Darkness beneath the snow E-Book

Uwe Trostmann

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 283

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

This exciting detective story is about fraud, forgery and dependency. Two generations later, retired Chief Inspector Steve Brennan wonders what prompted the priest to describe the deceased owner of Avon Crest as a converted Saul in his funeral sermon. Brennan begins to ask questions, but why is everyone so quiet when he asks them about Douglas Gordon's past? Brennan is threatened, escapes several assassination attempts and still continues to search for traces under the snow. Will he be able to shed light on the darkness of this past?

Leseprobe

www.tredition.com

Uwe Trostmann

Darkness beneath the snow

Detective Novel

www.tredition.com

imprint

©2024 Uwe Trostmann

Printing & distribution on behalf of the author:

tredition GmbH, Halenreie 40-44, 22359 Hamburg

Cover design: Achim Schulte: www.achimschulte.de

ISBN: 978-3-384-40947-8

ISBN (German publication)Softcover:978-3-347-95963-7Hardcover:978-3-347-95964-4E-Book: 978-3-347-95965-1

The work, including its parts, is protected by copyright. Any use without the consent of the publisher and the author is prohibited. This applies in particular to electronic or other reproduction, translation, distribution and making available to the public.

I would also like to thank my editor, Ms Friederike Schmitz (www.prolitera.de), for her help in creating this book. Working with her was a lot of fun again, and her suggestions when revising the manuscript were very helpful and constructive.

My thanks also go to Ms Claudia Chmielus for the very careful proofreading.

Contents

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18

Everything comes to light,

what was hidden under the snow.

(Swedish proverb)

1

On this cold and windy November day, Steve Brennan trudged sullenly through the snow from the cemetery car park to Aberlour Parish Church. It was only two hundred yards along Charlestown's High Street, but Brennan thought with reluctance that he would have to walk back that way later. The pavement had not been cleared of snow everywhere. It had been snowing for hours and snow kept slipping into his black loafers. Funeral or not, he should have put on his high winter boots. He felt the cold wetness, which did not improve his mood. He rarely wore this old black hat, and now he pushed it even further over his face. His friend Francis Gilmore was walking next to him, protecting himself from the snowflakes with an umbrella. Gilmore had called Brennan and informed him of Douglas Gordon's death, asking him if he wanted to come to the funeral. Brennan remembered that he was distantly related to Gordon through a deceased aunt, and he wanted to look into it in more detail at some point. They stood in the long line of mourners in front of the church entrance. The people pushed their way slowly through the narrow doorway, brushing the snow off their coats, stamping their shoes several times, and it took a while before everyone found a place on the pews.

Then the two entered the church. Brennan looked around briefly and was surprised to see that, despite the bad weather, a lot of people had gathered. He took off his hat and hit his coat, removing the snow as well. Gilmore lightly knocked his folded umbrella onto the floor. They spotted two empty seats in the third row at the front and walked slowly down the main aisle to them. Brennan kept looking a little to the left and right. He recognized a few people by sight, whom he greeted with a quick nod. They sat down. He had not often gone to church – in most cases it had been for professional reasons, as Chief Inspector.

He did not know the people in his pew. He greeted them with a slight nod of his head anyway – the others greeted them back. The church was not heated, he could see not only his own breath, but also that of the other visitors. Everyone was obviously cold, most of them had kept their gloves on, he noted, and left his long grey wool coat buttoned up. He left the hymn book in front of him, singing was not his strong point. To his satisfaction, he noticed that the priest, Reverend Everson, was already standing near the altar, armed with a scarf against the cold. The mourners did not have to wait long before the organ began to play. Brennan sank into his thoughts.

He had met old Douglas Gordon before his retirement on one or two fishing holidays at The Fiddichside Inn, but he also saw him on the streets of Charlestown in his Scottish tweed suit and cap, talking to locals. Gordon was popular and was on hand when anyone needed help, Brennan was told, but for the former Chief Inspector, Gordon's attitude and expression sometimes had a sly, lurking quality. The few times he met Gordon, they talked about fishing or the weather, and when he was looking for a holiday home for a few weeks, the old man gave him a good tip. Gordon knew his stuff. When Brennan once mentioned that he was a Chief Inspector, he noticed a certain reticence, but did not worry about it because, in his experience, many people kept their distance from police officers.

Brennan's thoughts were interrupted when the organ stopped playing and the Reverend asked the mourners to stand. He spoke the dead man's name, and Brennan's thoughts wandered to his ancestors. He had found out that one of his aunts was the cousin of Douglas Gordon's mother. At the moment, however, he could not remember either the aunt or her cousin. Had he been so young when his aunt was alive? He would find out, one day.

