Free The Trowie Mound Murders by Marsali Taylor

port and time of arrival, so that shore back-up could investigate further if there was a no-show. Peter had told me their plan of a day’s walking, and that made me their shore back-up. They hadn’t arrived back at their boat, and they hadn’t called to say the plan had changed. Granted, they didn’t have my mobile number, but the club number was in the book, and they could leave a message.
    I slid down the green grass of the trowie mound to sit on the sheep-cropped green turf at its base. There was a great slab of stone behind my back, and I wriggled against it until my back was comfortable, then took my mobile out from my backpack and was surprised and pleased to see a signal; three bars, even. Contacts; Anders; call.
    He answered straight away. ‘Yo, Cass.’
    â€˜Hiya. No sign of them here.’
    â€˜None here either. I have driven all the way to Ronas Hill, in case they decided to go and climb that too, but I did not see them, and I have asked several people on the way.’
    â€˜Nothing?’
    â€˜No. I’m now back at the marina, and they are not here. Nor has there been any word to the club, to say they are delayed, or have changed their plans. Do you think we should call the coastguard?’
    â€˜Yeah –’ I said reluctantly. ‘I’ll call them from here. See you back at the marina.’
    The coastguard number was programmed in my mobile, although I’d normally call them on the VHF from Khalida. It was Hilary who answered.
    â€˜Hiya, Hilary,’ I said. ‘It’s Cass here, Cass Lynch. We could have a problem.’
    â€˜That handsome Norwegian of yours not servicing your engine well enough?’ she riposted. I could hear her colleagues guffawing in the background.
    â€˜Men,’ I said, rather lamely. I wasn’t feeling up to bright back-chat. ‘No, it’s something quite different – we maybe have a couple of missing people.’
    She went serious. ‘Who, where, how long?’
    I explained, hearing her scribbling at the other end of the phone. ‘And you’ve had no word? No word at the club either?’
    â€˜No. And they were older people. I know it’s only one night, but they knew we knew their plans –’
    â€˜And a night’s a long time to be in trouble on the hill,’ she finished. ‘Okay, Cass, I’ll talk to the chopper boys. They could do a sweep over. Descriptions?’
    â€˜Nice, spottable scarlet sailing jackets,’ I said. ‘He’s tall, getting on for six foot, with white hair, and she’s that peat-ash colour, a reddish blonde. Maybe five five.’
    â€˜We’ll get the search underway,’ she said, and rang off. I sat down against the trowie mound once more. I couldn’t do any more now. I dug in my rucksack for the bottle of water and mackerel rolls I’d made back on Khalida .
    I’d just bitten into the first one when I heard a furtive, scraping noise beside me, from within the trowie mound.

Chapter Six
    I froze in mid-bite and listened. It was a very faint noise, yes, scraping. Was there any chance that Peter and Sandra had somehow got stuck inside the mound? I shoved my roll back into its paper and stood up. The sound ceased.
    I called their names and my voice bounced off the stones. There was no answer. I began walking slowly round the mound, looking for the entrance.
    From the outside, it was simply a circular grassy mound maybe two metres high and ten across, set in a flatter space on top of the hill. It wasn’t obviously artificial; these hills were knobbled all over with outcrops of rock. When you looked at the lower sides, though, here and there the outer wall showed through, boulders the size of my body set flat-face outwards and fitted together like crazy-paving. Above one of these, a strip of turf had been torn away to show the first layer of dry-stone wall; torn away recently, too, for the exposed stones were still