‘Aye, nae bother, ma’am.’
She heard Scott padding off back down the corridor. In the bathroom she splashed her face with water and dabbed it with a fluffy hand towel. She began to apply her make-up with shaking hands.
‘Pull yourself together,’ she said under her breath, as a solitary tear slid down her cheek.
Iolo Harris stood in the bedroom, looking at the opened drawer with a puzzled look on his face. A half-used sheet of first-class stamps was lying on top of a selection of envelopes of various sizes.
He bounded down two flights of stairs, his feet thudding on the thick carpeting.
Lucinda Gissing was stretched out on an expansive sofa. At first, Harris thought she was fast asleep, but she opened her eyes without rising when he approached her.
‘Mrs Gissing, sorry to bother you again. I noticed that one of the drawers in the bedside cabinet was open.’
‘Tim’s bedroom, not mine, Mr Harris.’ Her voice was flat, emotionless.
‘Your husband’s bedroom, I beg your pardon,’ replied Harris, glad he’d decided not to refer to Gissing as her late husband. ‘When Mr Gissing left to go for his run, did you notice if he was carrying anything?’
She yawned and propped herself up on one elbow. ‘What?’
‘Mr Gissing, did you notice if he took anything with him when he went out for his run?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She yawned again. ‘Could you do me a favour, Mr Harris?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Could you pass me that bottle of whisky on the sideboard, please?’
He frowned. It wasn’t quite eight, and in his opinion Mrs Gissing had already consumed a substantial amount of alcohol. He picked up the half-empty bottle of Glenlivet and the crystal tumbler beside it.
‘Here you are.’ He laid both bottle and glass on the low oak coffee table in front of her, smiling now she could see his face again. ‘Are you sure I can’t fetch you a cup of coffee, call your family, perhaps? I don’t mind, honestly.’
‘Oh, spare me that tone,’ she said wearily, uncorking the bottle and pouring a large measure into the glass with a glug. ‘I get enough of that censure from Tim . . . got, I suppose, would be more appropriate now.’ She put the glass to her mouth and closed her eyes as she savoured the spirit.
‘Well, time I left you in peace. The liaison officer will pop over and make sure you’re okay. They’ll be able to take you through what will happen next, help you with the arrangements and so on. And they’ll let you know how we’ll support you financially through all of this. Tim was a very well-respected member of our team, Mrs Gissing, and we look after our own, and their families.’
‘He was a whoring bastard, and you all bloody well know it. I’m glad he’s had the decency to bugger off,’ she spat, her voice slurred by alcohol and bitterness.
‘Nonetheless, you have my profound condolences.’
‘Huh.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Gissing.’ Harris walked quietly towards the door of the lounge, silently giving thanks that he didn’t have to spend any more time with this unhappy woman.
‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘I’ve just remembered. I think he did take something with him – one of those big brown envelopes. I saw him through the kitchen door as he was leaving. The last time I’ll ever see him.’
Harris reached for the phone in his pocket. ‘Excuse me, please, Mrs Gissing.’ He hurried from the room, scrolling down his contacts list as he went. ‘Sir, we have a problem. We’ll have to contact the Royal Mail. Gissing posted something in that box on the wall before he killed himself.’
19
Daley felt quite at home in Hamish’s cluttered front room, despite the chaos of the place and, of course, Hamish the cat, who eyed him balefully from his master’s chair.
‘Are you still off the sugar, Mr Daley?’ Hamish called from the kitchen.
‘Yes, just black for me, please.’
‘Ah, good, for I’ve nane left.’ Hamish ambled through from the kitchen, handing his guest a steaming cup of coffee in an old cracked mug. ‘Get that doon ye, you’re as pale as a ghost.’
‘Thanks, Hamish,’ replied Daley, feeling rather fragile after his whisky consumption the previous evening.
‘You say you’ve a few places tae visit.’
‘Yes, I didn’t recognise the names, but I knew you’d know where they are. Here, I made a list.’ He handed the old fisherman a note bearing the names mentioned in Urquhart’s diary.