Everson ended the prayer, the mourners took their seats again, and the priest began his sermon. Brennan only half listened to the Bible quotes and then to the summary of Gordon's life. At that moment he was thinking more about his cold feet and that he had forgotten to put a few logs in the fireplace at home. Brennan already knew most of what the reverend said, everything else was less important to him. He would have preferred to ask Gilmore a few questions about fishing. He was abruptly brought back to reality by a quote.

"We also hear from the Bible how Saul became Paul and learned to do good. We know from many stories how people struggled with their past actions throughout their lives and did many good things to ease their conscience."

Brennan heard these words; they echoed in his mind. He hoped to hear more about them, but Everson did not go into any more detail. But it was these two sentences that made the retired Chief Inspector sit up and take notice. He glanced at Gilmore but saw no reaction from him. He looked around at the mourners but saw no movement in their faces either. He tried hard to remember something – were there any things he had missed? He had not lived here long; he did not know the deceased well enough. He had not met many people here so far. Brennan's curiosity was aroused.

The freezing mourners waited impatiently for the service to end, and finally the coffin was carried outside, followed by people who had been sitting in the first two rows. Brennan did not know any of them. He wanted to get his question out of his head.

“Did you understand the Reverend’s hint?” he asked Gilmore.

"What clue do you mean? It's our turn. Are you going?"

Brennan was about to leave the pew when the procession came to a halt. A small old woman was standing right next to him and looking at him. She is very small, he thought, and very old. A thick nose protruded from her wrinkled face, and two tiny blue-grey eyes looked at him. Her thin lips opened slightly, and she said in a croaking voice: "You will find everything." She turned away, the funeral procession moved on, in the middle of it the old woman, whose figure was soon completely hidden by the other people. Brennan wondered who these words had been meant for, what the old woman had meant. Gilmore asked him again to leave the pew, it was their turn. They followed the others out of the church. Umbrellas were quickly opened, and Brennan put on his hat. He had the feeling that the snow was falling even harder.

“What did you want to know?” Gilmore asked as they followed the funeral procession.

"This passage in the sermon about the transformation from Saul to Paul, and the connection to Gordon's life."

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Did you know Douglas Gordon?”

"I've never had anything to do with him myself. I've only ever heard his name."

“In what context?”

“Donations of money, willingness to help. Tell me, are you a Chief Inspector?”

Brennan laughed quietly. "I have no intention of doing so." Not yet, his thoughts continued.

“Do you know the old woman who stopped next to me?”

“Which old woman?”

“Didn’t you see her when the funeral procession suddenly stopped in the church?”

“Sorry, no, I was looking at the exit.”

“Too bad,” said Brennan.

“Why? Did you want to meet her?”

"She said to me , 'You will find everything.'"

“Did she say that to you or was it just a general statement?”

“She looked at me while doing it.”

"Hmm, strange."

The funeral procession followed the coffin into the cemetery, the congregation stopped in front of the dug grave, only a few directly in front, many behind the first row, Brennan, and Gilmore somewhere in the crowd. Brennan looked around and spotted other people on the cemetery paths, but he no longer saw the old woman.

A strong wind blew snowflakes in front of it. Brennan held on to his hat. The priest said a blessing, the coffin was lowered, the mourners said their goodbyes and slowly moved towards the exit. Brennan stood next to his friend the whole time, they too turned towards the exit and walked silently into the street.

"May I ask you again about the Reverend's speech? This comment seemed to me to be very much related to the deceased: 'How Saul became Paul and did good things. We know from many stories how people struggled with their actions throughout their lives and did a lot of good things to ease their conscience.'"

"I can't imagine that was aimed at Gordon. What bad thing could he have done? I've only ever heard good things."

"That's exactly my question. Why did the Reverend say that? Can't you think of anything?"

"Hmm. I'm trying to remember."

“What?”

“What may have been told earlier?”

“And what would that be?”

“You know, Steve, there are always rumours, especially here in Scotland.”

"For example?"

"My parents said that the Gordons were once poor people, but at some point, they owned the Avon Crest estate. Such advancement always brings envy."

Brennan looked at the people leaving. He was lost in thought.

“What are you thinking about?”

But Brennan did not want to talk about it anymore. He was cold here in the snow. He looked at his friend. "I'll call you tomorrow, if that's okay with you."

"I don't think I can tell you much."

