by A. D. Scott
DI Dunne beckoned him into the interview room. He too was looking like he wanted to throttle someone. Only the hair on his regimental short-back-and-sides was unmoved, every other part of him hurting from the humiliation. Speaking in his quiet minister-of-the-church-comforting-the-bereaved voice, this time the bereaved being himself, he said, “The person calling himself Stuart cannot be traced.”
A local policeman in a small Highland town would have no influence in Westminster, McAllister knew. “Well, we guessed that was not his real name.” McAllister felt cold and clammy in the small of his back. This is not good. “There must be another way of finding him. Wasn’t he introduced to you by your chief constable?”
“Yes, and he was asked to give Stuart assistance by the chief constable of Sutherland-shire.”
“I bet your boss was also told to put the fear of the Almighty into that meddlesome editor.”
The editor was right, but Dunne only nodded. As he didn’t smoke, he concentrated on the grimy wall with water stains blooming under a window that leaked imperceptibly into the tiny room. “We move to new headquarters soon,” he said, “then all this history will be demolished.”
“The Gazette building too,” McAllister said.
“I’m sure the security forces in London will never be moved out miles from the town center to an industrial estate where the wind can cut a man in half.”
“They deserve to be sent to Siberia. There they would find out what the Cold War is really about.”
“Agreed. But what do we do now?”
McAllister acknowledged the “we.” “Correct me if I’m wrong. First, the Gazette publishes that photograph. Next, the chief constable of Sutherland contacts your boss. Your boss orders you to cooperate with the man. I think you need to remind him of that so—”
“So he can shift the blame to Sutherland.” The inspector felt lighter. “I like that suggestion.” He looked at McAllister and, seeing the smug grin, was about to say, Don’t quote me.
The editor preempted him with hands held up in submission, saying, “Not that I’d ever publish that. But too good not to pass on to Don McLeod.” His deputy and keeper of the town’s secrets would add it to his treasure chest of information, to be used cautiously, with immaculate timing, and to the advantage of the Gazette.
“Do you have contacts in London in, you know, secret circles?” Dunne sounded as though he still read the Eagle.
“No, but I have a friend who might. Can I use this phone?” McAllister didn’t say, but he felt safer using a police phone than the one at the newspaper. Or home. He dialed Sandy. “I need your help.”
“It better be good. I’ve a front page just fallen foul of the legal department and nothing newsworthy to replace the story,” Sandy growled.
“That man I told you about, from the mysterious branch of government, we’re trying to reach him, and it seems he doesn’t exist.”
“Hold on.” McAllister could hear Sandy, although with a hand over the receiver, shouting down some junior reporter, saying, “I want it verified, and I don’t care how. You have precisely thirty minutes.” There were background mumbles. Sandy shouting “Out!” before turning back to his caller and in a totally normal voice saying, “Right, where were we?”
McAllister didn’t bother with the long version—he’d talk to his colleague later—only a request that they track down Stuart.
“You say you have a photo of him?”
“Yes, but hard to identify anyone from the shot.”
“Get it down to me,” Sandy said. “I’ll make some calls and get back to you.”
“I owe you.”
“Make sure there’s a front page in it for me, then we’re square,” he said, and hung up.
Like Don’s treasure chest, on a much larger scale, or Mrs. Mackenzie on a village level, Sandy Marshall’s vault of information was vast, making him one of the most powerful men in Scotland.
Dunne stood. “I need to make calls.”
McAllister understood how tricky the next few hours would be for the policeman. “Aye. And if it looks like the blame will be dumped on you, remind your chief constable, and the sheriff in Sutherland and his chief constable, that you were ordered to help this Stuart character. Also ask why they were so keen to jump to his commands. Remind them that I met him, as did you, and both my deputy and I know everything.”
He knew Dunne would never threaten his superiors. Not even nicely. That was why he would never rise to a higher rank. Good man, no ambition was the verdict on Detective Inspector Dunne.
