The Unforgiven Dead by Fulton Ross

Author:Fulton Ross
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkshares
Published: 2023-07-10T18:43:51+00:00

Chapter 36

Dr Boyle’s sporty silver BMW was parked outside Grant and Nualla’s house at Ardnish. The modest two-storey property was perched on the hillside, a large front window affording views of the fish farms on Loch Ailort and the mountains of south Morar beyond. Ash drew up alongside the GP’s car, climbed out, and retrieved the present for the new baby from the boot—cute little jumpsuits and a rabbit comforter. She also lifted a separate gift bag, stuffed with prosecco, chocolates, and flowers for Nualla.

The front door opened before she could reach it, and Dr. Boyle stepped out, still barking instructions to Grant. The GP was in her sixties, probably close to retirement, but had a youthful style that Ash had always admired. Today she wore jeans, green Converse, and a leather jacket over a striped nautical top. A black beret was perched jauntily on her head, streaks of silver-grey hair billowing from under the hat.

She smiled at Ash and pecked her on both cheeks. Originally from Normandy, she’d married a Scotsman decades ago but retained the French style of greeting, as well as the accent. “Apologies, Ashleigh,” she said. “I must dash. No rest for thee wicked.”

She scampered past Ash on a waft of expensive Chanel perfume and hopped into the BMW. She gunned the engine and powered away, tyres spinning on the gravel. Ash turned to Grant and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “She’s some machine.”

“Aye.” Grant sighed. He looked tired, Ash thought, his skin pasty, beard thick and unkempt. The very picture of a first-time father.

“Come on in,” he said, turning and leading the way into the house. She followed him through to the kitchen and placed her bags on the table.

“You look knackered,” Ash said. “Rosie keeping you up?”

He nodded, but then his shoulders began to shake and Ash realized he was sobbing quietly. She walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Grant, what’s wrong? Is Rosie okay?”

“Aye, aye, she’s fine, Ash,” he said. “It’s Nualla.”

“Nualla?”

“She’s . . . struggling. I mean, we both are, but Dr. Boyle thinks she might be suffering from postpartum depression. She’s given me a prescription for some pills, so . . .” He shrugged, the sentence petering out.

“God, I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Grant shook his head, his eyes downcast. “The thing is, Ash, I’m due out at sea in a couple of days. You know what it’s like—I’ll be away for weeks. I don’t want to leave her here on her own, but we need the money. Like, desperately.”

Anger swelled in her. It wasn’t fair that hardworking families were struggling to make ends meet. She knew they’d sunk everything they had into buying this house. It was nothing fancy but cost way over the odds because rich southerners had inflated the market by snapping up all the local housing stock for holiday homes or Airbnb.

“Right, here’s what we’ll do,” Ash said. “You have work, there’s no two ways about it.

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