Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She hesitated for a moment and stood back from the door, opening it just wide enough to admit her visitor.

  At the end of the hallway, Daley could see the lounge door ajar, so headed automatically towards it.

  ‘Not in there. Here,’ she snapped, directing him into the kitchen. ‘I need a coffee.’

  He stood awkwardly as she boiled the kettle and deliberately filled only one mug.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I couldn’t leave things the way they were,’ said Daley, shuffling from foot to foot like an errant schoolboy in front of the headmaster. ‘I had to speak to you face to face. Do you understand?’

  ‘For what reason? So that you can explain to me why you took advantage of a young woman who was in your charge? So that you can tell me why you made her life a misery, running back and forward to your tart of a wife while she pined for you? Wasting her life, what there was left of it. So you can feel better about yourself?’ She paused. ‘Mary should have been having the time of her life with a young man of her own age, instead of mooning after a fat, selfish, washed-up excuse for a human being like you.’

  ‘That’s not how it was.’

  ‘Oh, really, just how was it, then?’

  ‘I loved her.’

  ‘You used her. She was young and pretty, and you used her. Don’t give me your midlife crisis shit. I had a husband just like you. Instead of being a father to his daughter, he spent his time chasing girls not much older than her. It’s pathetic!’

  ‘I just had to come and say I was sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? To hell with your “sorry”. She meant the world to me. She was my life, you bastard!’ She slammed the coffee mug onto the kitchen table, slopping the contents over her hand.

  ‘It was an accident, Gillian. You can’t blame me for that.’

  ‘An accident? The way I understand it, she’d just left her boyfriend’s after telling him their relationship was over. The roads were treacherous, she’d been working all night, yet she decided to pick that moment to finish it with a clever young man who would have made her happy. I wonder why that was?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let her go, I know that. But she wanted to be honest with him . . .’

  ‘What do you know about honesty?’ Gillian Dunn slumped onto a chair and held her head in her hands. ‘We had no secrets, you know. She told me everything . . . everything about you.’

  ‘Well, you’ll know that we’d decided to make a go of it.’

  ‘You bastard! Do you know how you sound? Like a little boy – a stupid little boy. If she’d gone home and stayed there that morning, she’d still be alive. Instead, to please you, she took her car out in the ice and snow to tell poor Angus that it was over. You don’t have to be a fucking detective to work out how things worked out.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks.’ Daley walked towards the woman and tried to touch her shoulder, to do something – anything – to ease the situation.

  ‘Get your hands off me, you creep. In fact, get out. Get out before I call your colleagues and have you flung out.’ Daley was momentarily rooted to the spot. ‘Get the fuck out of my house!’ she yelled, flinging the coffee mug at him.

  3

  Detective Sergeant Brian Scott was sitting in Daley’s glass box in Kinloch Police Office, trying desperately to complete yet another new Police Scotland form. He cursed as the screen jumped again without letting him type in the box he wanted to.

  His boss, and best friend, had taken a short leave of absence, and it was Scott’s job to hold the fort. In the main, the policing of Kinloch was easy. Most of those intent on dealing serious drugs in the community had been rounded up by Daley and his detectives, so now the main staples of a police officer’s life occupied the CID team: road traffic accidents, breaches of the peace, assaults, petty theft, domestic abuse and drunkenness. Meat and drink to someone of Scott’s experience.

  However, anything to do with IT did not fall into that category.

  He swore again as the machine in front of him refused to obey his commands. He was about to try again when his phone burst into life.

  ‘DS Scott. If you want tae speak aboot computers, away tae PC World.’

  ‘No, Brian, not computers,’ said Sergeant Shaw from the front desk. ‘I’ve just had the special constable from Gairsay on the phone. Seems as though a whole family have just disappeared.’

  ‘Where the hell is Gairsay again?’

  ‘It’s that wee island just off the coast as you’re driving down the main road to the town, you know, the one with the wind turbines. Half an hour on the ferry. I think we should get someone over there.’

  ‘Aye, right away. I’m your man – never as happy as when I’ve got tae get on a boat. Come through and gie me the gen on this.’

