A Small Death in the Great Glen

by A. D. Scott

  “For God’s sake, listen to me,” McAllister cursed, then apologized for blaspheming.

  “For the final time, it’s none of your business but yes, we have questioned Father Morrison. Yes, the boy disappeared near his house and yes I’ve had his background checked and no, there’s nothing to make me doubt his word. He’s a man of the cloth, for goodness’ sake.”

  McAllister got in his final question.

  “For the last time … the tinkers aren’t talking. They’ve not-so-conveniently disappeared into the wilds of Ross-shire. As for them being an alibi for a Polish DP—who would trust a tinker’s word anyway?”

  McAllister slammed down the phone, threw his head back and, looking for all the world like a wolf baying at the moon, he let out a string of curses, never heeding that they might be heard in the reporters’ room or the office downstairs or through the town and out into the wind to be funneled down the faultline to all of the Highlands and Islands.

  SIXTEEN

  Get your jammies on, you two. Hurry up, or the cinnamon toast’ll get cold.”

  Sitting around the fire, Joanne was deep in her worn womb of an armchair, the threadbare arms covered up with off-cuts of tartan, knitting. Annie was sprawled on her stomach over her beloved red pouf with Egyptian motifs stamped into the leather, which she bought at the church jumble sale with her pocket money. Jean was lying on the hearthside rug playing with a doll. The three of them were deeply content. Joanne had a fleeting shadow of guilt for not missing her husband. Annie was relieved that her father was away. And Wee Jean did not think about it at all, too busy enjoying the happy household.

  “Half an hour to bedtime,” Joanne told them as the news ended on the wireless. “One of you, fetch the dominoes.”

  By the third game, Wee Jean was half-asleep and taking ages to lay down a domino, driving Annie crazy.

  “Play your five.” She nudged her sister.

  “How do you know I’ve got a five? Mu-um, she’s cheating, she’s looking at my dominoes.”

  “Right, let’s call this game a draw.” Joanne winked at Annie and for once she didn’t argue. “Upstairs, girls. Brush your teeth and call me when you’re in bed. Then one story each.”

  The girls asleep, a concert on the Third Programme; Joanne was in her nightie and dressing gown, curled up in the armchair. She loved a quiet house, a good fire, a good book, a cup of tea and the wind outside. She occasionally laid the book aside to stare into the flames, remembering the encounter with McAllister. She was half nodding off, when footsteps outside gave her a start. Someone rapped on the front door. She went into the freezing hallway.

  “Who is it?” No one she knew would come to the front door.

  “Is Bill Ross there?”

  “He’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Can I have a word?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Jimmy Gordon. A pal of your husband’s.”

  “I’ll tell him you called by.”

  Joanne talking through the locked door, was now shivering.

  “The thing is, Mrs. Ross, or can I call you Joanne”—he continued the conversation through the door—“I heard he’s still out west and I have a wee bit o’ business wi’ Bill. It’s urgent. Some financial situations to work out. An’ I’ve got tae get it settled out afore I get back to Glasgow.”

  “I see.” She didn’t. “Financial situation, you say.”

  “Aye, a wee business arrangement me and him have. Mrs. Ross, I’m freezing ma’ arse off oot here. An’ I dinnae want to discuss delicate matters what wi’ the neighbors listening an’ all. Maybe we could discuss this inside?”

  That did it. She unlocked the door. But not just one Gordon stood there. There were three, three peas from the same pod. Joanne was mortified when she realized she was in a nightie in front of strangers. And they were strange indeed. They went from first brother to third brother in eighteen-month intervals, all three the same Glasgow-short height, all three round and solid with greased, slicked-back, black hair. Brothers two and three had that blank, numpty, brought-up-on-chips-and-pies-and-Irn Bru look about them. Brother number one obviously was the boss. “Sleikit” was the only word for him, but with menace added. He grinned at Joanne, his whiter-than-white full set of false teeth beaming out as bright as the Channory lighthouse.