McAllister went back to the office and sent Hector home to print copies of the photo to mail to the Herald. He then thought over who he knew in London who might help. Unsuccessfully.
Hector returned close to tears. “No, I’ve no idea what happened to it.” Sniff. Sniff. “No, I haven’t lost it. Or misplaced it. I’m meticulous about my work.”
For once, Rob made no joke about Hec using a big word, agreeing with the photographer’s insistence he would never mislay a negative. “What was it filed under?” he asked instead.
“Negatives. Gazette. Date of publication.”
“So if you knew what you were looking for, you could find it?”
“Easy-peasy.”
“Don’t you lock up?” Lorna asked.
“Ma cameras and lenses, they go in a safe. But no the filing cabinets. I lock the outside door wi’ a padlock, but . . .”
“Simple to open if you know what you’re doing,” Rob finished.
“Was that all that was missing?” McAllister asked.
“I think so.”
The reporters’ room was crowded with Calum, Lorna, Rob, Frankie, Don, and McAllister squeezed together, watching Hector behaving as though he were about to pull a rabbit from the hand-crocheted string bag.
“This is all the photos and negatives and film relating to Miss Alice Ramsay.” He dumped the files onto the table. “You have them.” He thrust them towards McAllister. “I’m no having anyone break into my place and mess wi’ ma files.”
Lorna looked bewildered. Calum also.
“Thanks, Hec,” the editor said. “Sorry you were . . . alarmed.”
“Alarmed? I’m no alarmed, I’m fair scunnered.”
“Rightly so.” Rob mock-thumped him on the back. “And no one has the right to upset my friend.”
McAllister took the files into his office.
Don joined him. “A fine mess an’ aa’ that.” He lit up.
For once, McAllister didn’t join him; Joanne had asked him to cut down, meaning stop. He didn’t think it possible but would try. For her. “So what do you think?”
“Until we track down your missing man, there’s not a lot to say.”
“And if we don’t—can’t?”
“It’s because he’s not there to be found. Then it gets very interesting indeed.”
“I hoped we’d had enough of interesting,” McAllister said. But he said it with a Grim Reaper grin.
Which his deputy returned. “Interesting is what makes great front pages.”
Sandy called back late that afternoon. “I’ve spoken to the most senior person I know. He passed me on to some anonymous person in London, who passed me on to a police officer from Special Branch. Apparently someone you know, Superintendent Westland.”
“We’ve met.” McAllister said nothing more. Seconding a senior police officer was a major development, but he would not speculate on the why of it until he and the superintendent had spoken.
“I was warned not to interfere. Ordered not to publish. Or to investigate,” Sandy added.
“You make your own decisions.”
“That’s right—except when the lawyers poke their noses in.”
McAllister could hear the interest in his friend’s voice.
“I love a good spy story,” Sandy said. “A female traitor would be an even better headline.”
“Hold on. Who said anything about Alice Ramsay being a traitor? This is all sheer speculati
on; we know nothing about her except—”
“Just kidding. But she was a key employee in a covert branch of the secret service establishment. She is from one of the premier aristocratic families in Britain. So if it turns out she is also a traitor, who wouldn’t want the story?”
“You’ll be slapped with a D notice.”
Sandy knew as well as McAllister that it was impossible to publish when the crown solicitors issued the order on grounds of national security. “Keep in touch,” Sandy said.
They left it at that.
McAllister was about to leave for home when DI Dunne called.
“Glad I caught you,” the inspector said. “Tomorrow morning, two gentlemen will be here to interview you and Mrs. McAllister.”
As he still thought of Joanne as Joanne Ross, McAllister had a moment of panic. Now my mother is involved?
“Will nine o’clock suit you? They will come straight to my office from the train.”
“Nine is fine. But here in our office.”
“The Gazette is not suitable.”
