A Small Death in the Great Glen

by A. D. Scott

  They settled in, in Don’s corner table. Joanne looked around. Multiple customers, reflected in the multiple mirrors, gave quite the fairground atmosphere to the drinking haven. The swing doors opened and closed with a one-o’clock-Saturday, half-day-at-work frequency.

  “Don’t look now,” Joanne murmured, “but those men that have just come in, that’s the Gordon brothers.”

  Don looked. The eldest brother, spotting Joanne, waved.

  He came over. “How’s it goin’, Joanne?”

  “It’s Mrs. Ross to the likes o’ you.” Don, alert as a sheepdog when the wolves were on the prowl around the fold, fairly growled at Jimmy Gordon and his brothers.

  “Get away, we’re old friends.”

  “Not the way I heard it.”

  Jimmy Gordon looked closely at Don, dismissed him as an old nobody and pulled out a chair. His brothers did likewise.

  “And who invited you three wee nyaffs to the table?” Don demanded.

  “Who’s gonny stop me?”

  “I am.”

  Jimmy McPhee appeared from nowhere and stood behind Joanne.

  “Well well well. Jimmy McPhee.”

  Jimmy looked them over. “The gormless Gordons.” No one took offence. They’d been called it often enough to make it a double-barreled surname.

  “So what brings you up here?” Jimmy McPhee’s cheer radiated menace.

  “Just a wee visit. Old friends, you know.”

  “Old enemies an’ all.” Jimmy kept up the rigor mortis grin. “I never knew you had Highland connections. Remind me of yer family ties.”

  The barman was polishing the glasses, pretending nothing untoward was happening but watching it all in the mirror above. The other drinkers, agog, watched the protagonists in the wall mirrors where they were half obscured by the advertisements etched into the glass for beers and whiskies. Joanne watched the two Jimmies face up to each other, trying not to make a move nor breathe too loudly.

  Gary Cooper, High Noon, popped into her head, except Jimmy McPhee was facing down three instead of four. She had trouble suppressing a nervous giggle.

  “I think you’ll find it’s more a business visit.” Don knew what he was doing.

  “And what kinda business would that be?” asked Jimmy McPhee, knowing exactly what the Gordons’ business entailed.

  “I did hear they’ve been fishing,” Don offered.

  “Poaching, more like,” Jimmy McPhee responded.

  “Aye, that’s my drift.”

  “We’re no too keen on that up this way.”

  “Penalties are high, was what I heard.” Don again.

  “Families don’t take kindly to other families camping on their grounds.” Jimmy.

  “It’s not as though you or yours would go fishing down south.” Don.

  “Heaven forfend.” A mock look of horror from Jimmy McPhee.

  “Will ye look at the time, boys.” The eldest Gordon turned to his brothers. “Oor train leaves in ten minutes. Great to see ye again, Jimmy.” Handshakes all round.

  “You too, Jimmy.”

  “Say hello to yer ma and yer brothers. Nice to meet you again, Mrs. Ross. We’ll be away off the noo. Chilly in these parts.”

  The doors swung shut. There was a momentary silence, then a buzz ran up and down the bar.

  “But the trains aren’t running,” Joanne started.

  “My round.” Don rose.

  “What on earth was that all about?” Joanne looked at Jimmy McPhee.

  “I could ask you the same thing, Mrs. Ross.”

  Jimmy sat down and looked her over. She looked away. He didn’t know how much Joanne knew. He himself knew almost everything of Bill’s affairs.

  “That late-evening visit they paid to Joanne, when pretending to look for Bill Ross, they asked after the girls.” Don was back.

  “That’s against the rules,” Jimmy stated flatly.

  Joanne said nothing.

  “Aye. Well.” Don knocked back the dram. “Much obliged, Jimmy.”

  “Not at all. Good to know about the poachers.”

  “Thanks for the party last night, Mr. McPhee. We all had a great time.”

