Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  Feldstein had left the lights of Kinloch behind when he noticed something in his rear-view mirror. A vehicle was speeding up behind him, as though about to overtake. As he was manoeuvring his own car along a series of tight bends, he knew that this was impossible, so he clutched the steering wheel and braced himself for a collision.

  Sure enough, as the blinding headlights filled his mirror, he felt the first nudge of something hitting his rear bumper. Though he couldn’t be sure nothing was coming in the other direction, he couldn’t see any oncoming headlights, so tugged at the wheel with his right hand, sending his car careening sideways.

  As he did this, the car that had been behind him – a bulky SUV – tried to draw level with his, ploughing along the embankment at high speed. Feldstein took a deep breath. He would have to brake, suddenly and hard. He’d been trained in aggressive driving techniques long before cars were managed by the complex computer-based systems they now boasted, but this manoeuvre was still a dangerous one, the outcome of standing on his own brakes at this speed while slaloming the car around the winding road uncertain.

  He felt another nudge from the SUV, steel on steel. The wheel was almost dragged from his grip, but he managed to hold on, trying to ready himself for emergency braking.

  A few things happened at once: as he counted down in his mind to the point when he would apply the brakes, the SUV hit him another glancing blow to the side, this time making him lose control of his car. As he fought with the wheel with all his strength, he saw a dazzling flash of lights – this time, oncoming. A truck loomed ahead.

  Before he had the chance to take evasive action, the two vehicles collided head-on with sickening force, instantly sending a ball of red flame into the night air.

  The SUV slowed slightly, then sped on into the darkness.

  29

  Braunau am Inn, near Linz

  He parked his car outside the mustard-coloured three-storey building. Even though he’d been here before, he shivered involuntarily and tried to compose himself.

  He knocked on the door and waited. A young man dressed in blue overalls answered, looking him up and down suspiciously.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Frau Weber, please. She’s expecting me.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. We have to be careful. We are plagued by – well, you can imagine – certain unwanted visitors.’

  He was led through a workshop and up a wooden staircase. Everything was painted a utilitarian grey. They walked past a small canteen, where other men in blue overalls were sitting at a large table, reading newspapers, drinking coffee, or staring blankly at mobile phones.

  At the end of the corridor they reached a large oak door. The young man knocked sharply three times, cocked his head to listen for a reply, and on hearing a weak voice reply, turned the heavy brass handle and strode into the room.

  ‘Your visitor, Frau Weber,’ he said, standing to attention.

  An elderly woman was sitting in a high-backed, ornately carved wooden chair. Her hair was long, straight and parted in the middle, framing her round face and pale, shrewd eyes. She peered at him through frameless spectacles and smiled.

  ‘Hans, how lovely to see you again. You have put on some weight, no?’ She turned her attention to the younger man. ‘Leave us.’

  Hans scanned the room. It was wood-panelled, with thick carpeting and dark red wallpaper – exactly the same as it had been on his last visit, almost ten years before.

  ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, Hans. Take a seat.’

  He nodded, then sat down opposite the old woman on a leather couch, perching on the edge. This house, indeed this old woman, made relaxation impossible.

  ‘You are not taking care of yourself. Too much time in Brussels, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I spend most of my time there now. I’ve grown to like the city.’

  ‘Why?’ The question was sharp. ‘A horrid little town in a horrid little country. Barely a country at all – nothing, in fact.’

  ‘The centre of all we’ve achieved.’

  ‘A flag of convenience. I hope I live to see the day when things will be run from Germany, as they should be.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be popular in Berlin. They have enough on their plate.’

  ‘Ach, no wonder, with that hausfrau in charge. I will never trust her – we can never trust her.’

  ‘Yet she continues to bring prosperity to Germany.’

  The woman eyed him with no little disdain. ‘The German people bring prosperity to Germany – as they have always done, and will always do.’ She paused. ‘Ah, did you know I’ve learned something new?’

  ‘What?’ he asked, confused by the sudden change of subject.

  ‘YouTube!’ She beamed. ‘I watch it all the time now. Most entertaining.’

