by A. D. Scott
“Next, he described his heroic service spent helping the bombed-out families in Dumbarton-shire. Then, after the armistice, he was running a church adoption and foster care agency that was also some kind of home. An administrative post, he says.”
“Involving children?” McAllister asked.
“Aye, all ages; babies, up to school-leaving age, orphans mostly. Then eight years ago he came here to the “retreat” next door to us. Only a few other people have stayed there as far as I know. He keeps himself to himself, never goes out much.
“So, all the while I was sooking up to him. You know, Father this and Father that and ‘Oh how interesting.’ He lapped it up. Then when I’d got my notes for the article, I decided to play a wee game so I could have a look around.
“‘Father Morrison,’ I says, ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have your picture. Do you still have that big camera of yours? You could set it and I’ll push the button. I remember you being a dab hand with photos.’
“The silly old fool fell for it. Off he went to get his camera, me following behind. When he turned round and saw me in his studio, as he calls it, he didn’t look too pleased, but I turned up the charm a notch. Told him how professional it all looked. He switched on a big lamp, showed me the big professional camera on a tripod. He fiddled with his light meter, the settings, then showed me how to take the picture. He posed against a white sheet. Pleased as punch he was. Vain too, combing over the baldy bit on his head in that stupid old man’s way, you know, tramlines across his skull.
“Then I told him we didn’t have anyone to develop the film. Could he suggest anyone? And could we have it soon, as I wanted the piece in the next edition? And the fool, just like that, says, ‘I’ll do it myself,’ he says, ‘won’t take long,’ and did I mind waiting? Mind—I couldn’t have suggested better myself. ‘No problem,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait in the kitchen, write up my notes.’ Then off he went into the darkroom and I had the house to myself.”
Rob paused. “You know it used to be our house?”
McAllister nodded.
“Well, when Grandma McLean lived there, my cousins would come to stay and we played hide-and-seek or Swallows and Amazons or Sardines. It’s a big house, lots of cupboards and attics and the darkroom, that was once a dressing room, off what was my parents’ bedroom.
“So there I was, alone, and naturally, I had to have a poke around. I looked in the bedrooms; all empty except for his one. I checked his bedroom. A very large, very gory, very dead Jesus hanging above the bed gave me a bit of a fright. I checked the stuff on his table, his cupboards, his chest of drawers, and there, underneath his drawers, I found photos.”
Rob was so engrossed he didn’t even laugh at his own joke.
“There was a pile of them. Negatives, contact sheets, and lots of photos. Photos of boys. I stood like a stookie staring at the pictures. That was when Father Morrison called out he’d finished. I barely had time to put everything back.”
Rob stopped. He sniffed. He looked out the window, then continued.
“I made a big palaver of looking at the time, told him I was late for work, grabbed the photo of him by the corner, it was still wet, and said I had to go. I made for the door, blethering nonsense, and had to stop myself running down the drive, straight home.”
“Did you take any of those other pictures with you?” McAllister asked.
“I couldn’t. I knew he’d be on to me if I did.” Rob was miserable.
“But you have the photo of Father Morrison?”
“I gave it to Don.”
“We must take this to the police.” McAllister could feel the man slipping away again.
“How? There was nothing in the pictures really. They were just”—Rob searched for the words—“not nice. They were pictures of boys at the boxing and group shots and photos taken on excursions and stuff … but there were lots of pictures of boys in a big bath … you know … it was just that … the way they were posed, it made me feel … well, dirty.” Rob was staring at the carpet. “And I searched his drawers; that’s illegal. My dad would go spare if he found out.”
“Morrison would first have to make a complaint,” McAllister pointed out.
“I didn’t steal anything, but if we tell Inspector Tompson, he’s just as likely to arrest me. Attempted burglary or some such.”
“The chief inspector from Aberdeen, Westland’s his name, he’s in charge and he’s a dammed sight more on the ball than Inspector Plod. At least I hope he is.”
