A Double Death on the Black Isle

by A. D. Scott

  “Joanne?” McAllister was standing in the doorway. With his eyebrows, he indicated his office.

  “Sit down, please.”

  As he went to light another cigarette, he felt her nervousness, saw how she put her hands behind and smoothed down her skirt then sat with her legs together and slightly to the side, her back straight, her face set to pleasant and interested. He saw again how she was a daughter of the manse, and a credit to her very proper private schooling.

  “You’ve been turning in good stories. Simple, factual,” he started.

  “Thank you.” She waited, sure there was going to be a “but.”

  “So let’s talk about you becoming a journalist.”

  “I need all the help I can get.”

  There was that earnest look again, McAllister thought. I’m your equal, he wanted to say to her, not some demigod sitting in judgment.

  “Let’s start with the direction the Gazette is going, see how we can help you with an abbreviated cadetship. Remember though, hard news is not for everyone. There are plenty of other areas in a newspaper where you can shine.”

  McAllister went through his thoughts and ideas.

  “The new-look edition is into the fourth week,” he reminded her. “Sales and advertising are good. Two more editions and the board of directors will make a decision whether to stick with the new format, or go back to the old-fashioned, been-there-for-centuries newspaper.”

  If that happened, McAllister would catch the first train back to Glasgow. He didn’t tell Joanne that.

  “I would have preferred ten editions before a decision was made,” he told her. “Although my feeling is that as long as the revenue looks strong, I will be allowed to continue my way.”

  “Who are they, these mysterious directors?”

  “An accountant,” McAllister replied, “a solicitor, and a retired magistrate. They represent the owners of the company that owns the Highland Gazette, amongst their other assets.”

  He knew and would never tell, secrecy being part of his contract, that the Beauchamp Carlyle siblings ultimately owned a substantial holding in the parent company. Not that either Beech or his sister interfered. McAllister suspected Don knew. But nothing was ever said.

  McAllister continued telling Joanne of the decisions and problems of revamping the Gazette. She was more than pleased to be treated as a confidante.

  “One potential source of problems, the printers and typesetters, turned out to be allies. The change of leading, the space between the lines—they like it. Changing the font, making the leading deeper, combined with larger headings on all articles not just the main headlines, gives us a clean, modern look. ‘It’s much easier to read when you can’t find yer glasses,’ one of the hot-metal typesetters told me.”

  Joanne laughed at McAllister’s rendition of the typesetter’s accent.

  “Don has no idea that my inspiration for the design of the Gazette comes from a Paris newspaper.” McAllister grinned as he said this.

  Joanne smiled. “He’s not too keen on anything French.”

  “Or foreign. Or anything south of the Grampians come to that.” He saw that she had lost that rabbit caught in the spotlight expression. “We need to produce a paper that increases our readership, is relevant to most of the Highlands and islands, is a serious rival to the Aberdeen paper, and is likely to keep Rob McLean happy for another two years.”

  “Has he said what his plans are?”

  “Television.”

  “Really?” Joanne was surprised that Rob had not told her. Hurt too. “And my role?”

  “You have good ideas and you think more like an editor than reporter. You never know, one day you could replace me. But I warn you, Mrs. Ross,” he teased, “I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

  Joanne was astonished.

  “Don’t look so surprised—your articles of interest to women readers, your children’s column, are good, solid ideas.”

  Joanne had found the solution to pay for the features page. The National Health Service provided a weekly competition to promote good health. It was better suited to children in the deprived areas of the cities than to those in a healthy Highland constituency, but the material was gratefully accepted. There was a comic strip featuring an egg for the main character. Another character was a pint of milk, and a bottle of cod liver oil and a jar of malt were members of the cartoon gang. Best of all, the government paid for the space.

  She had also persuaded Beech to compose a crossword. Once a month, he said, too much work to make up one weekly. One of his cronies, a retired colonel living near Kiltarlity, had offered to make up a crossword on alternative fortnights. A fortnightly bridge column from a retired schoolteacher was another of Joanne’s ideas. As well as the fiendishly clever bridge tips, the schoolteacher had agreed to select readers’ short stories, poems, and reminiscences of bygone times, the prize being publication in the Gazette.