  She took them into the kitchen.

  “As I was saying, me and Bill have a wee business arrangement going and I wanted to make sure he understood a’ the terms and conditions. If you get ma drift.”

  “Terms and conditions,” repeated brother number two.

  “Ye know,” contributed brother three.

  “No, I don’t know.” Joanne didn’t invite them to sit down, so they all stood in a circle. She was cautious but curiosity won. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  “Tut, tut, lads. He’s no told the wife.” Jimmy Gordon made great play of looking shocked. “An’ they say there’s no meant to be ony secrets between husband and wife. Whit’s the world coming to?”

  Joanne had had enough.

  “Mr. Gordon, tell me what this is about, then leave. It’s late and I’m tired.”

  He told her. All one thousand pounds of it. It sent her head reeling.

  “So I just wanted to let you to know that my brothers’ll be the ones to collect. I have to go back to see to business in Glasgow. They’ll be keeping an eye on things for me, making sure the payments are on time. Since you’ll be seeing quite a bit of them it’s good we’ve been introduced. Right?”

  “Right.” Anything to get rid of them. “I’ll see you out.” She opened the front door. “I’ll make sure Bill gets the message.”

  Brother number one turned, his grin up to full wattage.

  “I’m sure you’ll make sure he gets the message.” He looked around. “Nice wee house you’ve got here. Sorry I was too late to meet the lassies. Annie and Jean, isn’t it?”

  He shooed his brothers out into the night, gave a cheeky tip to his hat and followed them to the car.

  Joanne slammed the door, locked it, ran to the back door, locked that too. Standing in the kitchen, caught between rage and terror, she started to shake. Finding themselves beholden to Glasgow gangsters was one thing; them coming to her house, mentioning the girls, was quite another.

  “Dear heavens above! You idiot man! What have you gone and done this time?”

  Huddled at the top of the stairs, listening in to every word, Annie was wondering the same thing.

  Ben Wyvis loomed white in the pauses between weathers. Snow had settled on the tops of the lower hills. The town stood granite-still before the horizontal sheets of rain coming straight from the North Sea. Cyclists were the main victims, malevolent gusts trapping them on the bridges, intent on whisking bike and rider up into the cloudscape and suspend them in a painting conjured up by Chagall’s Scottish cousin. Joanne had pedaled hard through all that the heavens could fling at her, trying to forget the picture of the malevolent gleam in the eyes of the eldest Gordon brother. No use. Neither wind nor rain nor cold could shake it loose.

  Sitting at the reporters’ table alone, she worried. Too much was happening, her foundations were shifting and the nocturnal visit from the Glaswegian brothers had shown her a circumstance and set of characters encountered previously only at the pictures.

  McAllister sat in his office nursing his gloom. With a theatrical sigh, he unfolded himself from the chair and took himself to the reporters’ table, looking for something, someone to distract him. Joanne looked up through a wing of hair. Both hesitated; the easy familiarity had not yet returned. She was about to tell him of her strange encounter when Rob charged in. Exhilarated by his brilliant idea, he strutted over and perched himself on the edge of the desk.

  On wakening, he had called asking for an interview, he told them both.

  “Hello. Oh, it’s yourself. Really? Aye. No, nine’s not too early. Friday morning it is then. Grand,” was the reply.

  Father Morrison then
asked after Rob’s father and his mother before signing off with a cheery “Bye-bye.”

  “So I’ve set up an interview with Father Morrison.” Rob was well pleased with himself.

  “You’re daft.”

  “Thanks for your confidence, Mrs. Ross.” Rob turned to McAllister. “It’ll be fine. He’s known me a long time. He thinks of me as a boy. Who better to do an interview?”

  The editor nodded. “Aye. Who better?”

  “Besides, he’d never talk to an old man such as yourself.”

  “Oh dear, I’m kicking myself for not thinking of such a brilliant idea. Satisfied? But no mention of anything about—”

  “Hoodie crows. I’m not that daft. Then you can buy me a drink after.”