McAllister, looking out of the casement windows through rain that was now turning to sleet, remembering other photos, photos sitting on the mantelpiece shrine, his mother’s pride and joy, knew that there was too little, in fact none at all of the solid evidence needed to connect the priest to any crime. But that was not his job; he was a reporter, reporting the facts. He thought about his brother, his mother, Jamie, all the young lads who had been tainted and tarnished by men like Morrison, and he knew he couldn’t ignore what he suspected.
“I’ll get to the heart of this. No matter how long it takes me.”
And Rob, at the same time, in his own way, was making the same promise.
McAllister and Rob walked the very short walk to the police station. At the front desk, the editor asked for Detective Chief Inspector Westland. The desk sergeant told them he was out but would be back soon and invited them to go on up and wait.
A tall narrow window giving out onto the Castle Wynd dimly lighted the detectives’ lair, which lay off an equally narrow winding stairway. Handy for the courts, which were in the castle proper, but cramped with three desks, the door to the room was left permanently open to all the comings and goings on the stairs.
“Tompson will let Morrison know what I did. They’re in the same church,” Rob whispered. He was desperate to get out of this meeting.
“Wheesht. Leave it to me.”
Inspector Tompson appeared. He didn’t even greet them, just glared.
“What now?”
“We’re waiting for Westland.” McAllister was determined to ignore the inspector.
“Detective Chief Inspector Westland to you.” Tompson then poked a finger at Rob. “His time is too valuable to waste on speculation and innuendo from the press. Not to mention libel.”
McAllister, using his height and his formidable voice, stated, loud enough for everyone in the police station to hear, “I shall be letting the chief constable know that his officers are not interested in receiving information from the public. And furthermore, no more help will be forthcoming from the Gazette, not whilst I’m the editor.”
Halfway down the stairs, McAllister’s furious progress was halted as he ran into DCI Westland. Rob, at his heels, almost fell on top of the editor.
“I heard that.” The policeman held out his hand. “Would you care to come upstairs again and give me your information? In private?”
So they did, leaving nothing out.
Joanne had not seen Chiara for nearly a week. They arranged to meet during Joanne’s lunchtime break and have a sandwich at the coffee bar.
Gino waved as she came in, beamed at her, shouting a hello above the roar of the coffee machine, and pointed to where Chiara was waiting. The friends had this part of the café to themselves. No one mentioned it, but custom was still slow. There were some in the town who would always believe there was a link between the Italian family and the stranger awaiting trial for killing the child.
Stands to reason, some said, they’re all foreigners. Aye, others said, and I heard the Italian girl is engaged to that Polish man who is protecting thon murdering bastard.
And so it went.
“Long time no see.” Chiara smiled.
“There’s been so much happening.” Joanne smiled back.
“You look different.” Chiara examined her friend. “It’s not the hair. No new clothes—you’re still in that disgraceful old tweed jacket you love. So … your husband is away … is that it? Nope. A man? Ah hah! A hint of a blush. Tell
me all.”
Joanne was laughing by this time. “You know, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’ve grown up.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
“No, I mean that as a compliment.”
Their sandwiches and coffees arrived. Chiara thanked the waitress and when she was gone, they started the real conversation. Anyone watching would have seen two heads leaning close, one with raven black hair, the other bright brown. They would have noted an occasional touch to the arm, a hand placed on a friend’s hand. Anyone listening would have heard a constant murmur coming from one, and exclamations of “Never!” or “Get away!” or “Oh my goodness!” and muffled bursts of laughter and moments of quiet and a final “You never!” coming from the black-haired woman before they hugged, then ate their sandwiches and drank their cold coffee.
“Look at the time.” Joanne was up and grabbing her scarf and hat.
“Please say you’ll come.” Chiara, pleased again.
“I don’t see how I could manage it.”
“Ask McAllister for a lift. He’d never refuse you.”
Joanne gave Chiara a mock punch and tried to get out the door before her friend could see the light in her eyes.