  “Make sure the pieces are short,” Joanne had warned. “Don McLeod is ruthless with his wee red pencil.”

  “The page is very popular, Joanne, your ideas and your choice of stories and correspondents make it work.”

  “Thank you. Being a reporter suits Rob more than it suits me—he’s too young to care what anyone thinks, and he’s not afraid to come straight out with a question. Some of his jokes are in poor taste though.”

  “That could be said of the majority of journalists. Always remember, Rob has fine instincts and asks the right questions.”

  “I know. He’s a good friend and I learn a lot from him.”

  “Joanne, please don’t be offended, but I need to say this.” He looked at her as she spoke, but she would not meet his eyes.

  “I can see you want to make something of your life. But you don’t seem to have a sense of who you are. You were born into one role, daughter of the manse, you married into another set of roles, wife and mother, now you are a separated woman—through no fault of yours. Here, you have a chance to change your life, to take charge; working at the Gazette can be more than a job, it can be a good career.”

  Joanne was listening intently to McAllister’s every word, terrified he was going to talk about her stay in hospital.

  “I hate the double standard where so-called respectability is what a woman is judged on. But times are changing. At the Gazette, you can become financially independent, and the job gives you the opportunity to use your brain. So tell yourself you can do it, and that you deserve it.”

  “Speech over.” He stood. “So work with Rob, find out what’s happening on the Black Isle, and write a story to keep our readers agog.”

  “I’ll try.” She smiled. “I’m curious about Fraser Munro’s death. Curious about the charge too—involuntary manslaughter. I don’t quite know what that means.”

  “Curiosity is what makes a good reporter, an unscrupulous sense of curiosity.”

  “I’ll leave the unscrupulous part to you. And Don. Rob too. . . .” She hesitated, not sure how to ask.

  “You talked before about conflict of interest.”

  He waited.

  “I find it hard with Patricia. She’s a friend. I feel sorry for her. . . .”

  “In law, the editor is responsible for the content of a newspaper, so blame me.” McAllister sensed more hesitation. “You said your mother-in-law is related to Mrs. Munro. Will that be a problem?”

  “I don’t know!” Joanne was flustered at the thought of Mrs. Ross’s reaction.

  “It’s the nature of the job,” McAllister told her. “We are part of the town, but apart.”

  I already know that feeling, she thought.

  “I’d like us to work together.” She blushed when she said this. “What I mean is, I’ve a lot to learn.”

  McAllister, sitting there behind the editor’s desk, was watching her every expression.

  She found it impossible to say what she wanted to say: I feel alive when I’m here, I feel I am worth something, she wanted to say, and I love it when you talk to me a
s though my opinions matter. But all she managed was, “I’ll do my best.”

  She stood and left so quickly it was only when she was gone he realized there was more. But what?

  The room was empty when Joanne returned to her typewriter.

  “Joanne, my dear. Just the person I want.” Mrs. Smart came into the reporters’ room like a lugger in full sail. “I have just signed up Arnotts for some advertising and they want a mention of their summer frocks.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Mrs. Smart hesitated. Her promotion from secretary to business manager was a rise in status, but she wasn’t sure how far her authority stretched. A story on summer frocks, while unusual in the Gazette, would be lovely in Mrs. Smart’s opinion, and the advertiser promised a regular commitment if they were given a picture or a story each week.

  “I wondered if you could speak to the lady in the fashion department to talk over ideas for an article.”

  “It’s a lovely idea, Mrs. Smart, but perhaps we should mention it to McAllister first.”

  Rob came in, in a clutter of scarf and bike jacket and noisy boots and notebooks.

  “What did McAllister want with you?” he asked Joanne.

  “He said that as I am now a full-time reporter, you have to answer the phone, and I no longer have to make the tea.”