  ‘I take it you’re not watching cute cat videos.’

  ‘Ha! I was watching a young man we know – well, not personally. You know who I mean.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘As the father and grandfather were sadly unimpressive – uninspiring – he is not.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘We have it now. Strength from the past. The beginning of it all – from where the flames spread. Brussels, Maastricht, Paris, Rome, London – take them all!’

  He sat back for a few moments, making no comment, as Frau Weber ranted on. When he was at home in Brussels, in his own environment, he was in control. Here, he was like a fish out of water, and the past that he spent so much time trying not to think about harried him, roaring in his face, like a spectre only he could see and hear. Despite her age, she was still formidable.

  ‘And what about these people who are flooding our country and the rest of Europe? Tell me, what will we do with them?’

  Eventually, he forced himself to intervene. ‘We have things to discuss, do we not? I have to know what to do, what to say to our colleagues.’

  His interruption quietened the old woman. She sat staring at the ceiling for so long that he began to fear she’d had some kind of seizure.

  She turned to him. ‘This is the hard time we knew would come. These times always come. Only Germany is holding Europe together. Our banks, our money; we are already buckling under the strain. This is no reward for the determination of the noble German people. We risk disintegration. Absolute failure of the great plan. We must get back on track. That is why we have had to take independent action.’

  ‘You should have asked me – at least given me warning. You know that Gissing is dead?’

  ‘Yes, I know. But what is one man?’

  ‘He and those who came before kept the secret. They weren’t happy, but they did it. Without him . . .’

  ‘There are others.’

  ‘But can they be trusted?’

  ‘Gissing is not the only one to pass. Feldstein is dead.’

  For a moment he was so shocked it almost took his breath away. This man had been in his mind for so long. At best, an irritation; at worst, his nemesis.

  ‘How? I mean, how did he die? Naturally, I hope.’

  ‘A tragic traffic accident. The kind that happens every day.’

  He stood up so quickly he felt faint, and a pain shot through his lower back. The woman before him was in her nineties, his senior by two decades, but often he felt too old to bear the burden. First the Bremners, now this.

  He watched her pick up a newspaper and start reading as though he wasn’t there.

  Her time is short, he thought. She has done all the damage she can.

  Quietly, Hans took his leave of the woman he’d known for so long, knowing he’d never see her again.

  *

  Symington was sitting on the edge of the bed in her hotel room, shaking violently. Her face was smeared with rivulets of mascara and tears.

  Scott was in front of the wardrobe mirror, doing his best to stem the flow of blood from his nose with a couple of wads of cotton wool plugging each nostril. ‘You don’t need tae say anything, Carrie. You don’t know m
e very well, but I’ll tell you this, I’ve a fair few secrets up here in my noggin that naebody will ever find oot about.’ He tapped his head.

  ‘I don’t suppose it matters now. I’m quite sure Harry will make certain of that.’

  Scott turned to face her. She looked so small, so vulnerable. Nothing of the confident persona she projected as a division commander remained. He sighed, silently giving thanks that his rise in the ranks had been less than meteoric.

  ‘This bastard, Harry, you’ve known each other for a long time. I can see that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she sniffed. ‘Too long, much too long.’

  Scott thought for a moment. Subtlety was not his strong suit. He tried to think how Daley, much better at interviewing the fairer sex, would approach what was clearly a delicate matter. Yes, the best course of action was softly, softly.

  ‘So, was you shagging this bloke behind his wife’s back or something?’

  ‘What?’ She sounded genuinely astonished.

  ‘I mean, this is the twenty-first century. Folk get o’er these little piccadillies every day.’

  ‘Peccadilloes,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, that’s the one. I knew fine I’d heard John Donald come oot wae something like that.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Brian.’ She cradled her head in her hands and sighed. ‘I can tell you one thing, though. You’ll have a new boss very soon, I guarantee it.’

  ‘Och, enough o’ the subtle approach.’

  ‘That was you being subtle?’ She smiled wanly.