  “Aye, it was grand, wasn’t it? Not sure about some of the music, though. Any word on McAllister?”

  “Not yet.”

  Jimmy shook Don’s hand and left.

  “Thanks again.” Joanne waved cheerio as he pushed through the doors.

  Walking back up the narrow lane, back through to the High Street and the office so Joanne could collect her bike, she put the question.

  “Don, what on earth was that all about?”

  “Went well, didn’t it, my wee scheme?” He grinned and kept walking. Exasperated, she poked him in the ribs.

  “You set all that up, didn’t you? For your own delight?”

  If he weren’t a man nearing sixty, Joanne would have sworn he was sniggering like a schoolboy.

  “Aye, magic wasn’t it? And for your information only, that was the biggest bunch of heavies you’re ever likely to meet, getting their comeuppance.”

  Joanne was none the wiser.

  “You will explain, Don McLeod, all of it, or I will never cover the Highlands and Islands Women’s Institute AGM for you, ever ever again.”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. She listened in astonishment. Bill’s involvement with the Gordons was one thing, but to find out that her encounter had been with one of the most feared bosses in Scottish crime was something else again. How dare that husband of mine endanger their girls, how dare he? But she kept this thought to herself.

  “So that’s that?”

  Don thought for a moment. “There’s still the matter of one thousand pounds.”

  “And we still don’t know what has happened to McAllister,” she added.

  McAllister woke. Everything was white. He tried sitting up and roared like a wounded bear. That really hurt. His face and head and ribs and knee hurt like hell but not as much as his face. Out of the window, snow, calm and deep, covered everything, every tree and shrub and distant mountain. The horizon blurred as sky merged with snow and the whole scene was framed by the glittering magical patterns made by frost on windowpanes. A row of humped shapes not far from the windows made him think, Cars? Car park? Then he remembered.

  He wanted to shout for the nurse but knew he couldn’t. He found a bell.

  “My clothes?” A low-pitched moan was all he could manage.

  She gave him a pencil and paper clipped to a board.

  Clothes. The coat. Where are they? he wrote.

  “You’ll not be needing those today.”

  Envelope. Inside a railway coat. Ask guard. He scribbled frantically, then handed back the clipboard and attempted to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The waves of nausea were worse than the worst hangover he could remember.

  “The coat was taken off to dry along with your clothes. I’ll find it. But only if you promise to stay put.”

  McAllister waited. He kept feeling he was going to be sick from the pain, or the drugs, or the fear that a stranger would pick up those photos. Maybe they were lost; the thought made his stomach turn. Footsteps squeaked up the polished floor, the person invisible to McAllister, cocooned as he was behind a hospital screen.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” DCI Westland held up a thick brown envelope as though it were an unexploded bomb or a lump of shite, distaste showing on every pore of his snow-ruddy face.

  The policeman sat on the bedside chair, speaking quickly and quietly.

  “The doctors say you’ll be fine but you need rest. You’ve done a great job, Mr. McAllister. Now leave the rest to me.” He looked at the gaunt man, at the white bandage around head and jaw that seemed to meld into the white skin and the pillow, emphasizing the eyes, dark and dead as the coals on a snowman’s face.

  “I hope these photos will help to put this man away.” The chief inspector was unsure that this would happen but now was not the time to say so.


  “Hoodie crow.” The words came out as a groan.

  “I give you my word, as a father of two fine lads, I’ll do all in my power to catch this man. I promise the pictures will be kept locked away, authorized persons only to see them. Does that help you rest more easy?”

  Hoodie crow, McAllister scribbled, held up the paper.

  “He’ll be found. Rest assured, I’ll track him down. If he had anything to do with the boy’s fate, I’ll make sure he’s locked away for life.”

  McAllister closed his eyes. If, the chief inspector said. If. And if the priest escaped, he would continue to desecrate young boys’ lives; of that he was sure. But a vivid scene flashed before him; photographs of his brother and others, all being shown, passed around, in a crowded court. He felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. He needed reassurance. He struggled to reach out for the policeman’s arm but was exhausted, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  “I’ll be back, McAllister. You sleep, then you can tell me all that happened.”

