by A. D. Scott
Slow and steady, they continued on the road they had been on since Arbroath. The logistics of the trip were complicated. Many of the towns they had passed through were a chance for a reunion with friends and family. There were new babies to admire, new chip shops to inspect, many stories to share. Diversions and digressions due to weather, and sometimes wine, meant the journey lasted over a week for the Ayrshire and Clydeside contingent. No one minded. Edinburgh, Alloa, Dundee, Arbroath, Aberdeen, Forres, Elgin, or was it the other way round, Elgin and Forres, then Nairn; many had lost count of the stops on the road to the wedding.
Rob flitted back and forth carrying messages, checking on the progress of some of the older vehicles, reporting back to the commander that all was well. He tried his best to outdo the children pulling faces at him every time he passed. And somehow he always managed to end up next to the car carrying Bianca. He hoped she was impressed. She was.
Before the last level crossing on the edge of the town, Rob signaled the convoy to a standstill.
“Now; at the town, we go straight through Eastgate, down the High Street, across the river, left at Gino’s café and park along the riverbanks. Remember, straight all the way till we’re across the river.”
“Lead on,” commanded the commander.
Entering the town proper, the lead vehicle turned on its chimes, the others following suit. “O Sole Mio” rang out from at least six ice-cream vans. Others played different Italian tunes or opera arias, and one played “Jingle Bells.” The chip vans had their own tunes or two-tone klaxons. One played “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” over and over. The cars and coach joined in, honking the length of the High Street and across the bridge. Rob, proudly leading the procession, slowed at the sight of Inspector Tompson standing on the Town House steps.
He gave the policeman a big wave. It was not returned.
DCI Westland had to share an office with Inspector Tompson. Not an ideal arrangement, he had quickly discovered, but the room the detectives worked from was even worse. Tiny nineteenth-century spaces set off a narrow spiral stone staircase; it was handy for the courts in the castle and the procurator fiscal’s office, but not much else. As well as having to cope with the physical limits of the space, he was forced to put up with the limits of Tompson’s policing methods. The inspector decided who was guilty, then set out to prove it. His prejudices were manifold. He was incapable of listening. He bore grudges. Detective Chief Inspector Westland was reminded again of the loss of the brightest and best in the war only a decade past. He made a decision. He would talk again with McAllister. The typed report was succinct and clear, but what was between the lines was what Westland needed to hear. It went against the grain to share police business with a layman, but the editor had impressed the policeman. His obsession with the priest was not helpful but understandable. Maybe … he thought, maybe I should make my own inquiries about Morrison. Tompson found nothing. But had he looked hard enough? The church had not been forthcoming, Tompson had said, but maybe …
What I need is a private phone, Westland decided.
The photographs of the boys, the innocent pictures that Morrison was so keen on hiding, sat on his desk emanating disquiet. The sound of his own boys—chattering, laughing, arguing—was the background noise whenever he looked at the wee faces peering up at the camera. Faces, each and every one different but somehow the same. In shades of sepia or gray, there they were, anonymous boys that only they or their families would recognize. He handled the photos with care, giving each one the respect he would show to his own family snapshots, before putting them into the envelope, then into the evidence locker. Tompson had objected even to that. But at least, thought Westland, I had the sense not to ask him to include the envelope in the file on the boy’s murder. That would have Tompson running straight to the chief constable.
Evidence of what, the inspector had demanded when asked to make a file on Morrison’s portraits. They are pictures of boys in their boxing rig-outs. What’s wrong with that? The images of boys in the bath were equally dismissed. After all, he had said, everyone baths together after any game of sport. Miners bath together after a shift, men bath together after a game of football, what was he, Westland, on about, Inspector Tompson had asked in fury.
“I’ll have you know”—and at this he had poked a finger toward his superior officer’s chest—“Father Morrison is a man beyond reproach. He’s a priest for goodness’ sake! We, his parishioners, know him as an admirable dedicated person who gives so much to the unfortunates he helps. Anyone who says different is a Protestant or an Orangeman or a Jew, someone with a grudge against the Catholic Church.”