“Maybe this little is enough,” Brennan murmured.

“You probably have another idea, Mr Inspector.”

“See you tomorrow then.” Brennan ran to the parking lot.

“Aren’t you coming to the funeral?” Gilmore called after him.

"I'm not invited," Brennan shouted without turning around. If he had been asked before, he would have declined. But now he would like to be there and ask a few questions.

The former Chief Inspector of the Birmingham Police Department, Steve Brennan, had retired four years ago. Despite his age of seventy and his now slightly stooped posture, which accentuated his lanky appearance, he commanded respect with his height of almost six feet and weight of two hundred pounds. His now white hair was neatly combed back, his beard was always well-groomed – with his grey eyes he saw many things that other people did not see. His grey suit always hung in his wardrobe, ready in case his experience as a former Chief Inspector was called upon.

He loved his hobby of fishing and had bought a house in Beauly near Inverness a year ago, but he could not help himself. He had made a good name for himself with his special instinct for crime-solving. And although he was in well-earned retirement, he repeatedly found himself involved in solving criminal cases. Or he was asked by his former colleague Roberta Foster, who had taken over his position as Chief Inspector in Birmingham after his retirement, to help with the investigation. It was not that long ago – about a year and a half – that his successor had asked him for his help again. It was a case that affected the entire country. In pursuing the terrorists, they had both reached their limits. But they had done it. Even if he did not like to show it, he was proud of himself.

He could not and did not want to keep his hands from crime-solving work. It was his nature, and it was these special situations that made Brennan see criminal cases and the desire to solve them. And that is exactly what had happened again half an hour ago. It was those words from Reverend Everson.

Brennan swept the snow off the windshield and rear window with one hand, got into his car, started the engine, and drove back to Beauly. The wind blew the snow across the road, snowdrifts formed at the side of the road, even now at midday it was quite dark, and visibility was poor. He drove carefully, he noticed how slippery the road was at every bend. His feet were in his wet shoes, he turned up the heating and had to keep searching for the road in the heavy snowfall. It took him twice as long as usual – it took him more than two hours to get home. The driveway to his garage was covered in snow, he parked his car in front of it. He did not want to shovel it out now. He was still freezing, went into his house, immediately threw new logs into the fireplace, and changed his clothes. Why did he have to put on the black loafers in this weather? He found a can of goulash soup in the pantry, poured it into a pot, heated it on the stove and sat down at the table with a bowl of soup, a beer, and a notepad. Thoughtfully, he began to spoon the soup.

It was after the last case that he discovered this spacious house with a large living room and kitchen on the ground floor and a bathroom and two bedrooms on the upper floor and gave up his apartment in Birmingham. He bought it, had it renovated and furnished it to his taste. At first, he did not want to sell his terraced house in Birmingham, but otherwise he would not have had enough money for his new home.

He had always been drawn to the north to fish. He had been looking for a quiet place in Scotland where he could pursue his hobby for a long time. He had now lived in Beauly for almost a year. He had settled in, but he had not really gotten close to the locals and had not yet developed any friendships. Brennan had never had many real friends.

Steve Brennan only knew two people in his life who he called his friends: George from Birmingham and Francis from Scotland. He shared a fishing bond with both of them. Francis Gilmore was ten years younger than him, was a banker, lived with his wife in Inverness and knew many people from the area. Brennan appreciated Gilmore's quiet, introverted nature; they were similar in that respect. They could stand in the water for hours holding their fishing rods. There was still plenty to talk about in the evening.

Brennan had not taken many notes yet. He changed his seat, made himself comfortable in the armchair, put his feet towards the fireplace and watched the flames. The longer he thought about Everson's words, the less he could do with them, but they made him even more curious. He saw no murder, no theft, nothing that could have prompted him to act immediately. Later he sat down at his PC – an initial search on Douglas Gordon on the Internet turned up nothing. But there was something bigger hidden behind Everson's comment about Gordon. Brennan was convinced of that. Something he did not yet know; something that challenged him. Very slowly, the beginnings of a plan for how he wanted to proceed began to emerge.

How was I related to Gordon; Brennan changed his train of thought. He rummaged in his living room cupboard, found a collection of old documents in a small box, and began to rummage through them. There were two letters from his mother, he remembered, in which something was said about it. After a long search he found them. They were from an aunt who had died more than 60 years ago. She was the cousin of Douglas Gordon's mother. They must have been simple farmers, he gathered from the two letters. The aunt also worked as a laundress.

It was after 11 p.m. when Brennan decided to continue to work with Gordon over the next few days.