  He had no choice in the matter; there was nothing McAllister could tell him in the state he was in, not being able to speak. Westland, policeman, father and realist, knew there was no evidence linking Morrison to Jamie. As for the photos, they only proved that the man had an unhealthy liking for young boys, nothing else. A complaint would have to be made for an investigation into the matter. And who ever would come forward to complain, never mind stand up to a court appearance? Who could prove that they were anything more than unsavory pictures? Who would believe that the experience might hurt a boy? Embarrass? Maybe. But harm? And the improbability of anyone’s listening to a child, taking their word against the word of a priest; he was back to the same old conundrum. The next leap, from priest with an obsession to priest as a killer, of that there was absolutely no proof. The chief inspector walked out of the white world of the hospital into the white world of the mountains at a loss as to where to turn next.

  Willie Grant waved to him from across the cleared entranceway, gesturing to the Land Rover.

  “Sir, the snowplough has been through but the roads are still bad and there’s more weather on the way.”

  The chief inspector kicked the wheel of the vehicle. He knew nothing could be done.

  “Sir, I’ve booked you into the Carrbridge Hotel. It’s famous for—” Willie stopped. Me an’ ma big mouth, he thought.

  “For what, Willie?”

  “Well, they do say, or so they tell me, that it’s got the best selection of single-malts in the Highlands.”

  “In that case, lay on, Macduff.” Westland gave Willie a grin, reaching up to pat the lad on his broad shoulders. “Well done, Constable Grant. Well done on everything.”

  McAllister slept five hours or so, then started to drift in and out of half dreams and images of the previous night. He still felt chilled to the bone despite the warm hospital bed. What had happened? He must remember. Where was he? The station square. Falling off Rob’s bike. Running for the train, frozen through. A hand pulling him up. Another pushing from behind. Aye, that was it.

  “In the nick o’ time, eh? Och, it’s yourself, Mr. McAllister. Soaked through, too. Here, give me yer jacket an’ have a loan o’ this.”

  His rescuer took off his heavy railway-issue overcoat, putting it over McAllister’s shoulders. “We’ll get these dried out on the engine’s boiler. Won’t take long.”

  A fellow passenger poured a generous tot into the cap of his flask. McAllister knocked it back. The heat went all the way down his gullet and lit up his vital organs, melting the ice block that had settled in his innards. The ticket inspector appeared with a large white mug embossed with the royal coat of arms of the train. It contained tea with yet more whisky. His eyes watering, he cupped his hands around the mug. His knees started to shake. The railwayman reached up to the overhead rack. He placed a blanket over McAllister’s legs. … In his hospital bed his knees started to tremble at the memory; now it was all coming back to him. … Stripped off his wet jacket as he was bidden, handed them over to the guard, hands and feet and face hurting as the circulation came back … yes.

  The train labored up the long hard haul, up the Drumochter Pass. McAllister was desperate to find the priest before the train stopped on the high plateau, where the sleeping and dining cars would be attached for the journey south. It took him a good half hour before he could stand and when he did, he realized that what little strength he had was whisky strength. He buttoned the overcoat, set off, checking every carriage, until he reached the first-class section. There, seated in splendid comfort, sat Father Morrison, hands clasped around his belly, feet stretched out, dozing, comfortable as a cat on a hearthside rug.

  He started when the door slid open. A shadow crossed his face as McAllister came in, sat opposite him, and nodded, too tense to talk.

  “Mr. McAllister, what a surprise.” The man recovered quickly. “Are you off south on business too?”

  “I’ll not call you Father, you’ve disgraced that title.”

  “Oh really?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Are you cold? Let me get you a rug,” the priest offered.

  “I want nothing from you!” McAllister sounded petty even to himself.