The trouble is, Westland thought, Tompson is right. And even worse, Westland thought for the umpteenth time, we are no nearer finding out who interfered with and killed the boy. The Polish man couldn’t have done it—he believed the tinkers’ story. That was another matter. Tompson was livid; he was still convinced of the Polish man’s guilt. Who could believe a stranger, who would ever take a tinker’s word on anything, he had ranted. What about his coat being found on the canal towpath? Westland admitted he had no explanation for that. I have a good mind to take this higher, Tompson had threatened.
The procurator fiscal was just as unhelpful; no evidence against the man, he has a strong alibi, he had said—and that had set Tompson off again. A heart attack waiting to happen, had been McAllister’s observation on the inspector.
McAllister’s obsession, the past, was a place Westland decided he would revisit, going over ground the inspector had already covered. He vaguely recalled that a colleague in Aberdeen had been in Glasgow about that time. May as well inquire, he thought, I have to try something. Perhaps the answer, or at least a pointer, is in the past.
The only bright part of the day, the chief inspector recalled, was the sight of the inspector’s face when asked about the Italians arriving in town for the wedding. That thought sustained DCI Westland as he made his way down Bridge Street back to his icy billet at the boardinghouse to collect a stack of pennies in order to make a long-distance phone call from a freezing public phone box on one of the coldest days of the year.
“Can I do a piece on the convoy for next week?” Rob inquired next morning.
“Ask Don.” McAllister didn’t look up as Rob poked his nose around the door.
This Friday was even quieter than usual. McAllister sat in his office, infecting others with the palpable feeling of defeat that shrouded him. Everyone tiptoed around him, putting his somber presence down to his injuries. But they all knew it was not that. The ghosts of guilt that had hovered over the editor for many a year were taunting him. The monster is free, McAllister kept telling himself, free to continue preying on other wee souls, protected by the cloth and a church that would always give him shelter and a society that refused to countenance any wrongdoings from a member of the clergy or even acknowledge that such things happened, it was dismissed, wasn’t talked about, boys disbelieved if they ever found the courage to mention the unmentionable.
“It’s only pictures.”
McAllister acknowledged that; it was only pictures. Any connection with his brother and Jamie was a connection of waters, a river, a canal, nothing more.
The frustration that Angus McLean felt with the lack of progress was less than that felt by McAllister; to him, his involvement came about because of his client, Karl Cieszynski, and his friendship with Peter Kowalski. Nevertheless, curiosity and a need for justice aroused him to action. He dialed the long-distance operator for a connection.
“We are both well, thank you. … Yes, I know. We are so cut off here that a trip to Edinburgh could well be a trip to the Continent.” Angus laughed at his former colleague’s teasing. “Yes, I do seem to recall a train that runs south.” He listened. “You received my message about the man’s full identity? Right. That was good of you. And what did you discover?” He started taking notes. “Hmmm, I suppose we Presbyterians are equally secretive. No point in dirty laundry in
public and suchlike.” He scribbled some more. “Fine. Thank you. I will pass that on. No, no. It may not mean much, but then again, it is something the police should know.”
After many thank-yous and yes-we-will-try-to-make-it-south-when-the-weather-is-better, he hung up the phone and stared out of the casement windows, not seeing the distant Wyvis, a mountain in name, but really only a horizon to the townspeople.
He had to at least consider the unthinkable.
Duncan Macdonald had placed the phone calls some time before, soon after the searing shrieks from his niece at the Halloween party. There had been no response, so he was surprised when the letter arrived.
After the usual preliminaries, the writer came to the point.
I do not personally know the person you mentioned, but I did find a colleague who knew him when they were young. They were both involved in sport. What he does recall is that the priest you enquired about played for a very able, if somewhat fiercesome, team representing his seminary. He was also able to tell me that the priest was a former resident of an Institution for Foundlings and Orphans that has a somewhat questionable reputation for the harshness of their regime. Other than that, I could find no information.