Brennan looked in the mirror in the bathroom the next morning. He looked at his face, saw the wrinkles, the grey hair, the determined blue-grey eyes.

"Douglas Gordon, I'll find out about your past too," he murmured quietly but firmly to his reflection. He paused. "They'll find out everything" were the words of the old lady in the church. Were these words directed at him? Did she mean him because she knew about his past as Chief Inspector or was there a connection with the Reverend's words? Brennan left the bathroom and got dressed.

When he looked out the kitchen window, nearly half a yard of snow had settled on the lawn and front yard of his house. He made himself a coffee, put on his winter boots, a thick coat and a bobble hat and started to shovel the driveway. He also cleared the white burden from his car in case he had to drive away . Since the weather service was predicting more snowfall, he drove the car into the garage.

He checked the mailbox, found no newspaper, and began reading news on the Internet. Occasionally he looked out the window, noticed that the weather was not improving, and from time to time he threw a log into the fireplace. The weather report told him that the snow would not let up for another two days. He returned to his notes from the previous evening. His plan was clear: he needed more information and had already written down a few names. He picked up the telephone and dialled Reverend Everson's number.

"My name is Steve Brennan. I am a distant relative of the late Douglas Gordon," he introduced himself. "I was at the memorial service yesterday, heard your words about the deceased and would like to talk to you about Douglas Gordon. You obviously knew him well."

"I knew him, indeed. Douglas has done a great job in the town and in the church. We can talk about him if you like. I would be delighted if you would come and see me."

“I’d love to come as soon as the snow stops.”

Brennan kept looking out the window impatiently. He could get in his car and drive off, but at that moment he had to watch as the snowplough created a white wall in front of his driveway. He did not want to clear that away now. His phone rang.

"Francis here. How are you, Steve?"

"I'm stuck, literally. My driveway has just been filled in by a snowplough, and I'm not making any progress in my research on Gordon."

“ Ah, you really want to get in there?”

"Francis, something is wrong. I will meet with the Reverend in the next few days."

“Do you think you can learn something from him?”

"Why not? He said he knew Gordon well."

“Maybe he’s not allowed to tell everything.”

“What could stop him?”

“The seal of confession?”

"Hmm. What else, Francis?"

“I don’t know, Steve.”

“What do you know? Please tell me!”

"I don't know anything. There are a lot of rumours around here."

“Then tell me.”

“Why don’t we discuss this over a beer? It’s not a good idea to do this on the phone.”

“Hmm, okay. You call.”

For Brennan, the story became increasingly puzzling. Why didn't Gilmore say anything? He ran into the garage, folded up moving boxes, and made more room for his car. A look at his supply of wood reassured him. There would be enough for another three weeks.

Three days later, Brennan reported to Reverend Everson and drove to Charlestown. Higher temperature had thawed the snow, and the trip was quite pleasant this time. He could not have stayed in his house any longer. He was looking for answers to his questions.

After almost an hour he reached the priest's house. He was already expected, because as soon as he got out of his car, the front door opened.

"Mr. Brennan, welcome to my house. May I offer you a cup of tea?"

He found himself facing a stocky man of about 55 years old. His face had a friendly look, his eyes were somewhat thoughtful. Brennan had entered an old house with low ceilings. It must have been renovated about ten years ago.

“When I moved in here, I had the old walls completely renovated,” Everson noted as he saw his guest looking at the walls and ceiling.

"I did that with my house in Beauly before I moved in. I'm interested to know how you did it."

“Just look around.”

But Brennan did not want to be intrusive and followed the priest into the living room.

“What brings you to me, Chief Inspector?”

He was astonished, which was also evident on his face.

"In our modern world, nothing remains hidden," explained Everson. "A quick search on the Internet revealed to me your very successful past."

"Of course," Brennan growled. He had not expected such curiosity from a clergyman. His plan had been to keep quiet about his previous profession for as long as possible. After a short pause, Brennan said, "I should have known."

“Let’s sit down. I hope you’re not here as an inspector?”

"Not at all," he reassured. "It's the family here in the village who lived here several generations ago, but whose history I'm very interested in. To be precise, it's the late Douglas Gordon."

“How were you related to him?”

" A great-great-aunt came from here. I'm still at the beginning of my research, though. I only know the name of an aunt who was Gordon's mother's cousin."

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

Everson began to talk about the area and the city, but never mentioned Gordon. After more than 20 minutes, Brennan interrupted the torrent of words.

"There's a lot I didn't know. But I've only been living in Beauly for about a year."