  “I don’t think that’s so, otherwise, why are you here?”

  Outside, in the pitch-black dark, swirling snow danced in the spill of the carriage lights. McAllister sat silent for a moment longer, taking time to control his anger and disgust. He studied his nemesis. He saw a big man, middle-aged, a pale face and pale skin with fading freckles. The eyes, washed-out blue, were so pale that in certain lights, the sockets could seem empty. The sandy hair, thin on the head, thick on the wrists and hands, made McAllister realize he would never again be able to face a pork-knuckle dinner. The man’s heavy body, and forever to McAllister he would be a man, not a priest, was shaped by years of rugby and boxing but was long past its glory days. The man’s projection of calm innocence, his smile, his air of reassurance, incensed McAllister even more, making it hard for him to control his shakes. The quest for an answer to his brother’s death had been with him for almost a decade and now, with the man he sought sitting opposite, a lassitude descended over him, deep as a bank of sea fog. His ability to think, to reason, to judge, faded. The unexpected air of kindness and concern had cast a spell.

  “Let’s drop the charade. You take an unhealthy interest in young boys.”

  “Not so. I’m a father to them.”

  “It’s much more than a fatherly interest!”

  The priest raised his open palms to protest but McAllister persisted.

  “I believe, no, I know, you have damaged, sometimes beyond repair, the lives and souls of those young children in your care.”

  “That’s a monstrous lie.”

  “Tell me your version, then.”

  “I have no version. Only the truth.”

  He linked his hands together on his lap before starting. He told his history, and as he spoke, it slowly dawned on McAllister that the priest sincerely believed his own truth—that he was helping to save the souls of the young boys in his care.

  “I have devoted my whole life to the care of young people. I’ve run youth camps, sports clubs, cared for orphans and unwanted babies. I have an unblemished record. Check for yourself. If there are those who don’t understand my mission, that’s not my fault.”

  He was starting to get worked up. “And you, an experienced journalist, you would take the word of little boys as gospel, you would take their word against mine?”

  He leant back, wriggling his shoulders, calming himself.

  “Why would they make stories up, these boys?”

  “I had to point out their sins. They don’t know what their dirty filthy habits will lead them to. They don’t have the discipline it takes to be pure. One minute they’re innocent wee souls, next, when their bodies start to change, they become impure, with no control. They ha
ve to learn. Their unfortunate backgrounds and lack of a good Christian upbringing makes them little liars. We cannot always overcome our blood. But some do.”

  He sighed theatrically. “I was a good priest and a good friend to them.” He spoke passionately, explaining, justifying. “I tried to instill discipline, cleanliness, pure hearts and minds and bodies, into their corrupted little lives. I tried to give them a chance to make good.” He paused for a moment and looked out the window into the storm. “There was a time, some years ago, when I erred.” He said this quietly, before turning back to McAllister. “But God is my only judge and I promise you, I do all in my power to look after those in my care.”

  “And the photos?”

  “So Rob McLean did go poking about in my private affairs. Yes, I take pictures of innocent pure boys. I capture the essential good in them before their fall from grace.”

  He really believes all this shite, McAllister realized. “What about wee Jamie?”

  “The boy who drowned? I had nothing to do with his death.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you know nothing about what happened to him?”

  The priest turned his face back to the swirling snow. “Anything that happened to that wee boy was purely an accident.”

  “You killed him.”

  “I did nothing of the sort.” His indignation made him turn red, starting at the nose.

  “And years ago, my brother, Kenneth McAllister?”

  “Well, well. The great John McAllister; it took you long enough to realize I knew Kenneth.” He smirked. “And you the star journalist, you the famous war correspondent too busy going places to bother with your own wee brother.” He was enjoying stirring the guilt. “Aye, he told me all about you. Worshipped you, you the big shot. And look at you now. On a miserable wee publication that doesn’t mean anything to anybody.” He smiled. “Besides, it was all a long time ago.”