Hamish lifted a pair of steel-rimmed glasses from the table beside him, breathed heavily on the lenses, then wiped them on his thick jumper. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit, eh?’ He read down the list, grunting and nodding his head as he went.
‘Do you recognise them all?’
‘Aye, I dae. A lot up the west road – you know, wee bays and the like. Naething aboot Kintyre, or the sea that surrounds it, is a mystery tae me, as you well know,’ he said, getting stiffly to his feet. ‘I found something that’ll likely be of interest to you. Jeest gie me a minute or two, while I remember where I put it.’
Daley watched him plod off, and leaned back in the old armchair, making it creak alarmingly. He looked at the painting of the fishing boat struggling through a heavy sea, which hung over Hamish’s fireplace, flanked by two ancient oil storm lanterns. Nothing seemed to change in this room; it was exactly the same as when he’d first visited.
Hamish the cat jumped onto the table his owner had made from fish boxes in the fifties, and, purring deeply, placed one of his large paws on the plaster bust of Winston Churchill which resided there.
Daley sipped at his coffee, observing the animal as it stared out of the dirty window between a gap in the yellow net curtains. He felt comfortable here in a way he could never be in the big bungalow on the hill, which still reflected Liz’s tastes. He remembered the joy in his son’s eyes as he’d stared at the big tinsel-covered Christmas tree. It seemed like an age away, yet it had only been a few short months before. So much had happened – so much had gone wrong – in such a short space of time.
He heard Hamish coming back down the hall – or the lobby, as he preferred to call it.
‘Noo, here we are. I came across this by pure accident last night. I was looking tae find a photograph o’ my faither, and kind o’ hit the jackpot wae this here.’ He handed Daley a yellowed newspaper cutting.
The detective studied it. ‘Well, no need to guess which one is your father. He’s your double.’
‘Aye, folk often say that, though my auld mother – God rest her soul – thought I looked mair like her side o’ the family when I was a wean. Och, it’s jeest like these women that coo o’er their babies. Oh, he’s like my uncle Stanley, she’s jeest the spittin’ image o’ my granny. The truth is, a’ babies jeest look the same, an’ that’s a fact. You never know whoot they’ll end up like.’
Daley looked closer at the cutting. Hamish’s father was on the right-hand side. He had the same slanting eyes and inscrutable expression that Daley was so used to seeing in Hamish. He was wearing a flat cap, a pipe in his mouth.
On the left-hand side of the image stood a younger man, no more than a teenager, Daley reckoned. He was wearing a suit that looked too big on his slender frame. He had a small, round face, and his hair was slicked back in the style of the time. ‘Who’s the boy?’ he asked.
‘Noo, I think I’m right in sayin’ that’s Torquil McColl. I tried tae read whoot it said underneath the picture, but the writing’s too small for my auld eyes. Maybes you can make it oot.’
Daley squinted at the caption. ‘It just says “Constable T. McColl”. Did you know him?’
‘Aye, I did. And whoot’s mair, I know him still.’
‘You mean he’s still alive?’
‘Aye, he is that. Well on now – must be ninety-odds – but still with us. He’s a resident in that big auld folk’s home on the hill. Jeest doon fae where you are.’ Hamish shook his head. ‘They tell me it’s lovely inside, you know, a’ expensive
furniture and oil paintings. No’ for the likes o’ me, mind. You need tae have money tae end your days in a place like thon. Costs a small fortune.’
‘So he’s well off. I take it he didn’t stay in the police, then?’
‘No, I’m sure he did. He was away oot the toon for years after whoot happened. Ended up in the Hong Kong polis. Only came back tae retire, they say. Mind you, that was nearly thirty years ago.’
‘After what happened?’
‘After the policeman disappeared. Inspector Urquhart, the man you’ve got the interest in. The boy took it really bad, apparently. His father was the procurator fiscal for years – nae shortage o’ money wae him, neithers. Folk say they were cousins o’ the Duke o’ Argyll, but I’m no’ sure if that’s right.’
‘Wait, you said that Urquhart disappeared?’