Instantly, McAllister was mindful that his phone, here and at home, might be tapped. “I am not having Joanne questioned in your wee interview room. If they want to meet us, they can pay for a room in the Station Hotel.” McAllister was adamant. He would not have his wife interviewed in the police station. She’d had enough of police and interviews and being a witness after she was attacked and imprisoned not even six months since.
“I’ll arrange it.” Dunne was also aware that Joanne Ross was fragile. But not as fragile as her husband thinks.
“Good to meet you again, Mr. McAllister.” Superintendent Westland turned to Joanne. “And you, Mrs. McAllister. Congratulations on the marriage.” Westland, in a uniform with many insignias of rank, smiled.
Joanne and McAllister had been involved in helping to resolve a case of child abuse some years back, and the superintendent had been sent to the Highlands to solve the case.
Westland continued, “Good to meet you, DI Dunne,” and shook his colleague’s hand. “I was asked to accompany this gentleman and to vouch for his identity. I will also be reviewing the circumstances surrounding the death of Miss Ramsay.”
“I’m glad,” Joanne said. She did not notice the formal wording; McAllister did.
Circumstances surrounding? Does he mean to look at the FAI? The hasty cremation? Or the death itself?
The large man, muscle not fat, was dressed in the Civil Service uniform of navy-blue suit, with highly polished black shoes on feet that seemed incongruously large and more accustomed to boots. With a briefcase and a bowler hat, he was as clichéd and as out of place as a kilted Highlander in London.
He first introduced himself to Joanne. “Roland Hennessey. My credentials.” He held out an ID card and a letter with an impressive crest and an equally impressive address: the Ministry of Defense.
McAllister gestured to Westland. “I hope someone checked his ID.” Hennessey ignored him, but both policemen smiled.
Mr. Hennessey asked, “Do you prefer I address you as Joanne Ross or Mrs. McAllister?”
“Mrs. McAllister.” She wanted the protection of her status.
Turning to McAllister, he said, “Honored to meet you. I’ve been reading some of your Spanish Civil War reporting. Most enlightening.”
McAllister knew he was saying I’ve read your file, but he was flattered nonetheless. He also knew, from the suit, that Mr. Hennessey might now be an office man, but from his hands and handshake and eyes that flicked to take in everything and everyone, even the hotel’s tartan carpet, he was much more than that.
“First, we need to get the police work out of the way,” Westland said.
The police work was almost an hour of intense questioning from both visitors, the witnesses being all three locals.
“Establishing the identity of Stuart . . .” Hennessey was saying.
“And his driver . . .” Superintendent Westland added.
“. . . is of paramount importance.”
“So are you saying Stuart isn’t with your lot?” McAllister needed to ask directly, needed to know if he—they—had been fooled.
“I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t, Mr. Hennessey? Or won’t?”
Westland was sitting opposite McAllister. He leaned back slightly in his chair, observing the exchange and enjoying it.
“Mr. Stuart was employed by a department of a service that does not exist in any public record.” Hennessey spoke quietly, his words well chosen. He knew McAllister knew how to interpret “was” and “in any public record.” It still didn’t clear up what Alice Ramsay’s role was. But McAllister knew how to wait.
They took a break. The superintendent and DI Dunne disappeared. McAllister guessed they were conferring from a Scottish-policeman point of view. He hoped so, as the secretive Secret Service perspective was stifling. And annoying.
They returned five minutes later with a waitress pushing a trolley with tea, coffee, and scones. Hennessey was delighted. “I’m addicted to good scones,” he said as he helped himself to one.
“Spent time in Scotland, then?” McAllister asked. Hennessey gave the look of a small boy caught out in the pantry. “Your pronunciation of ‘scones,’ ” the newspaperman explained.
“Got me. Yes, I trained with one of your rugged regiments in equally rugged country.”
“You’ll know the Highlands, then,” McAllister said, guessing it was with the Lovat Scouts but receiving no confirmation.
