Rage (Benson Security 3)

“You’ll be okay, honey,” Agnes said.

“Just keep your hands off him,” Mairi said. “Maybe you could call him instead of talking to him face to face.”

That caused Agnes to smack her again. “She isn’t going to jump the man, idiot.”

There was a pause as all three sisters gave her speculative looks. Isobel threw up her hands in disgust. “So I have a type. So what? It’s not like I’m going to throw myself at him and offer to sleep with him in return for his help.”

There was a shuffling of feet as her sisters cast sideward glances at each other.

“Thanks a lot,” Isobel said. “Good to know you have so much faith in me.”

“You tend to get physical without thinking it through,” Donna said gently.

“I only did that once,” Isobel protested. And ended up pregnant and alone at seventeen because of it.

Her sisters stared at her.

“Fine. Twice.” And she had the ex-husband from hell to show for that little slip in self-control.

“If it’s any consolation,” Mairi said, “I’ve totally learned from your mistakes.”

“No. It’s no consolation. Now do you three think you could stop analysing my past mistakes long enough to help me get this body off the beach?” She looked at the sliver of light on the horizon. “Sun’s coming. We need to get him to the garage and into the freezer before the kids wake up.”

“This is going to be gross,” Mairi said. “I’ll need to burn my clothes after this.”

“I might vomit again,” Donna said.

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“Get a grip,” Agnes snapped, “and take an arm or a leg each.”

With each of them clutching a limb, the four sisters carried the dead man up the hill to Isobel’s house. Donna and Agnes were only sick twice.

CHAPTER 3

CALLUM MCKAY HAD FOUND HOPE in an unlikely saviour—eighty-nine-year-old Betty McLeod. The cuboid-shaped woman, with her signature hairnet, but no hair, and tartan tent dresses, was the scourge of the Highlands. She had the personality of a rabid hyena and the moral compass of a campaigning politician. But for some reason, in spite of her failings, or maybe because of them, Lake Benson had practically adopted her. He called her his pet Hobbit; she called him son. As far as Callum knew, Lake had been the only person on the planet Betty wasn’t out to mess with—until him.

Callum wasn’t sure what he’d done to acquire her interest in his life, but it seemed there was no getting rid of her. And heaven knew he’d tried. She’d come with Lake on one of the days he’d visited to check up on Callum, when he’d first moved into his grandfather’s old house in Scotland. She’d barrelled through the door, cackling like a witch when he told her to go to hell. Then she’d taken a look around, and said, “Son, it looks like I’m already there. This place is a pigsty. Make me a cup of tea. Lake’s got the cake. Then tell me why you’re trying to kill yourself and what I can do to help.” From the evil glint in her eye, Callum was pretty sure she meant help to end his life and not help to stop him.

For some reason, Callum had made the tea. He now had weekly phone calls from Betty, where she told him he was being an arse and discussed euthanasia methods with him. As far as therapy went, it was probably enough to get them both committed.

“Why the hell didn’t you answer the phone earlier?” Betty said by way of hello when Callum picked it up this time.

“I was busy.” For once, he hadn’t been busy staring at his gun and wondering if this was the day he was going to put the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger.

“Doing what?” Her aged croak of a voice was like sandpaper on his eardrums.

“None of your bloody business.”

She laughed, and Callum shook his head.

“Did it involve some self-pleasure?” she said. “If it did, film it next time and send it to me. I need to make the most of the years I have left.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Pansy arse.”

“What do you want?”