I am sure this is irrelevant but I thought you might like to know, as it gives an idea of how much adversity this man has had to overcome and how far he has risen since his unfortunate beginnings. By all accounts he is a well-liked and well-respected person with a reputation for being a conscientious and caring priest.
The Reverend Macdonald put down the letter and sighed. Poor fellow, he thought, some of those homes for the wayward, as they were often referred to, they made a prisoner of war camp look easy.
Jimmy McPhee had yet to make up his mind. He thought of calling McAllister, many times, but the phone was not a usual form of communication for him. He thought of visiting, but visiting a person in a house was not his way either. A pub was too public; the Gazette office was not an option he even considered. No, he would let it go, and if he happened to bump into him, then maybe they would tell him. Then again, probably not. But he would have liked to look at that photo again. He would have liked to look at the faces, count the survivors.
Joanne too was distracted. She couldn’t keep avoiding Bill. Tonight, now that all the bridesmaids were gathered, there was a final rehearsal for the wedding. But after that, she would have to return home. As for going to the wedding reception without him, that was unthinkable. Everyone would notice, comment. The excuse of his being out west would not work; this was the wedding of the year. The thoughts churned up her stomach and she began to fear a quick dash out of the church in the middle of the bridal procession. But most of all, a crushing envy of Chiara shamed her. A grand white wedding, that she had never coveted, but a marriage to a good man who would love and cherish her, that she was deeply jealous of. You are not the heroine of a story in People’s Friend magazine, she reminded herself; no happy ending for you.
She continued pottering around the office, tidying up, filing, doing the jobs that the men never noticed needing doing before another edition, another deadline came around.
Don, as usual on a Friday, was up and down the stairs, in and out of the office, clutching betting sheets instead of copy paper. He had nothing to say and less to worry over except for the usual quandaries, all to do with horses.
Rob knew better than to ask why Joanne had stayed at their house last night. But he was confident that whatever needed to be fixed, his mother would see to it. He finished his notes on the convoy, dumped them on McAllister’s desk without a word, and left. With no luck after driving past two cafés and one chip shop hoping to find Bianca, Rob caught a whiff of acrid smoke from the foundry chimney and remembered. He headed home.
His mother was out, his father at work, the street deserted. He went to the end of their garden, pushed his way through the gap in the shrubbery and went round the back of the Big House to test his theory. Yes, the coal hole was unlocked. He kicked open the low door. He checked around to see if anyone had heard but not even the birds noticed. He found a piece of sack to sit on and slid down the filthy chute, emerging in the cellar. Three steps up and he was in the kitchen scullery. Here the smell was of damp, paraffin and burnt wool. He listened—only a passing car and the sounds of an empty house. He opened the door to the kitchen—nothing, no one. He sniffed. The smell of burning wool was mixed with the scent of paraffin. He opened the door of the Raeburn and, using the poker, he lifted out pieces of blackened cloth. It was wool all right, thick and heavy, not a blanket, a coat maybe. Rob started to put the bits back into the stove but some instinct, which he would later wonder about, made him wrap some of the remnants into an old copy of the Gazette lying in a box along with the kindling. A blackened button fell out and that he put in his pocket.
Might as well look around while I’m here, he told himself, and made for the stairs.
The sound of someone unlocking the front door made Rob freeze. The shadow of the person showed clearly through the stained-glass panels. Rob ran to the kitchen door. The key had been left in the lock. He shut the door behind him as quietly as he could and, bending double, the makeshift parcel clutched to his chest, he scuttled along the border of shrubs back to his own kitchen, where he stood waiting for his heart to stop racing, before laughing at his panic.
“Big bairn.”