“How do you like it there?”

"Very good. It's a quiet place. My house is even further away from it." He took a sip from his teacup. "May I change the subject and ask you about the background of your comment in the eulogy? You said: How Saul became Paul and did good things. We know from many stories how people struggled with past deeds throughout their lives and then did a lot of good things to ease their conscience ."

"You've remembered that well. I see the Inspector in front of me," said the Reverend, laughing. "You know, I wasn't interested in anything specific here, but in the general, and I wanted to point out youthful sins that each of us has committed. Douglas Gordon had distinguished himself through his generous behaviour in the community."

"Well, Reverend, you weren't thinking of Gordon's youthful sins when you made that comment. Or were they particularly pronounced? There's more to it than that when someone goes from Saul to Paul." Brennan noticed that Everson was getting a little nervous.

“What do you imagine that to mean?” countered the priest.

"Perhaps I'm thinking too much at the moment of murder and manslaughter, the investigation of which was part of my job, but which unfortunately have also occurred here again and again. I heard that the Gordons used to be a poor family?"

"From what I was told, his parents owned some land and worked here and there. Gordon had worked his way up honourably," the clergyman explained.

“But you don’t know anything specific?”

“No, Mr. Brennan.”

"But how did he go from being a simple farm worker to becoming the owner of Avon Crest ? That's very unusual for someone who hardly has any money."

“Well, I can’t say anything about that, that was before my time.”

“And what do people say about it?”

“Oh, Mr Brennan. There are so many stories and rumours!”

To him it sounded like an excuse again, an indication that Everson did not want to say anything. Experience told him that the Reverend knew more. He would ask him about it again later. He changed the subject.

"Douglas Gordon is described as particularly helpful and generous. Where was Gordon particularly generous?"

“For example, he supported the construction of a new kindergarten and repeatedly helped the unemployed…”

“… and also supports the church.”

“That’s right,” confirmed the Reverend.

“Do you have any idea where he got the money from?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t help you with that. I didn’t know the family that well.”

“You say family. Are there any descendants?”

"Diana and Patrick are children of him and his wife Betty, who died years ago. The children live in London."

“Did Gordon have any other relatives?”

“Not that I know of. Unfortunately, I can’t help you there.”

“So, Gordon lived alone at Avon Crest?”

"Oh no. He had a servant, Abbot Oldjohn."

“And no one else?”

“As far as I know, no.”

“Where is his servant now?”

"As far as I know, he still lives and works on the estate. Probably on behalf of the children."

“What kind of person is Oldjohn?”

"I don't know him personally. He's been with Gordon for decades. I think he did everything for him."

“What makes you think that?”

"I don't think Gordon managed Avon Crest himself. And he was older. It's a bigger building. Have you never seen it?"

“Only from a distance.”

Everson told this and that, and Brennan had the feeling that he would not learn anything of importance today. However, he increasingly had the feeling that something was being kept from him. Even further questions would not get him anywhere. He remained silent.

“Would you like another tea?”

"No, thank you very much. I want to move on soon. – Oh, before I forget," he added. "Who was the noticeably small old woman at the funeral service?"

“What old woman? I didn’t notice one. Was she also in the cemetery?”

Brennan described her and repeated what she had said.

"No, I haven't seen an old woman who fits your description," Everson explained. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh , just like that," Brennan diverted. "Perhaps you've met her before."

The Reverend shook his head slightly. "I've never noticed a woman like that before."

Brennan asked a few general questions about the city and left but asked that any information or leads should come to him as soon as they came up. He got into his car and drove to Dowans Hotel and Restaurant. He was hungry and hoped for more success there.

As he entered the restaurant, Brennan recognized the man who was serving a few guests. He had already noticed him during the funeral service with his height and powerful build. Maybe he used to be a boxer, thought Brennan. His head was shaved, and two watchful eyes looked out from his round face. He had seen him in front of the church on the way to the funeral service. Brennan greeted him briefly, spotted an empty seat at the back of the room, went there, picked up a newspaper from the counter as he passed, looked for a meat dish on the menu, ordered a steak and was happy to eat something other than his home-cooked trout. At the same time, he immersed himself in the newspaper. When the man, who was obviously the innkeeper, came to his table later with the bill, he tried to engage him in conversation.

"Do you own the inn? My name is Steve Brennan."

“Jack Bruns,” came the curt reply.

"You were also at old Gordon's funeral. Did you know him well?"

"Well, not really. People here always spoke well of him, especially when he supported something."