  Two hours later, Scott and a youthful detective constable, Ian Potts, were boarding the ferry to Gairsay. Scott sighed as he looked at the darkening sky. ‘Oh great, we’re just about tae get a storm. I hope this bucket is seaworthy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry if I was you, Sergeant,’ Potts replied. ‘I don’t think the ferry to Gairsay has ever sunk.’

  ‘No time like the present. Here, make yourself useful and away and get the tickets.’ Scott handed the DC a credit card. ‘And mind and get a receipt.’

  As he watched the young officer thread his way through the cars parked nose to tail on the small ferry, he rubbed his chin. He was worried about Daley. He hadn’t heard from him for almost a week, and the big man was seriously depressed – as down as Scott had ever seen him. He’d phoned his mobile a handful of times, but there’d been no reply. Desperate to hear anything about his friend, he’d even resorted to contacting Liz, though he wished he hadn’t. Her ex-husband had failed to pick up his son, James junior, as arranged, and she didn’t care if she never saw him again. Before Scott could ask her if she’d any idea where his DCI was, the phone had gone dead.

  Scott had hoped that the couple would get back together somehow. He’d watched them bicker for more years than he cared to remember but still manage to keep the spark of their relationship alive. Daley’s admission that he’d loved his young colleague Mary Dunn had probably made any kind of reconciliation impossible.

  Scott had been called to the scene when Mary’s car was discovered. She had skidded on ice, ploughed through a wall, then hit a tree. Despite the trauma of the accident, save a trickle of blood from her nose, there hadn’t been a mark on her. Her pale blue eyes had stared blankly into space in exactly the same way so many dead people he’d come across in the course of his career had done.

  It had been his job to tell Daley. After that, things had changed. The big detective became sullen and withdrawn. He did his job – functioned, more or less – but any sign of the man he knew had all but disappeared.

  Disappearing was becoming a habit, he thought to himself, trying to concentrate on the new job in hand. Yet another riddle to be solved. He sincerely hoped the outcome would be an easily reached, happy one.

  ‘Here, Sergeant.’ Scott jumped when the car door opened and Potts handed him the credit card. ‘Were you having a wee doss?’

  ‘Naw, son. I was just wondering why you were taking so long.’

  ‘See that guy there?’ said Potts, pointing at a tall man with tanned skin and a military-style haircut who was making his way along the car deck.

  ‘Aye, what about him?’

  ‘Reckon he’s a cop? I was standing behind him in the queue for tickets. Looks like one.’

  Scott had to agree; with the straight back and the shaven head, the man could well be a policeman. ‘Too old, though. If he was in the job, he’s well retired now.’

  ‘What age do you think he is?’

  ‘Mid sixties, easily,’ Scott replied. ‘You’ll need tae get better at recognising ages if you’re going tae make progress in this line of work, son.’

  ‘I’m okay with folk my own age. Can�
��t get the older ones, though. I mean, that guy would be ages with you, right?’

  ‘My arse, ages wae me! Dae you think I’ll still be ploughing this furrow when I’m sixty-five?’

  ‘What else will you do?’

  Scott had to think for a minute. What would he do? He’d been almost three months off the drink, and had discovered to his dismay that it was his only hobby. In a desperate attempt to fill the time he’d normally have spent standing at a bar or in an alcoholic stupor, he’d decided to get fit. He’d been to the gym a few times – even been out for a run or two – but still couldn’t understand what people got out of it. His reward had been a twisted ankle and aching knees – where was the joy in that?

  ‘I’ll be sitting on a beach somewhere hot, wae a long drink, son,’ he replied.

  ‘A long drink of what, Fanta?’

  ‘I’ll gie you Fanta, you bugger.’ Despite himself, Scott smiled. He was well aware that his recent conversion to sobriety had prompted much speculation amongst his fellow officers, not to mention a sweepstake just when he’d fall off the wagon. He was determined to prove everyone wrong. In any case, he never again wanted to feel the way he had done in the months leading up to signing the pledge. He shuddered at the thought. A drink-free existence may be boring, leaving time heavy on his hands, but at least he didn’t wake up every morning feeling sick, with a thudding head and a feeling of impending doom. Not to mention the things he’d imagined he’d seen.