He made tea, then sat at the kitchen table staring out, seeing nothing. It took a good few minutes for his heartbeat to return to normal. Then he began to wonder why there had been no sound of a car in the next-door driveway. He checked. No car was parked in the street. So, who had a key? He had assumed it was the police checking again. But they would have driven in and the noise on the gravel would have been unmistakable. Maybe he should give Ann McPherson a call. The shrill of the phone made him jump. He mocked himself again—guilty conscience!
“McLean residence.” He went pink with pleasure. “Gino gave you my number? No, no problem. One o’clock at the café. Great. See you, Bianca.”
He looked at the clock—half past twelve; time he was gone. Then he noticed the coal dust footprints on the carpet. In the hall mirror he saw the halo of coal dust in his hair. He saw the black fingerprints on the phone, on the table, on the door and, he knew without looking, it would be a disaster zone in the kitchen. As he told Joanne a few days later, when he heard his mother unlock the front door, he didn’t know which sound of which key in which door had scared him the most.
TWENTY-TWO
The first miracle of the wedding day was that it was fine; sunshine, blue skies and a crisp clean cold with so much oxygen in the air, a deep breath brought on a rush of exhilarating energy. Annie and Joanne were to dress and have their hair styled at the Corelli household, so after dropping Wee Jean off at her grandparents’, the two of them walked the short distance to prepare for the ceremony. Or rather Joanne walked, Annie ran ahead jumping on the spot at every corner, impatient for her mother to catch up. Granny Ross had refused the invitation to the wedding; she wouldn’t set foot in “yon heathen church,” so Grandad was bringing Jean to the service.
Joanne rang the bell, and the door opened to a hallway seething with half-dressed girls and boys running in and out of rooms, up and down the stairs, ignoring the yells in Italian from adults, themselves half-dressed, some women with their curlers still in, some of the men, their cummerbunds flapping, all jostling for a place at the hall mirror.
Annie spied one solemn pageboy standing in the bay window. Embarrassed by his velvet breeks and white stockings, praying no one from his school would ever see pictures of him in such sissy clothes, he was trying to distance himself from the mayhem. Annie decided he would be her ally for the day. No giggling girls for her. She stood beside him. In that mysterious way of children, with nothing said, he took one half look and an instant bond was formed.
“Stop running. Line up.” Even the adults jumped to it; in any language, Aunty Lita was not to be ignored. She sent them to their various assig
ned tasks and eventually, all were dressed, all stood in a line down the steps and out into the street. She solemnly walked along the line, basket in hand, handing out corsages for the ladies, buttonholes for the men. That done, she called up the stairs for the bride and her attendants. Chiara floated down, her face pale, her knees shaking. Gino, waiting on the doorstep, offered his arm and with the bridesmaids and matron of honor holding up the heavy train, the procession walked along the riverbank and into the chapel.
Curious onlookers and excited children stood outside for a glimpse of one of the biggest weddings the town had seen. The children knew Uncle Gino from his ice-cream van, knew he would be generous with the pennies, maybe even a sixpence or two, after the service.
At the church entrance an usher handed the other guests a buttonhole of a single rose or a corsage of cream roses and lily of the valley. Grandad pinned one on Jean’s coat. The little girl was thrilled. They sat toward the back on an aisle seat. The church was packed.
Peter had arrived a good twenty minutes earlier with his best man, Karl. This had caused a raised eyebrow or two, but Peter and Chiara were certain. He was the best best man Peter could wish for. Both stood proud and solemn, both with a military bearing, picture perfect; no one would have been surprised if they had worn swords at their sides. The organ music filled the church; the murmur of conversation, like waves on a pebble beach, rose and fell in greeting at each new addition to the congregation. The murmurs rose to a crescendo as Chiara, in her wedding plumage, came gliding down the aisle on her father’s arm. Gino had looked so comic in a morning suit and top hat that Chiara diplomatically asked that he wear his Italian wedding outfit, “just like at home.” Gino had tried to look solemn, but solemn did not come naturally to him. He beamed to left and to right. His white stockings and black pumps danced him down the aisle.