‘Aye, he did that. No’ long after that picture was taken, in fact. My faither was always on aboot it. He telt me there was somethin’ no’ right aboot the whole thing. The auld fella thought he found something, but you know fine whoot like gossip is in Kinloch.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Sure enough, in the middle of the three stood a thick-set man, his face shaded by the brim of his trilby; there was no mistaking Inspector William Urquhart, all the same.
Daley thought back to the long black lines, the redacted text in Urquhart’s records that had frustrated him the night before. The question that formed in his mind was an obvious one: what was being concealed?
Kinloch, 1945
Urquhart slammed the phone back into its cradle. Speaking to senior officers frequently irked him, but the telephone call from the chief constable had incensed him.
‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked McColl, who was sitting at the other end of the office.
‘Does it look as though things are all right?’
‘S-sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to cause offence.’
Urquhart sighed, reaching for the packet of cigarettes on his desk. ‘I’m sorry, McColl, not your fault. Make yourself useful and go down to the pier and find Ranald, will you?’
‘Yes, sir. Will I bring him back here?’
‘Yes, and tell him to smarten himself up. We’ve to have a photograph in the newspaper, apparently.’
‘We? Do you mean me, too, sir?’
‘Yes, I mean you, too. They’re making a fuss about finding this body, for some unknown reason. No doubt because we were there before the Royal Navy. Times are changing now the war is coming to an end, thank the Lord. Our chief constable thinks it’s time that the military gave way to the civilian authorities. Time to get ready for peace, apparently. Now, hurry up and get down to that pier.’
‘Do you think it is . . . coming to an end, I mean?’
Urquhart lit his cigarette, sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt weary. ‘Oh yes, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. Still a lot of blood to be spilled, though. There’s never a shortage of blood to be spilled, trust me on that.’
He watched the young man run out of the office, wondering where his own youthful enthusiasm had gone. It wasn’t a conscious diminishment, it had just ebbed away. For a few self-indulgent moments he lamented the loss, and the loss of those who were just as he had been and McColl now was; their youth gone for ever, along with their lives.
*
Daley walked along the white sand with Hamish. He could see Gairsay in the distance, framed by the larger islands of Islay and Jura in the blue haze. He had photocopies of the relevant pages of Urquhart’s journal in his pocket.
‘Says here that the wreckage was almost opposite Cairney’s Rock. Where is that?’
‘Aye, Cairney’s Rock. A mair than useful navigation point known tae all that sail in these waters,’ replied Hamish. ‘I’m always amazed when these hobby sailors come up here in their bloody yachts and motor cruisers, and get caught oot because they don’t know whoot’s whoot. They should be made tae spend time studying the waters where they’re jeest aboot tae risk their lives.’ He squinted into the distance. ‘See thon rock oot there?’ He pointed to Daley’s right with the stem of his pipe.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s Cairney’s Rock.’
When they were directly opposite the landmark, Daley consulted his notes. The wreckage was spread along the beach, the body caught in a small cluster of rocks on the shore, directly opposite a small outcrop that Ranald tells me is called Cairney’s Rock. Daley looked along the waterline. ‘Can’t see this little cluster of rocks he refers to. Tide must be too high.’
Hamish stroked his stubbly chin, then lifted his cap and scratched his head with his free hand. ‘Wait, noo, till I get my bearings.’ His eyes narrowed as he stared out to sea.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Och, that’s not Cairney’s Rock. I’m thinking that’s the Barrel Stacks. My apologies, Mr Daley.’
‘So much for “a navigation point known tae all that sail in these waters”,’ said Daley, repeating Hamish’s comment.
‘Sure, things look different fae the land. If I was oot on the sea, I’d jeest have you at the right place within moments.’
‘Right, so where is this Cairney’s Rock?’
Hamish again scanned the horizon, almost as though he was on a strange shore. ‘Damn it!’ he said, spitting on the sand.
‘What?’
‘We’re on the wrong beach,’ replied Hamish, purposefully not looking at the detective.
‘Bloody hell, Hamish! To think I’ve always felt as though I was in safe hands when I was out with you.’