“Friday night then?” Chiara called after her. “And if you don’t ask him, I will.”
Joanne sat in the visitor’s chair in McAllister’s office. Then stood up. She offered to make tea. He refused. She looked at him. He stared back. She started, her tone formal sounding.
“I don’t know how to say this. I don’t know where to begin. McAllister, I’m determined to make something of my life. I know, I know, hard for a woman, especially in this place, in these times, but I will.” She took a deep breath. “Can I have a full-time job?”
He looked surprised. Then nodded.
“Can I have a raise?” Again he nodded.
“Thank you. I suppose you want an explanation?”
He shrugged.
“Thank you so much,” was all she could manage to say. She stood.
“One thing more …” She hesitated. “Would you take me to a dance in Strathpeffer on Friday night?”
It had come out all wrong, she realized that, but before she could clarify the request, McAllister smiled at her and asked, “Are you asking me for a date, Mrs. Ross?”
“No, never, I mean, no.” Chiara had that wrong, she thought, I can’t be grown-up if I keep blushing all the time. “No, what I meant was … Rob has got this band—”
“So I heard.”
“And Peter Kowalski plays guitar and there’s a drummer and someone else and they’re playing at a party to celebrate Keith McPhee marrying Shona Stuart. So Chiara wants us to go. To support Peter.” She dared a look and he seemed interested. “So I thought maybe you could give me a lift and we could all have some fun, because it’s all been so serious lately.”
“I think that’s a fine idea. I’ll be happy to take you.”
“You will? Great.”
And he watched as she fairly skipped out of the room.
“I hear we’re going to a party.”
“Aye.” McAllister continued to work without looking up.
“For heaven’s sake! Make an effort, man!” Don stalked back to the reporters’ table.
McAllister was there ten seconds later.
“Sorry. I’ll explain, but not now. How about supper, my place, tonight?”
“I’ll bring a bottle.”
McAllister was gratified when Don asked for seconds. The cock-a-leekie soup was his culinary magnum opus. And the tattie scones were not bad either. But he’d cheated and bought those at the bakery.
“So,” Don said as they stretched out either side of the fireplace, feet on the brass fender. “Might as well tell me because otherwise I’ll have to find a way to get rid of you.” He waggled his glass at the editor. “You’re no much company at all these days.”
“You showed the photo to Jimmy?”
“Aye, you were right, it’s the same man. That must make you feel vindicated.”
“No, I feel strangely flat. I thought I would feel triumphant—to be proved right on a matter that has haunted me for years—but, no. Until we know who killed the boy, I won’t be celebrating the fact that I was right.”
“Taking smutty pictures doesn’t make him a murderer. Even Jimmy doubts he would do that.” Don spoke slowly. “Then there’s the matter of getting hold of some of the photos Rob saw, to support your theory. We’re back to the same problem; who would listen to wee girls, or the lad or to Jimmy McPhee, against the word of a priest?”
He looked across at McAllister. McAllister sank in his chair, defeat showing in every part of his body.
“Killing the boy,” Don continued, “frankly, I don’t see it, unless it was an accident. What does Jimmy say?”
“He doesn’t believe Morrison, or Bain, as he knew him, would interfere with a child, far less kill him. He told me he was one of the better ones at that school he went to. There were others far worse is what he told me.”
“And DCI Westland?”
“I don’t know. He listened. He’d already talked to Morrison. He couldn’t find anything amiss. He noted what he called an innocuous collection of photos of junior boxing groups. He also told me that he is convinced Tompson arrested the right man. The case against the Pole is circumstantial, but his greatcoat being found on the banks of the canal clinches it for him. The procurator believes he can get a conviction.”
“I know you won’t thank me for saying this,” Don went on, “but it’s still all speculation on your part. And, as I said, it’s only photos, lots worse has happened. You know that, you having been a war correspondent. But cheer up, he’ll be out of our lives by Christmas.”