Another intense hour of questioning relating to the break-ins, including the disappearance of Hec’s negatives, followed. Then a sandwich lunch. In early afternoon, the questioning turned to Miss Alice Ramsay and her artworks.
Joanne was exhausted. She was almost teary when the subject of the paintings came up. “They still haven’t returned one of my paintings. One I really liked.”
There it is again, McAllister thought, the mysterious “they.” He was becoming annoyed with Hennessey and the never-ending questions.
“Do you have any other artworks by Miss Ramsay?” Hennessey asked.
“Yes,” Joanne answered. “The pages we told you about come from the manuscript and the loose papers we found in Alice’s writing box. There are also two small drawings that might be by Leonardo da Vinci.”
McAllister said nothing. This was his wife’s decision. And he respected that.
“Hector Bain sent the drawings to an art expert in Edinburgh. We are waiting to hear if they are genuine.”
“Do you believe they are?”
“I don’t know.” To her, the drawings, genuine or otherwise, meant a great deal. The image of a bird wing, pulled open to illustrate how every bone, every feather of such an insubstantial yet sublime creature—a skylark, she fancied—was miraculous. She felt humbled by the craftsmanship of a true artist and inspired by the illustration of the miracle of flight.
“We will need to check the manuscript and drawings but only to see if there is anything hidden. After that . . .” Mr. Hennessey shrugged.
“I need to leave,” Joanne said quietly. “The children will be home soon.”
“When would it be convenient to study the manuscript?” Hennessey asked.
“Will you take it away?”
“I can examine it in your presence.”
“Come to our house tomorrow morning. We can go through it together. That is, if you’re staying?”
“Thank you, Mrs. McAllister.”
McAllister drove her home. Both knew that Hennessey needed no permission to take the manuscript. Both appreciated his asking.
After the McAllisters had left, DI Dunne with them, Superintendent Westland remarked to the man he’d only met last night on the train. “Good people. Intelligent too.”
“More than can be said for our lot,” Hennessey replied.
Westland thought well of his companion for admitting it.
The following days were intense, with bad weather, hours of questions, and Joanne h
aving to recount, again and again, the same events. At first, it was interesting, then boring, then confusing. She wanted to say, loudly and frequently, We’ve already been over that, twice at least, but instead, decided to enjoy the sessions.
Using her author’s eye, she would try to recall the small details of everything and everyone connected to Alice.
Hennessey was accompanied this time by Detective Constable Ann McPherson, whom Joanne knew.
“I’m here because my shorthand is the best in the station,” McPherson explained.
“It’s the small unremembered details that might be important,” Hennessey explained before the questions started.
Over many cups of tea and a batch of scones Joanne had taken out of the oven just as the doorbell announced her visitors, she was impressed by his patience, his ability to keep to the point, and his ability to eat a plate of scones and still have room for seconds of the shepherd’s pie she’d made for the family dinner but served to the unexpected lunch guests.
“Are these numbers connected to the spy scandal?” Joanne eventually asked.
“I can’t say,” Hennessey replied.
She tried again. “And are the drawings in the style of Leonardo da Vinci genuine?”
“That I don’t know, but I promise to find out.”
Joanne stated her version: “A talented artist, retires from her job as . . .” She paused, not wanting to know exactly what Alice did, as it all sounded too fantastical. “A government employee. She has a family connection to this part of Scotland. So she settles in Sutherland, using her birth name, renovates the home she inherited, and works on her paintings in peace and quiet. She ends up in court, accused of deliberately causing a miscarriage, which leads to accusations of witchcraft.”
The snort from Hennessey was loud.
And appropriate, Joanne thought. “The trial is reported in the local press,” she continued. “I read it. Then I drive up to meet her and . . .” Here she stopped. Remembering. I wanted to meet her because I wanted to meet a real live witch living near the town where the last witch in Scotland was put in a barrel of boiling tar and burnt alive.