  His phone rang. Daley’s name was flashing on the screen. ‘Jimmy, how are you, pal?’ The reply was indistinct, though he thought he caught the word ‘shit’. ‘You’re breaking up, big man. Listen, I’m on a boat heading for Gairsay . . . Hello?’ The fragmented tones of Daley’s voice were replaced by a long whine. ‘See these bloody things,’ he said, clicking off the call. ‘Bugger all use.’ He began redialling the number, squinting at the screen without his reading glasses.

  ‘You’ll not get a signal now.’

  For the first time, Scott felt the pitch and roll of the vessel. Even though he couldn’t see the sea, he knew he was on it. ‘Dae they work on this Gairsay?’

  ‘Yeah. I was over there a few weeks ago after that man had a heart attack on the golf course, remember? I got a signal no bother.’

  ‘Aye, okay. I’ll leave it till we get there, then.’

  Daley dialled again. The mobile number you have called is temporarily unavailable. Please try again later. He threw the phone onto the passenger seat of the car and leaned his head back on the rest.

  He shook his head at the reaction he’d had from Mary’s mother; the look of pure hatred in her eyes. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to pay her a visit in the first place. He cursed his life.

  Everything was hopeless.

  He looked at the narrow road snaking up the steep hill ahead of him. The mountains towering above him were dark and menacing – no sign of the sun, just grey, grey, grey, turning to black. It seemed as though nothing would be bright again.

  Cars swished past in the rain, their red rear lights bright in the gloom, getting smaller as they made the climb up the hill, until they were mere pinpricks showing faintly above the Amco barrier, the only thing between them and the sheer drop on the other side.

  He’d felt it before, this pull to oblivion. The little voice that whispered in the high places: Do it, just do it, go over the edge. He’d never liked heights. The dreams that had terrified him most since he was a child were those in which he was falling. Had they just been dreams, or were they the ghosts of times past, or visions of what was to come? Voices from another universe only a sliver away, where instead of being tucked up in bed, he fell through the air, only for everything to stop. He wondered if Mary had ever had those dreams.

  He gunned the engine, pulled out of the layby and sped up the steep hill. Knuckles white, gripping the steering wheel, he peered into the gloom ahead.

  The first few hundred yards were flanked by thick pine trees. A river frothed in spate, coursing its way down the hillside, bolstered by melting snow from the places high above. The car’s engine strained as he chose a lower gear.

  He was getting higher now. In the distance he could see a line of traffic crawling at snail’s pace behind a large HGV. This road – the pass – was known as the ‘Rest and Be Thankful’. Though he’d driven it often since his posting to Kinloch, this was the first time the name had made sense.

  Far, far below now, he could see a tiny white cottage nestling at the bottom of the valley. A burn, a ribbon of silver water that had probably carved out its path over millennia, snaked along the valley floor in a lazy ‘S’ shape. The barrier to his left looked insubstantial; any car driven at it would be sure to break through and somersault down the sheer hillside. Impossible to survive, he reasoned.

  He thought of Mary and tugged the wheel sharply to the left.

  Scott felt the ferry judder as the ramp lowered onto the slipway at Gairsay. It had been a short crossing, lasting less than half an hour, but half an hour was more than enough to spend at sea, as far as he was concerned.

  Soon, a low hill adorned with three tall wind turbines came into view, and the vessel juddered as the ramp lowered onto the slipway. A man in a high-vis jacket waved the cars off the ferry, saluting each driver with a broad grin.

  ‘They’re a happy lot o’er here, eh?’ remarked Scott as the car bumped off the ferry.

  ‘Aye, great wee place in the summer,’ replied Potts. ‘I’ve been over a few times with my girlfriend. Gardens, white sand, a nice wee hotel – relaxing, you know.’

  ‘You missed your vocation, son. You should’ve got a job wae the tourist board. Here, pull over while I try tae get a hold of Jimmy.’ Scott retrieved the mobile from his jacket pocket and was pleased to see that he now had a strong signal. He scrolled down to Daley’s name and pressed it. The phone rang out.

