engaging.
And it struck her quite suddenly that he bore more than a passing resemblance to Colm MacKenzie.
She clicked on a link to
The
Times
article on his death and skimmed through it. Andrew was sailing from Freetown to the Banana Islands along with Michael McFarland, an Australian traveller he’d met in Freetown.
According to McFarland, the sea roughened when an unexpected late-afternoon squall kicked in, and the sloop capsized. Both men clung to the hull as the boat was carried further and further out from shore. When the worst of the storm passed, Andrew, a strong swimmer, decided to strike out and swim the twelve miles to shore. He never made it. Michael was rescued early the next morning.
Andrew was presumed drowned, his body carried out to sea. There was also speculation that perhaps he’d been attacked by a shark, a not uncommon occurrence along the Sierra Leone coast.
At any rate, his body was never recovered.
Helen gazed into the distance with a frown etched on her face. Some suggested that Campbell, who was well travelled and fascinated with West African tribal culture, had disappeared deliberately, unwilling to take on the responsibility of running his family’s Scotch distillery in his father Archibald’s stead.
Could it be true, she wondered? Had Andrew faked his own death in order to start a new life elsewhere? Her frown deepened. Could Colm actually
be
Andrew, the missing heir? He was thirty-eight, the same age Andrew would’ve been, had he lived; and they were the same height and build.
But she discarded the idea as soon as it occurred. It made no sense. Why would Andrew Lachlan Campbell suddenly come home to his family after turning his back on them for eighteen years? And if he did return, why keep his identity a secret? Surely his parents – his own
mother
– would recognize heir son the moment they laid eyes on him.
Still, Helen mused, eighteen years was nearly two decades. People could change a lot in that amount of time, physically and emotionally.
Her frown deepened. Perhaps Colm ‒
Andrew
‒ was back because he was in danger of some kind. Had he returned to Draemar to hide?
On impulse, she grabbed her mobile and tapped in a number. After two rings the call was picked up. ‘News desk,
London Probe
.’
‘Tom Bennett, please.’
Helen waited impatiently as the call was put through. When he answered she came straight to the point. ‘Tom, it’s Helen. I need a favour. Get me the police report for Andrew Campbell. Yes, Campbell. He drowned off the coast of Sierra Leone. Let me know what you find.’
‘All right,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but why? That was years ago ‒ I remember it. His sailboat capsized, his body was never found, and they thought he might’ve been finished off by a shark. Poor bugger.’ He paused. ‘Why the sudden interest in a rich toff who drowned nearly twenty years ago?’
‘I’ll explain later. Just get me that report, okay? I’ll owe you. Big time.’
‘You bet your arse you will,’ he grumbled, and rang off.
The knock on Caitlin’s door was quiet, but determined.
She sat up on her bed, where she’d thrown herself earlier in a torrent of angry tears, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, even though she already knew.
‘It’s Mum. Let me in, please.’
With an exaggerated sigh, Caitlin pushed herself to her feet and went to the door and cracked it open. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want answers, madam, and I want them now. You can either open this door,’ her mother said again, more firmly, ‘or you can explain yourself to your father. And I don’t think either of us wants
that
.’
Reluctantly Caitlin swung the door open and waited as her mother came inside and swung around to face her.
‘Why were asked to leave university?’ Penelope demanded. ‘What on earth did you do?’
‘It’s all a silly misunderstanding,’ Caitlin said, and closed the door. She crossed her arms against her chest.
And it struck her quite suddenly that he bore more than a passing resemblance to Colm MacKenzie.
She clicked on a link to
The
Times
article on his death and skimmed through it. Andrew was sailing from Freetown to the Banana Islands along with Michael McFarland, an Australian traveller he’d met in Freetown.
According to McFarland, the sea roughened when an unexpected late-afternoon squall kicked in, and the sloop capsized. Both men clung to the hull as the boat was carried further and further out from shore. When the worst of the storm passed, Andrew, a strong swimmer, decided to strike out and swim the twelve miles to shore. He never made it. Michael was rescued early the next morning.
Andrew was presumed drowned, his body carried out to sea. There was also speculation that perhaps he’d been attacked by a shark, a not uncommon occurrence along the Sierra Leone coast.
At any rate, his body was never recovered.
Helen gazed into the distance with a frown etched on her face. Some suggested that Campbell, who was well travelled and fascinated with West African tribal culture, had disappeared deliberately, unwilling to take on the responsibility of running his family’s Scotch distillery in his father Archibald’s stead.
Could it be true, she wondered? Had Andrew faked his own death in order to start a new life elsewhere? Her frown deepened. Could Colm actually
be
Andrew, the missing heir? He was thirty-eight, the same age Andrew would’ve been, had he lived; and they were the same height and build.
But she discarded the idea as soon as it occurred. It made no sense. Why would Andrew Lachlan Campbell suddenly come home to his family after turning his back on them for eighteen years? And if he did return, why keep his identity a secret? Surely his parents – his own
mother
– would recognize heir son the moment they laid eyes on him.
Still, Helen mused, eighteen years was nearly two decades. People could change a lot in that amount of time, physically and emotionally.
Her frown deepened. Perhaps Colm ‒
Andrew
‒ was back because he was in danger of some kind. Had he returned to Draemar to hide?
On impulse, she grabbed her mobile and tapped in a number. After two rings the call was picked up. ‘News desk,
London Probe
.’
‘Tom Bennett, please.’
Helen waited impatiently as the call was put through. When he answered she came straight to the point. ‘Tom, it’s Helen. I need a favour. Get me the police report for Andrew Campbell. Yes, Campbell. He drowned off the coast of Sierra Leone. Let me know what you find.’
‘All right,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but why? That was years ago ‒ I remember it. His sailboat capsized, his body was never found, and they thought he might’ve been finished off by a shark. Poor bugger.’ He paused. ‘Why the sudden interest in a rich toff who drowned nearly twenty years ago?’
‘I’ll explain later. Just get me that report, okay? I’ll owe you. Big time.’
‘You bet your arse you will,’ he grumbled, and rang off.
The knock on Caitlin’s door was quiet, but determined.
She sat up on her bed, where she’d thrown herself earlier in a torrent of angry tears, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, even though she already knew.
‘It’s Mum. Let me in, please.’
With an exaggerated sigh, Caitlin pushed herself to her feet and went to the door and cracked it open. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want answers, madam, and I want them now. You can either open this door,’ her mother said again, more firmly, ‘or you can explain yourself to your father. And I don’t think either of us wants
that
.’
Reluctantly Caitlin swung the door open and waited as her mother came inside and swung around to face her.
‘Why were asked to leave university?’ Penelope demanded. ‘What on earth did you do?’
‘It’s all a silly misunderstanding,’ Caitlin said, and closed the door. She crossed her arms against her chest.
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