“Aye. And what havoc will he wreak on other boys’ lives?”
“That’s just the way it is, John, it’s just the way it is.”
EIGHTEEN
Cars, vans, motorbikes, bicycles and three large charabancs, as well as those on foot, filed along the narrow winding road that was shaped by the river. Their destination, the small spa town, was hidden in a fold in the glen. Although early, six o’clock, it was well past dark. Every star in the heavens was visible in the still cold air. Silver birches lived up to their name, the trunks marking them out in the forest like squads of soldiers in ghostly livery. There was no moon; starlight alone was enough to light the way.
The stream of guests meandering across the football field to the hall didn’t give a thought to the venue, the commandeered Scout hut; the Spa Pump Room and Ballroom, where the gentry held their functions, was intimidating. This was a night for letting the hair down.
Fiddlers warming up sent their chords into the night, summoning the stragglers. Colored lights around the porch and windows made a rainbow beacon for those farther up the glen. New arrivals were enveloped in a thick warm mist of laughter and light as they stepped over the threshold.
Two shepherds from up Strathconnon way had been banished to the porch to suck their reeking pipes. Arguing amiably, their conversation occasionally faltered as one or another hawked, then spat into the grass with great relish.
“Tonight. Mark my words, tonight.”
“Naw. The morn. First thing, likely.”
Jimmy McPhee chipped in.
“And what are you two auld boys blethering about now?”
“The snow, laddie. The snow.”
Jimmy looked around.
“Don’t be daft. It’s a beautiful night. Look at thon stars and no a cloud in the sky neither.”
“Aye, I grant you. But smell. Can ye no get a hint o’ it? That’s snow in the offing for sure.”
“Well, five quid says no snow the night,” Jimmy said. “No snow on the lowlands afore December.”
Spit in the palm, a handshake, they accepted the bet. “You’re on.”
The hall was overflowing. At one end, below the stage, a long table was set for the wedding party. Along the sides, trestle tables with borrowed tablecloths, pos
ies of flowers and mounds of sandwiches and cakes were set for the guests. Tea urns operated out of the kitchen. This was the women’s territory.
The male guests, with boys running through and around and under their heels, milled outside like cows awaiting the call to the milking shed. One or two would break off from their huddle, then re-form with another gathering. In their wedding and funeral best, faces shiny from a fresh wet shave, a dent around the skull from the ubiquitous flat cap, they gave off a whiff of Brylcreem and carbolic soap.
A table by the kitchen door was set up with ginger beer and Irn-Bru and sickly-sweet orange squash. Despite the hall’s strict no-liquor policy, beer was handed out from underneath the table and the men added a sly splash of whisky from the hip-pocket half bottle. Some were already well away, but as yet quiet, slightly swaying, still coherent. Ritual greetings were exchanged.
“Archie.”
“Donald.”
“Aye”—said upward on the indrawn breath. “Aye.” The greeting returned downward on the outgoing breath. Silence followed. Talk of the farm, of neighbors’ farms, of distant rumors of farming in other counties, would come soon enough. Conversations needed oiling.
Inside, the women caught up on family news and eyed each other’s outfits. All were in their bonnie best. The treadle sewing machines had been busy, new dresses specially run up for the rare outing. The eye-watering smell from home perms canceled out the tang of Pears soap and eau de cologne. Babies expected, babies born, news of offspring grown and gone, along with intimate details of real or imaginary medical complaints, were the topics for the isolated, gossip-starved women.
Mothers and grandmothers occasionally broke off to shout at the children skating and sliding across the wooden floor, liberally scattered with chalk dust to enhance the swing of the dancing.
“Mind yer good dress, Morag.”
“Watch yer best breeks, Hector.”
All spruced up, hair stuck down, the boys ignored the warnings and continued to pelt around the floor. The girls promenaded around the edges, preening themselves in their full frilly dresses and sugar-starched petticoats. But too soon they were sucked into the whirlpool of sliding and gliding and pulling and chasing.