  “That’s right.” McAllister was leaning in the doorframe, making a diagonal slash with his long body. “I’ll find the budget for a secretary to free you up for reporting duties. And she, or he, can make the tea.”

  Don came in, pushed McAllister out of his way, and spread the layout on the table.

  “What are you all on for next edition? I need to fill these extra pages.”

  No one noticed Hector sitting in the corner, on the floor, next to the top hat, desperately trying to add up a column of figures. The total turned out different every time.

  “Since everyone is here, let’s nut out some ideas,” McAllister said. He was still in his proselytizing mood.

  He and Don immediately lit up—they were journalists, they could not possibly think without a cigarette or twenty.

  Mrs. Smart sat erect on an extra stool, giving the appearance of a carved masthead on a ship’s prow; Joanne and Rob were side by side at the large, black typewriters, looming out in the fug of cigarette smoke like monsters in the mist.

  “I want to interview Jimmy McPhee,” Rob said, “see what he has to say about the charges against his brothers.”

  Joanne mentioned their solicitor, Calum Sinclair. “Ask your father if he knows him.”

  McAllister turned to Joanne. “The Black Isle?”

  “I thought I might talk to Mrs. Munro,” she said.

  “And Patricia? Why don’t you see what’s happening with the fatal accident inquiry.”

  Joanne did not think that was a good idea and dreaded the thought of asking Patricia for information for the Gazette. But she said nothing.

  “What about The Good Shepphard?” Don asked. “Who’s doing that? Graham Nicolson from the west coast called. He’s tracked down the crewmen from the Skinner boat. He also mentioned there is an interesting story involving a west coast boat builder.”

  “I could take a trip over there,” Rob offered.

  “Phone first, see if it’s worth your time.” McAllister was grinning, pleased with the buzz of enthusiasm in the room. “Next up, I want to congratulate Mrs. Smart on the spectacular rise in advertising sales. We wouldn’t have a new Gazette without her hard work.”

  Everyone clapped.

  Clearing her throat, a trick she had learned from the Women’s Guild public speaking event, Mrs. Smart began. “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. McAllister.” She looked at her notebook. “I have an idea for a feature that would interest our lady readers. I mentioned it to Joanne. We thought we’d ask your opinion.”

  “Fill me in,” McAllister asked.

  “Arnotts have booked six, half-page advertisements. They will commit to a long-term contract if we write a regular feature on their fashion, new furnishings, and the like.” She looked around, aware of the looks passing between the journalists. “I thought it would be nice. . . .” She finished off her sentence and softly deflated like a birthday balloon with a slow puncture. Rob looked uncomfortable. Joanne was puzzled. Hector was pleased.

  “Can I take shots o’ lassies in swimming costumes?”

  “Shut up, Hector.” Rob glared at him.

  “Don?” McAllister’s eyebrows signaled the question.

  “It’s like this,” Don began, lighting up a Capstan full strength. “There’s advertising and there’s reporting . . .”

  “And never the twain shall meet,” Rob said.

  “And this is the back door. . . .” Don continued.

  “The thin end of the wedge,” Rob added.

  “Enough,” Don told him. “Mrs. Smart . . .” He smiled at her. He thought she was a grand woman. “I’m as pleased as anyone with all you’ve done for the Gazette, but give those greedy so-’nsos an inch and we’ll be having endless requests for ‘just a mention’ from the fishmonger and the ironmonger. . . .”

  “Butcher, baker, candlestick maker . . .”

  “Rob!” Don paused. “He’s right though, Mrs. Smart. There’d be no end to it.”

  “They said they might take a full page if we could give them a mention.” Mrs. Smart was scoring thick lines through her notes, deleting all her ideas.

  Don could see she was upset. “What you do is promise them a good position, front part of the book, right-hand page,” he told her, “but only if they sign a contract.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McLeod.”

  Joanne was upset too. I should have thought of that, she told herself, I should have known.