  “You’re too young to drink.”

  Atmosphere lightened, Rob grinned cheerfully. He couldn’t abide gloom.

  “I’ll do it as a good-luck-and-farewell piece.”

  “What?” McAllister stared.

  “Didn’t you hear? He’s been given a promotion. He’s off to take charge of a school in Lanarkshire.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’ve only just found out. And besides, you’re not exactly approachable these days.”

  “Right, lads and lasses.” Don walked in. “When you’ve all finished righting the wrongs of the world …”

  McAllister turned to leave, but Don, rolling his eyes in exasperation, shoved a pile of copy paper into his hands, telling him to have it done by the end of the day. “Then you can be off chasing shadows and crows. In case you’ve all forgotten—we’ve a paper to turn out.”

  “Yes, Mr. McLeod,” chorused Joanne and Rob.

  They all settled down to grapple with the controlled panic of another deadline.

  It wasn’t until late in the morning, alone with Don, that Joanne decided he was her only hope. She had first thought of Chiara—but she had enough worries of her own. She thought of Rob—but he was too young to take it seriously; he would probably get excited at the thought of meeting real live gangsters. She thought of McAllister—but she was still wary of getting close to him; he was her boss, after all. And Don? He knew life. He wouldn’t pity her. Or judge her. And he could keep a secret. So Don it was.

  “Don, if you wanted to borrow money in a hurry, where would you go?”

  “Just ask, I’ll always help out.”

  “No, but thanks anyway. I mean, if a person in the town was in real trouble, and needed a lot of money in a hurry, is there a moneylender or something like that you could go to, apart from the pawnbroker in the market, that is?”

  “Maybe. But you’d be a fool.”

  “How so?”

  “Interest, lass. Compound interest, starting at twenty percent, more if you’re desperate.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “What’s this about? Yer man?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Right you are. It’s nearly one, we’ve time for a pint and a chat—on me.”

  Arm-in-arm down the slick-wet cobbles of Castle Wynde, off they slithered to one of Don’s favorites. It was a long narrow place, nearly all streetfront, in a lane opposite the station. High smoked-glass windows, cut-glass mirrors, like the inside of a Gypsy wagon except for a bar, with brass railings and spittoons, running the length of the room. This was definitely a “men only” public house. Joanne didn’t care anymore. She was a journalist.

  They sat in a corner. She told Don. He whistled.

  “The three Gordons.” Don was taken aback by the whole story. “Poaching on McPhee territory. What a nerve.” He was dumbfounded by the amount of money. “That much?” He was furious when she told him that they knew the girls’ names. “This is serious, lass.”

  “I know. Bill has big problems with the terms of the contract; he can’t wriggle out. Councilor Grieg’s has somehow got a hold on him. But going to these men, that’s not a solution. I wish I could do something.” She stopped. She thought it over for five seconds. May as well, was her decision.

  “Maybe I can do something. I have an idea to help Bill. A not-very-honorable idea, but …”

  By now Don was thoroughly intrigued.

  “You’re talking to the right person then.”

  “It’s very, very hush-hush.”

  “That requires another pint.”

  He came back.

  “Right, tell me all. I’m the keeper of the secrets of this town, going back centuries. Besides, you should always have a sneaky unscrupulous person in your corner.”

  “And that sneaky unscrupulous person is yourself.” She pretended to hit him, made him swear that he would never tell, then she let him have the whole story.

  “My God. The bastard. How old was she when she had the baby?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Then she was fifteen when he had her.”

  “She was the housekeeper. First job, straight out of school.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Blackmail him.”

  “I like the sound o’ that.”

  “I’m going to blackmail him into doing something completely legal, something completely within his power, something that any decent person would have done already.”

  “That’s ma girl.”

  “One thing though, Don.” She stared at him. “If I can fix it, I don’t want Bill to ever hear of my part in any of this.”

  “Aye, I can see that. Bill couldn’t take any more of your being better than him.”

