifting his body a little, he tried to settle again but was seized by a tickle in the back of his nose. He drew breath, waiting for the itch to trigger the satisfaction of a good sneeze, and it was then that he heard it. A sharp distinct sound. His mouth still poised for the sneeze, his lungs full, he jerked his head up. The sneeze hovered, refusing to die. He clamped his fingers over his nose and squeezed viciously until his eyes watered. Finally, reluctantly, the sneeze faded and died.
Another sound. A scrape, like metal against stone. Then the murmur of a human voice some way off. A second later, a second voice, much closer. Slowly Nick rolled onto his stomach and peered over the edge. Without the moon, it was darker and at first he could see nothing. Then he spotted a movement – a black shadow against the gleaming surface – and heard the sloshing sound of someone wading into the water.
For a while he was frozen by indecision. He hadn't thought this bit through. Should he stand up and yell? Should he creep up on them and give them a fright? Though it was questionable as to who would be getting the bigger fright. He decided it was worth the risk of heart failure for the satisfaction of seeing them jump.
Taking the shotgun, he rose into a crouch and began to creep slowly down the bank, testing each footstep for loose ground, reaching a steadying hand out to the slope above him, all the time keeping his eye on the man in the water. It wasn't hard to follow him: he was splashing a good deal and leaving a long trail of ripples. There was one nasty moment when a voice called out, but it was only to say: 'Loose off.' A moment later a reply came floating on the air, but the words were muffled by the water.
A filigree of shimmering light rose above the pool as a thin line broke the surface: that would be the net. The excitement rose in him as he realised he was going to catch them right in the act.
They appeared to be dragging the deepest part of the pool immediately behind Macinley's Rock. But where would they pull in the catch?
Nick decided on the likeliest spot and, keeping in a deep crouch, worked his way round to a point nearby and waited.
But they weren't bringing in the net, not yet. There was a tapping, like a mallet on wood, and he realised they were pegging the net to the ground, leaving the current to do some of their work for them. If he stayed where he was, it was likely to be a long wait.
He crept closer. He saw the shape of a man's head against the night sky. A moment later he heard a sloshing sound as a second man emerged from the water. Were there more than two? He couldn't be sure.
There was the flicker of a match and the glow of a cigarette, and the low murmur of voices.
It was now or never. Gripping the shotgun, aware of a quite ridiculous fear which had somehow turned to elation, with his heart exploding against his ribs, Nick stood upright and walked steadily towards them. He felt amazingly conspicuous: they must see him, must hear him at any moment, but by some miracle no shout came, no challenge; there was only the glowing cigarette end and the suggestion of two shadows in the darkness. With only a few steps left, he was overcome by a bizarre sense of unreality – was he really going through with this? The longing to run was almost as strong as the urge to give a wild atavistic yell.
Suddenly they saw him. There was a sharp exclamation, a loud oath, and the two men jumped apart. One of them dropped into a crouch, as if to make a run for it.
'Stop or I shoot!' Nick heard his voice come out of the distance, as if it belonged to someone else. Had he really said that? He couldn't be serious. It sounded like something out of a B-Western. But now he'd said it, would they take it seriously? They did. They made no move. The one who'd been crouching straightened up slowly. There was a long electric pause. Nick tried to make out their faces, but it was too dark. What did one say next?
He began: 'What the hell do you think you're doing, you bastards? Bloody butchers!' A little over the top perhaps, but as he spoke his anger grew to match his words.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Killing Winds by Clare Francis. Copyright © 1991 Clare Francis. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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