  “Next edition,” McAllister brought everyone back to the point of the meeting. “Obviously we have to cover the other usual stuff. The problem is these news stories—there is too much happening.”

  He looked around the table. “Rob, Joanne, make up a tentative list of stories with dates due. The fatal accident inquiry into Sandy Skinner’s death—find out when. Who threw the petrol bomb and why—we need an update. Yes, Rob?”

  “Sandy Skinner’s financial affairs seem shifty,” Rob told everyone.

  “He’s dead,” Joanne snapped him. “Have some respect.” As soon as she said it, she wished her words back. Impartial, she told herself, try to be impartial.

  “Sandy’s financial situation may be the motivation for the fire,” McAllister observed. He did not mean this as a rebuke, only as an idea to investigate. She felt it keenly all the same.

  “Finally, the trial of the McPhee brothers is weeks away, but it does no harm to find out more. Joanne?”

  “I’ll get on to it.”

  “Thanks everyone.” McAllister rose to go. “Let’s turn out another humdinger of a paper.”

  Next day, Mrs. Smart told McAllister she had found an editorial secretary.

  “Mrs. Buchanan is qualified, and it’s good to promote someone who already works here, even if she was only taking the classifieds.”

  “It’s your decision, Mrs. Smart.”

  “Find me a secretary” had been McAllister’s instructions. Mrs. Smart’s choice was a woman in her early thirties, a war widow. Although McAllister approved the appointment, he had slight reservations—the woman, Mrs. Betsy Buchanan, made him uncomfortable, and he had no idea why.

  Blond hair that seemed to encase her head like a chrysanthemum, eyes as blue as a painted china doll’s, she had an hourglass shape, which she showed off in a seemingly modest tweed skirt, twinset, and pearls—the standard dress of a respectable Scottish woman. That the skirt was a little too little, that the twinset was bought a size too small, that her walk—that well-shaped behind swaying independently of the rest of her—had taken a lot of practice to achieve, these were not things he could possibly know.

  McAllister went to the reporters’ room. Soon we’ll be needing more space—the room seems sm
aller, or we’ve all grown in a mysterious Alice way. Or maybe it is because we have that much more to do.

  “Mrs. Smart has found a secretary for the Gazette,” he announced. “Mrs. Betsy Buchanan.”

  “Busty Betsy?” Rob asked.

  “I remember her when she was just plain Betty and she bought her jumpers the right size,” Joanne commented.

  “I’ve been told her shorthand and typing are excellent,” McAllister said. “And mind your tongue, young man. No names like that around here.”

  “You’d better get Don to tell the printers then,” Rob told him.

  Don looked up from the form guide. “I’m telling the printers nothing,” he said. “Her name is Betsy. She has a big bust. They’re men. What do you expect?”

  Everyone went on with their Friday. Rob was on the phone, arranging a trip to the west coast for the next day.

  Don made calls to his bookie for the weekend races.

  Hector handed in his expenses. Mrs. Smart re-added his figures and came to a different total.

  McAllister spent the morning researching the recent sighting of UFOs over Wigtownshire. He was planning some mischief for the next Gazette editorial.

  Joanne wrote up a routine story about the hospital, but her thoughts kept straying to the talk with McAllister.

  She had had little sleep that night. Time spent with him was always exhilarating. To talk properly with a man, to be respected, to be listened to—it was lovely.

  There was something about the man that could give you the shivers, she thought, but a man like him couldn’t possibly be interested in me. Failed marriage, but still firmly married, two children, ignorant about the wide world out there. . . . But still, she thought, maybe it’s possible. . . . Stop it. This isn’t a true-romance story—this is the Highlands of Scotland. One thing McAllister had right—I need to be my own person. Someone’s child, someone’s wife, and a mother, I’ve never been independent.

  At lunchtime, Joanne took her favorite walk up to the forecourt and lawns in front of the castle, where the statue of Flora MacDonald stood plumb in the middle. The view up and down the river, across to the northern hills, east to Ben Wyvis, and west to the road to Loch Ness never failed to inspire her.