‘Aye, and right you are, tae. There’s no’ a drop o’ water I don’t know about aroon this peninsula.’
‘Apart from Cairney’s Rock,’ said Daley, finding it hard not laugh.
‘Auld age doesna come alone, an’ that’s a fact.’
The pair trudged off the beach, back to where Daley’s car was parked up on a verge, and drove to what Daley hoped would be the right beach. By his side, Hamish did his best to maintain a dignified silence.
20
Iolo Harris detected an unusual air of panic, or as close to it as the Security Service ever came, as he sat in Colin Flanagan’s office.
Three juniors were making their case to Flanagan, whose genial mood from earlier in the morning had changed to ill-concealed rage.
‘So, with all the resources we have at our disposal, we were unable to intercept the envelope? I find this incredible.’
‘The Royal Mail were very slow to respond to our request, sir. By the time they replied to our email, the item was lost in the system.’
‘Oh, I see. So when I asked you to intercept the mail, as a matter of urgency, your response was to jump to it and . . . send an email.’
‘Well, yes, sir. I followed our protocols, as always. I—’
‘Forget the protocols! You should’ve been down in the sorting office, making sure my instructions were followed, doing whatever it took. The world doesn’t exist in this virtual hyperspace, or whatever you want to call it!’
‘Cyberspace, sir,’ offered the most junior officer.
Harris winced, guessing what the consequences of this remark were likely to be. He was right.
‘Get out,’ said Flanagan, staring at the ceiling.
‘Sorry, sir?’ The young man looked as though he hadn’t heard what his boss had said.
‘Just get out of my sight!’ said Flanagan. ‘In fact, go, all of you. I want to speak with Harris alone.’
The three younger men gathered together their papers and laptops and phones and jostled out of the room in an embarrassed silence.
As the door closed, Flanagan shook his head. He turned to the Welshman. ‘Three PhDs between them, and they’re incapable of the basics. Honestly, I don’t know what we’re bringing on with this new generation. No bloody common sense. Perish the thought we have to rely on them to defend our nation.’
‘What now? Do we have any idea what Gissing was up to or what he posted?’
�
�That’s the thing. I have a basic notion of what was happening, and I’m afraid it isn’t good. If I say we’re up to our neck in it with the EU and some of their many bloody committees and nooks and crannies, you can imagine how difficult things are going to get. And I’m holding the baby.’
‘How so, sir?’
‘You’re my best asset. This is a close-down job. Gissing and his ilk have been allowed to manage a very difficult situation for years without proper supervision. The whole thing is a bloody mess.’
‘What’s a mess, sir? If I’m to fix this, I’ll need to know what’s happening.’
‘How good is your knowledge of history, Iolo?’
‘Not bad, I suppose. I enjoyed history at Port Talbot Grammar.’
‘Well, forget all you’ve learned. Come with me.’ Flanagan stood. ‘First of all, we’ll have to change your security clearance.’
The pair left the conference room, Harris now thoroughly confused.
Symington hesitated before entering the incident room, closed her eyes in silent prayer, and turned the handle.
Inside, five Special Branch officers were sitting in quiet conversation. The oldest, a thickset man with salt-and-pepper hair, in his early sixties, stood to welcome her.
‘Chief Superintendent, pleased to meet you again. I’m Commander Alan Bale, in charge of this lot.’ He smiled, holding out his hand for her to shake. ‘I think we worked together in Wandsworth nick.’
‘You were in charge of the CID there, if I recall,’ replied Symington, focusing only on the older man and keeping her tone jovial, ‘so I’m not sure “worked together” is quite right. I was only a young copper.’
‘Well, it does now. I’ll introduce you to our little team. I’ve sent our forensic boys up to Achnamara to get set up.’ He looked across to one of his officers, who had coughed, drawing attention to himself. ‘Yes, sorry. You know Harry here, don’t you? Chief Inspector Harry Chappell, to give him his full title.’
For the first time since entering the room, Symington glanced at Chappell. He’d put on weight and his black hair had flecks of grey, but there was no mistaking the lop-sided sneer as he stood to welcome her.
Well of the Winds Page 13