  ‘Women are a law unto themselves. Just ask the wife. Everything done on a nod or a wink – I can never get my heid roon it. It took Ella aboot six months tae tell me she was going through the menopause, and even then I didnae see what a’ the fuss was aboot. I mean, it’s no’ as though we was planning any mair weans. Fuck me, she cried for near three years . . .’

  ‘It’s our primary function, though – well, for most women.’

  ‘What? Roaring the place doon ’cause you’re no’ bleeding every month? I wid have thought it wid be a chance tae pop the champagne corks. It wid be, if it was me.’

  ‘It’s a primeval thing. It’s like a death, or so I’m told. The end of your reproductive years is a hard thing to get your head round.’

  ‘Oor Ella still gets loads done – she’s right productive. Bugger me, she painted the hall and papered the kitchen last month. How much mair productive dae you want?’

  ‘Oh, Brian . . . I’m worried you’ll get into trouble for this.’

  ‘For what? Stopping a woman fae getting assaulted? I dinnae think so.’

  She looked at the floor. ‘He knows things about me. Has done for years.’

  Scott knew when someone was about to unburden themselves. ‘Look, tell me aboot it, Carrie. I swear tae you, I’ll no’ breathe a word o’ it tae a soul.’

  ‘I was a young cop, in Wandsworth at the time. We’d been on a shift night out. I used to enjoy them in those days.’ She shrugged and smiled wryly at Scott. ‘We’d gone to Epping Forest – you know, a little jaunt, somewhere different. I had the car, an old Mini. Terrible thing to drive . . . I was drinking soft drinks, well, I thought I was.’

  ‘Was you slipped a Mickey Finn?’

  ‘Nothing so sophisticated. One of the guys on my shift had been slipping vodka into my orange juice. I just didn’t taste it.’

  ‘Hardly the crime o’ the century. You mean you got behind the wheel after a dram or two? Fuck me, there wouldn’t be many cops left fae my generation if they’d binned every bugger that used tae dae that.’

  ‘I was stupid. I heard them all laughing when we pulled off, you know, back to London. I was just happy – young, happy and stupid. We came round this corner, I wasn’t even speeding, and there was this thing, this shadow in the dark.’ She hesitated.

  ‘Go on. You might as well spit it oot,’ encouraged Scott.

  She looked him straight in the eye, her face devoid now of any emotion. ‘I’ll never forget his face. He came round the corner on a moped, just a flash of white in the darkness. He was on the wrong side of the road by miles. High as a kite, so they discovered in the PM.’

  ‘But you was still o’er the limit?’

  ‘He hit me straight on. The windscreen shattered when he hit it with his helmet. He broke his neck.’ She looked out of the window into the darkness beyond, the events of that night long ago playing across her mind. ‘It was then the arsehole who’d been spiking my drinks spoke up. It doesn’t take much booze to put you over, you know, especially when you don’t even know you’re drinking it,’ she said defensively. ‘He’d been really smart, only putting in small amounts of vodka when I wasn’t looking. Of course they all thought it was a laugh. Until—’

  ‘Until you’d got a young lad splattered across the bonnet o’ your car.’

  ‘The traffic cops from the nearest division attended. When they found out the guy was dead and we were all in the job, they sent for their sergeant.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Harry Chappell?’

  ‘The very man.’ She began to sob uncontrollably.

  ‘You don’t need tae tell me any mair,’ said Scott, colour appearing in his cheeks. ‘He ignored the fact that you was o’er the limit, and it was a’ just a tragic accident. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, such a cliché, isn’t it? I should’ve come clean there and then. I was young – doing the job I’d dreamed of. They all persuaded me. But they don’t see that boy’s face every night. I still see him, you know.’ She reached out to Scott, who embraced her gingerly.

  ‘I was in my flat, just round the corner from the nick, and it was a Friday night – I always remember that – a few months later, after the court case. There was a knock at my door.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yup.’ She lowered her head. ‘I remember he was stinking of garlic. Been out for a curry with the boys, he said.’

  ‘He forced himself on you?’

