Chapter 1: The Numbers Don't Add Up

The quarterly reports stared back at Hamish MacLeod like an accusation written in red ink. He loosened his Hermès tie and pushed back from the mahogany conference table, the numbers on the projection screen making his head ache worse than last night's eighteen-year-old Macallan.

"The Sinclair account," he said, tapping his Mont Blanc pen against the financial summary. "We're three weeks behind on barley deliveries. That puts our spring batch at risk."

Around the polished table, five board members in expensive suits shifted uncomfortably. MacLeod Distillery had been producing single malt whisky since 1847, and in all that time, suppliers didn't just vanish. Especially not suppliers whose families had been working with the MacLeods for four generations.

Margaret Christie, the company's sharp-eyed financial director, cleared her throat. "I've called Sinclair Farm six times this week. The phone rings and rings. No answer, no voicemail."

Hamish ran a hand through his dark hair, still slightly damp from his morning shower in his Merchant City loft. At twenty-six, he was young to be running a hundred-million-pound whisky empire, but the MacLeod blood ran thick with business sense and Highland stubbornness. His late grandfather would have driven out to the farm himself by now, probably with a bottle of their finest and a willingness to sit all night until he got answers.

"Sir?" Margaret's voice pulled him back to the present. "What would you like me to do?"

Hamish stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Glasgow's bustling financial district. Down below, people hurried along the streets in their designer coats and polished shoes, secure in their urban world of mobile signals and reliable delivery schedules. But somewhere out in the Highlands, in a village most of these people couldn't find on a map, something had gone wrong.

His phone buzzed against the glass table. A text from Isla: *Dinner tonight? That new place in Finnieston? Wear the kilt – I have news! 😉*

Despite his frustration, Hamish smiled. Isla Campbell worked for one of Glasgow's most prestigious art galleries, had a laugh that could make him forget the worst day, and possessed an uncanny ability to read people that made her invaluable at gallery openings full of wealthy collectors and their complicated motives. She also had zero patience for his tendency to overthink business problems.

Another text appeared: *Unless you're planning to brood in that boardroom all night like a Highland Hamlet?*

"Right," Hamish said, turning back to the table. "I'm driving out to Gleann Dubh myself."

The room fell silent. Margaret blinked. "You're... driving where?"

"Gleann Dubh. Black Glen. It's where the Sinclair farm is located." Hamish was already reaching for his jacket. "Someone needs to find out what's happened to Ewan Sinclair."

"Sir, that's a three-hour drive into the middle of nowhere," protested James Morrison, the company's marketing director. "Surely we could just—"

"Could just what? Keep calling a phone that no one's answering?" Hamish shrugged into his charcoal wool jacket. "The Sinclairs have supplied our barley since my great-grandfather's time. If something's wrong, we owe it to them—and to our whisky—to find out what."

As he gathered his papers, Hamish opened the Maps app on his phone. The route to Gleann Dubh snaked north and west from Glasgow, through increasingly empty countryside until it reached a tiny dot labeled simply as "Village." Christ, when had three hours started feeling like forever? He remembered driving this same route as a boy, sitting in the passenger seat of his father's Range Rover, counting Highland cattle and learning to identify different clan tartans from the tourists they passed. Back then, three hours had seemed like nothing—just time to listen to his father's stories about their suppliers, their competitors, and the ancient art of turning Highland barley into liquid gold.

His phone rang. Isla's name appeared on the screen.

"Don't tell me," she said without preamble. "You're canceling dinner because of some crisis that absolutely cannot wait until tomorrow."

"I have to drive up to the Highlands. One of our suppliers has gone missing."

"Missing? Like, police-missing or just-not-answering-his-phone missing?"

Hamish paused. "Not-answering-his-phone missing. But it's been three weeks, and—"

"And you're going to drive into the wilderness to play detective." Isla's voice carried the fond exasperation of someone who'd learned to love a man with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. "How very Highland of you."

"I'll be back tomorrow night. We can have dinner then."

"You better be. And Hamish? Pack some wellies. Your Italian shoes won't survive whatever you're walking into."

Two hours later, Hamish was threading his Land Rover Defender through increasingly narrow Highland roads, his Spotify playlist shifting from indie rock to traditional Scottish folk as if the car itself knew they were leaving the modern world behind. The landscape outside his windows transformed from urban sprawl to rolling farmland to dramatic hills crowned with ancient stone and stubborn Highland sheep.

Gleann Dubh announced itself with a weather-beaten sign in both English and Gaelic, population 247. The village was exactly as Hamish remembered from childhood visits—a cluster of white-washed cottages and gray stone buildings huddled around a single main street, with the inevitable Highland church presiding over it all from a small hill. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the late afternoon light painted everything in shades of gold and amber that no photograph could capture.

Hamish parked outside the Stag and Thistle, the village's only pub, its hanging sign creaking in the Highland breeze. As he opened the car door, the first thing that hit him was the silence—no traffic, no sirens, just the sound of wind through glen and the distant bleating of sheep.

The second thing that hit him was considerably less poetic.

"Fucking hell!"

Hamish looked down at his right foot, which had landed squarely in what was unmistakably a fresh pile of sheep droppings. His £400 Italian leather shoes—handmade in Milan, purchased during last month's business trip to meet with European distributors—were now decorated with Highland agriculture.

From somewhere nearby came the sound of children giggling. Hamish looked up to see three kids, maybe eight or nine years old, watching him from behind a low stone wall. They were trying not to laugh, but failing spectacularly.

"Welcome to Gleann Dubh, mister," called one of them, a red-haired girl with gap-toothed grin. "Best watch where you step. The sheep don't much care about fancy cars."

Hamish scraped his shoe against the curb, trying to salvage some dignity. "Right. Thank you for the warning."

"You're not from here," observed another child, a boy with serious dark eyes. "Are you lost?"

"Not lost, exactly. I'm looking for the Sinclair farm."

The children exchanged glances. "Ewan Sinclair's place?"

"That's right."

"Haven't seen him around lately," the red-haired girl said. "His boy Jamie's been running errands, but Ewan... dunno."

Something cold settled in Hamish's stomach. In a village of 247 people, everyone knew everyone's business. If the local children hadn't seen Ewan Sinclair lately, that was more significant than missing phone calls.

"How lately?" Hamish asked.

The serious boy shrugged. "Week? Maybe more? Mam says he's probably visiting his old mum again."

"Does he do that often?"

"Sometimes. She lives up in the really old cottage, the one without the phone line. Gets lonely, so Ewan goes to check on her."

Hamish nodded, but the cold feeling in his stomach was spreading. Business owners didn't usually disappear for weeks during their busiest season, even to visit elderly mothers.

As he walked toward the pub, scraping sheep manure off his expensive shoes, Hamish realized he'd driven three hours north to find answers. But already, standing in the golden Highland evening with the scent of peat smoke and impending rain in the air, he suspected he'd found something much more complicated than a simple communication problem.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded remarkably like his grandfather's was whispering that in the Highlands, when people disappeared without explanation, there was usually more to the story than anyone wanted to admit.

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