  “What?”

  “It’s no your fault.” He saw that he had offended her. “And I’m not saying you do it deliberately … all I’m saying is, he must feel inadequate around you. I mean, look at you, you’re bright, a daughter of the manse, and let’s face it, you’d never have married him if you hadn’t had a bun in the oven.” She went bright pink at that. “I know everything, remember?” He nudged her with his elbow. “No, what I’m saying is, he’s not the kind of man who takes kindly to interfering women.”

  “You don’t pull your punches, do you? And I’m not interfering, just helping. It’s my family too.”

  “I know, but that’s not how he sees it. He’s the man, breadwinner, the boss, and he has his pride.” Don shook his head. “You’re too good for that man, Joanne, and he knows it and resents it.”

  “Aye, so I’ve been told, and he’s been told the same often enough. That’s the trouble. But that’s not how I feel.”

  Felt, she realized with a jolt, that is not how I felt, past tense. And now? That, she hadn’t yet worked out. She had been feeling that her anchor was slipping for quite some time now. Even though it was a poor excuse for a marriage, she was tied to it, it was what she had chosen. Over the past few weeks, though, it felt like the wind had changed, that a new direction maybe, perhaps, might just be possible—a life on her own. How to do it, that was still problematic. She felt Don watching her. She smiled, shrugged a what-the-heck, then told him, “Back to the office, Mr. McLeod, I’ve an appointment to make before I lose courage and change my mind.”

  “Come in, sit down. Would you like some tea?”

  Joanne sat in front of his desk, knees pressed tight together to stop her shaking. She wouldn’t be here if Don hadn’t said he’d do it himself if she backed down. Grieg filled his executive chair. He needed it; born big, he was now gone-to-fat big. He smiled ingratiatingly at Joanne but was unable to disguise his dislike. Over the years, they had met at one function or another. She had never bothered to hide her contempt at his pawing and his passes.

  Bill Ross made a bad match there, he thought. Look at her. For all her posh ways of speaking and her airs an’ graces, look at her in a tweed skirt, lace-up shoes and for goodness’ sakes, a knitted tammy.

  “So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? Naturally, I’m always happy to help the ladies and gentlemen of the press.”

  She smiled politely at the condescension, picked up her prop, her notebook, and began at the beginning, not
stopping nor pausing at any of his snorts of protest. Finished, she closed the blank notebook and sat back, quietly waiting for the response.

  “Let me go through this again. Let me see if I’ve got this clear. You want me to fix a council contract for your husband. You want me to use my influence to get a payout of money on a half-finished job.”

  “Ninety-five percent finished.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “It is. I’ve read the contract and in amongst the gobbledygook is a clause that allows you to authorize payment for work done but not completed due to exceptional circumstances. The remainder of the work can be completed in a few weeks, but you could persuade them to authorize an extension.”

  “And what are these exceptional circumstances?”

  “The weather.”

  “This is Scotland in winter, my dear.”

  “I’m not your dear.”

  “Oooh, touchy are we? Well, well.”

  “It would be a good idea for you to agree to this.”

  “Oh really?”

  He is enjoying this, Joanne thought. Well, here goes.

  “It would be a good idea to agree to my proposal because, if you don’t, I will write up the story on your ‘Rowan Lodge’ project stating that there are irregularities in the planning permission process, you also have a conflict of interest and I’ll write anything else I can dig up.”

  He roared with laughter.

  “Dig away all you want. Everything on that project is aboveboard. I have nothing to do with the development company. It belongs entirely to my wife and her father. There is nothing for you to dig up, as you put it, so I think it is time for you to leave.”

  It was his self-satisfied leer that did it. Joanne would otherwise never have stooped to using the private life of others.

  “You won’t want your wife, a company director and pillar of the church, to go through the pain and disgust and humiliation of finding out that you seduced a fifteen-year-old girl who was in your home, in your care, and then, when she had your baby, you refused to recognize the child.”

  Absolute silence. Joanne waited.