  ‘He didn’t have to. He told me . . . He told me that if I didn’t come across with, you know, he’d spill the beans. Tell the gaffers that he’d been put under pressure to ignore the fact that I’d had a drink. He told me I’d go to prison!’

  ‘Aye, a fine specimen, right enough,’ said Scott, patting her on the back. ‘You should’ve let me get a few mair kicks in while he was on the deck.’

  She sat back, her tears suddenly stopping. ‘I deserve what’s coming to me, Brian. I’ll never get over this . . . never. It’s haunted me ever since. He’ll never stop.’

  ‘But it wisnae your fault.’

  ‘But I should’ve told the truth. It’s my job, Brian. It’s my job to uphold the law.’

  ‘How long did this go on for? You know, wae happy Harry oot there.’

  ‘Years, on and off, until he got bored. I toughened up, moved up the ladder. Almost forgot all about him, or tried to, at least. Until a few days ago. He’s a vindictive bastard, though.’ She looked at her DS again. ‘But, then again, I deserve all I get, don’t I?’

  ‘Ach, don’t be so hard on yourself. Just you get some sleep, ma’am,’ said Scott, ‘and leave that bastard tae me.’

  ‘Brian, don’t get involved. Please don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Me, dae something stupid? Chance would be a fine thing.’

  30

  Kinloch, 1945

  The Kinloch Pipe Band were a mismatched lot: youths – boys, merely – with fluffy faces yet to see a razor, marched alongside men, most of whom were well into retirement. The elderly faces glowed red with the strain of blowing the pipes and parading up the Main Street at the same time, despite their proceeding at a snail’s pace. The young men who would normally have been the heart and soul of the band were scattered across the world, fighting for their country in the global theatre of conflict they all prayed would come to an end.

  Behind the pipe band marched a company of Royal Marines, magnificent in their dress uniforms, dark blue with brass buttons, and boots that gleamed with polish
. Many of them were grinning at the sight of the bandsmen ahead, manfully struggling up the gentle slope to the top of the street.

  Outside the County Hotel, a group of men in flat caps had gathered, glasses of varying sizes and shapes held aloft in their hands, a blue fug of tobacco smoke gathered above their heads.

  On the edge of the pavement, waving small Union Jacks and cheering with unrestrained joy, many holding on to small children, were the womenfolk of the town, hallooing and calling out to encourage the procession on its way. For them, the tall, straight-backed Marines were the personification of the servicemen who were their loved ones: their husbands, boyfriends, sons and sweethearts. They symbolised the men they prayed for every night, the reason for their rush to the door when the letterbox rattled, hoping for a few scribbled words to bring some comfort and dreading news of another kind.

  The young women, lips scarlet with beetroot juice in place of lipstick, cheeks nipped red to make up for the absence of rouge, smiled and cheered the loudest of all, trying to catch the eye of the handsome men in uniform. Tanned legs were the product of gravy browning, some of which was smudged and streaked in places, but was all they had to give their legs some colour after the cold dark winter and the absence of nylons.

  A drunk old man, his nose bulbous and pitted by a lifetime of over-indulgence, capered in front of the band, his arms aloft in an attempt to dance the Highland fling. The flat cap slanted on his head covered one of his eyes, and from time to time his right hand crept into the pocket of his patched tweed jacket, which bulged with the half bottle of whisky that was stowed there.

  ‘Gie us ‘‘Cammeltoon Loch’’!’ shouted a man in a striped butcher’s apron, a streak of rabbit’s blood slathered up the white coat he wore as a badge of office. Yet another uniform in a world of uniforms, where everyone had to be seen to be contributing. His shop had so little meat to sell, many of his customers simply took to the hills or the sea to harvest the sustenance they needed. However, with the help of his brother-in-law and his shotgun, he was able to stock some provisions.

  Yet, even here, far away from the bombs of the Blitz and the horrors of the latest weapons of terror, people were thin, pallid and tired; their clothes were threadbare and owed more to the thirties in style than the midst of the decade in which they lived.