  The mobile number you have called is temporarily unavailable. Please try again later.

  ‘You’re like ships in the night, gaffer,’ said Potts.

  ‘Is that all you think aboot doon here? Boats? Right, let’s find this farmhouse and this McAuley bloke. Special constable, yeah?’

  ‘Aye, amongst other things.’

  ‘What other things?’

  ‘Och, you’ll see.’

  4

  Daley wound down the window and gulped mouthfuls of fresh air. In two hours or so, he’d be back in Kinloch. Once again he’d have to wander the corridors of the police office, where all he could do was hear her, see her and smell her. He saw her shy smile, her smoothing out of imaginary creases in her skirt, her cornflower-blue eyes. He hadn’t had the courage to do what he’d wanted to do – to turn the steering wheel and plummet into oblivion. He knew that he never would. He was marooned in this existence – this limbo – until he died by other means.

  Thoughts of his son brought hot tears to his eyes. Would he too be plagued by the melancholy that so tormented his father?

  Reluctantly, he started the car and pointed it in the direction of Kinloch.

  ‘That’ll be three sixty, Tommy,’ said the shopkeeper. He held out his right hand for the money, while with his left he pressed buttons on the ancient till. ‘You have a good day, now, and we’ll see you tomorrow.’ The customer shuffled past the men in suits who had been standing behind him. ‘No need to ask who you are, gentlemen,’ observed the shopkeeper, carefully rearranging a few strands of hair over his balding head.

  ‘I’m DS Scott and this is DC Potts, Mr McAuley.’

  ‘Please, Sergeant, Constable McAuley, if you don’t mind. You’re now talking to me in my official capacity as a special.’

  ‘A man o’ many jobs, I see.’

  ‘Och, just the ones nobody else wants to do. I run the shop and the post office here, which of course makes me the island’s postman. I’m retained by the police and the fire brigade, too.’

  ‘Busy man.’

  ‘And the water board. Oh, and the Met Office as well. You’ll quite
often hear my reports if you listen to the shipping forecast on the radio. A vital function for those at sea.’

  ‘Aye, well, I know all aboot that,’ said Scott. ‘We’ll need you tae take us tae this farm, if you would. You can fill us in on the way there. We’ll take oor car. Are you ready?’

  ‘I’ll just be a few moments. I’ll have to get the wife to come and man the shop.’ With that, he disappeared through a door at the back of the shop, calling for his wife.

  ‘What does everyone else dae for a job here? Your man seems tae have everything sewn up.’

  ‘Mainly fishing and farming,’ replied Potts. ‘Though there’s a fish farm at the south end of the island that employs half a dozen or so. Then there’s the hotel, and the gardens. Great place for a wander in the summer.’

  ‘Righto, Alan Whicker. Save it for the tourists.’

  ‘Who’s Alan Whicker?’

  ‘Dae they no’ have tellies where you come fae, son?’

  ‘Aye, but maybe not the black-and-white ones you’re used to, gaffer.’

  Before Scott could reply, a thin-faced diminutive woman appeared behind the counter. Her short bobbed hair was steel-grey and she bore a strained expression. ‘Himself will be with you directly,’ she said in a sing-song Highland accent. ‘He’s just getting his stab-proof vest on.’

  ‘His what?’ asked Scott.

  ‘When he’s on duty he never goes anywhere without it on. Dreadful things happen to policemen these days. Besides, it’s Force Standing Orders.’

  ‘You’ll likely know mair aboot Force Standing Orders than me,’ muttered Scott, watching the woman open the till and count what looked like meagre morning takings.

  ‘Right, Sergeant.’ Malcolm McAuley appeared from behind the door, in full uniform, complete with the aforementioned stab-proof vest and a fluorescent jacket, with police emblazoned across it in a blue-and-white flash. ‘I’m good to go. I’ll be back when I’m back, Jean. You know what the job’s like,’ he continued, as though he was a dyed-in-the-wool beat cop from Glasgow.