“Like what?”

“Sometimes the kindergarten needed a new playground, sometimes they needed money to build a new fire station. But why do you ask that?”

"I'm distantly related to Gordon and have heard something about his life in the church. So, he was quite popular?"

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Were there people who didn’t say so nice things about him?”

“I don’t know any. But why do you ask?”

"In his speech about Gordon, the Reverend talked about the transformation from Saul to Paul. Can you relate to that?"

"I have no idea. Ask the Reverend what he meant by that. I don't know anything. But older people from the town say things about the predecessor at Avon Crest . But what they say is pretty confusing."

"For example?"

“Stories, fairy tales. I don’t know anything. Ask them.”

“What was the previous one’s name?”

"McCrawley, James McCrawley."

“And what kind of person was that?”

“There are the wildest stories there.”

"For example?"

“Sorry, sir. I have to go to the kitchen.”

“One more quick question. Do you know the old, very small lady with a big nose who was in the church with us?”

"I can't remember. And I don't know an old woman like the one you describe." Bruns took the change and disappeared into the kitchen. Brennan grabbed his coat and left the restaurant. To his delight, the sun was now shining outside. He took a deep breath and ran to his car in the parking lot. His destination was The Fiddichside Inn, where Gordon had often stayed. Brennan had seen him there twice.

At this time of day there was hardly anyone in the pub. Two older men were sitting in a corner talking, and behind the bar the bartender, a tall, potbellied man of about fifty wearing a trucker cap, was polishing glasses. Brennan said hello, sat down near him at the bar and ordered a coffee. Without looking back, the bartender walked to the coffee machine, made a coffee, and placed the cup in front of Brennan.

“There’s milk and sugar over there if you need it.” Then he disappeared back to his glasses.

Brennan gave a quick "thank you," but did not have the chance to engage him in conversation. He took a sip and spoke to him at the next opportunity:

“Did you know the late Gordon?”

Without turning around, he growled back. "Of course. Everyone knew him."

“I’ve seen him here before.”

"So, you've been here before, too. But I don't remember you. Why do you want to know? Are you a cop?"

For Brennan, this was a strange counter-question in a conversation about an upstanding citizen. "I'm distantly related to him and would like to hear something about him."

The bartender did not react and placed the clean glasses on a shelf above him.

“Did you have any direct dealings with him?” Brennan asked.

The bartender obviously thought about it before answering. "He came here sometimes. But not in the last few years. He was probably too old."

He now turned to Brennan and looked at him. "Mister, you ask curious questions about Gordon. Douglas was a decent guy."

"I don't want to doubt that either. But do you have any idea what the Reverend might have meant with the reference to Saul and Paul?"

"Did he say that? I didn't hear it. You know, when I have to go to church, I always try to get a little sleep. It gets late here every night. But if he said that, then you have to ask him. In fact, ask his children Diana and Patrick ."

"Were they there?" Brennan asked incredulously. "I don't remember seeing any younger people in the front row. The Reverend did not mention them in his sermon. Where could I find them?"

"Yes, they were there, but they left the same day. I heard they live somewhere near London."

“They didn’t stay at Avon Crest ?” Brennan asked, astonished.

"How should I know? I have nothing to do with them."

“But maybe you heard something?”

“Sir, as a bartender I hear a lot, but not everything.”

"But again, did Gordon always do a lot of good? Was there a time before that?"

"Well, as long as I've been here, nothing bad has come out of Avon Crest. And I've been here for more than thirty years."

"You say that in your thirty years there has been nothing bad to be heard from there? Were there other times?" Brennan sensed again that there was something hidden, but the bartender did not want to talk about it.

"Sir, what do you want from him? He's dead."

"Look, I was related to him in many ways. I would like to know something about him."

“You should have done that sooner, when he was still alive.”

Brennan drained his cup, put money on the table and picked up his coat.

"Whether you are a relative of Gordon or not, you should not dig into his past. It brings bad luck."

“Why bad luck?” Brennan looked at him in disbelief.

"Because you let the dead rest," said the bartender, turning around and leaving Brennan standing there. Brennan put on his coat and ran to the parking lot. As if everyone had agreed on this, he thought as he got into his car.

After these conversations, Brennan was sure there was something there as he started the engine and drove home. Whenever he asked further questions, people avoided him. He had not found out anything new. Well, he was only at the very beginning of his explorations and was driving home first.

Back in Beauly, he made a few notes and added to his plan for future visits. If the people here did not want to talk, he might be able to find out a thing or two from the newspaper.