Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘So he saved the day?’

  ‘Naw, no’ really. They took the telly and my mother’s hoover, but it was still entertaining.’

  Suddenly, Symington flinched in her seat. When Scott turned to see what had prompted this, he noticed one of the Special Branch team enter the dining room, visibly bleary-eyed from his over-indulgence in the bar the night before.

  ‘Morning, guys,’ he said cheerily. ‘Ain’t that sun bright? Nightmare.’

  ‘Big heid the day?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Yeah, something like that, mate.’ He chuckled. ‘Not as bad as Harry, mind you.’

  Symington made a noise, a cross between a whimper and a cough, her eyes flashing wide.

  ‘Oh, what’s wrang wae him, then?’

  ‘Big girl’s blouse, mate. He had so much to drink last night he fell down the stairs. Made a right mess of himself. He’s off back to the smoke. They just gave him a lift to the ferry. The gaffer’s not best pleased, but that’s what you get when you can’t handle your drink. You both look quite fresh.’ He smiled.

  ‘I don’t touch the stuff,’ replied Scott, hearing the words but still not quite believing them.

  ‘Good on you. I could’ve signed the pledge this morning, I can tell you. Still, unusual for you Jocks, isn’t it? I thought you was all mad for it up here.’

  ‘Just shows you shouldnae make sweeping judgements based on race. Like these buggers you hear talking aboot us no’ being understood doon south. Pain in the arse. I’ve never had any bother making folk understand what I mean . . .’

  The man shook his head and wandered off to a table.

  Symington’s phone rang. ‘It’s Jim,’ she said.

  Scott looked on as she answered the call. When she was finished he looked at her with a puzzled expression. ‘Is who all right?’

  ‘Your friend, the old fisherman Hamish. He was beaten up last night, apparently. He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘What!’ Scott was shocked. ‘He’s just a great auld bloke. Oor Jimmy’ll no’ be happy aboot that. Right fond o’ him, so he is. Me and a’, come tae that. Is he going to be okay?’

  ‘He’s being taken to Glasgow in a helicopter.’ She lowered her voice so that the Special Branch officer, now seated at the other side of the room, couldn’t hear. ‘And Feldstein was killed in an RTA last night.’

  ‘The shit’s going to hit the fan noo, then.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It doesnae take a genius tae figure oot who he was working for, does it?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Thon Israeli mob, Mossad. That’s what they’re called, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very astute.’

  ‘Up here’s for thinking’ – Scott tapped his head, then pointed underneath the table at his feet – ‘an’ doon here’s for dancing. This Bremner case has just reached the next level, would you no’ say, ma’am?’

  She nodded, then looked round the room again with a sigh.

  32

  Iolo Harris sniffed the air as he stepped off the ferry onto the Isle of Gairsay. He watched a gull circle lazily above the bay, then dive into the water. A few moments later, it bobbed back to the surface, the silver flash of a wriggling fish clasped tightly in its beak. As though curious to see what was going on, a seal poked its head from amongst the bladderwrack floating near the shore. It yawned, then turned its head to study the bustle surrounding the ferry: passengers jostling to get on board, drivers on the jetty switching on their engines, sending clouds of blue exhaust fumes into the air.

  He watched as a large man with a bruised face limped down the slipway and onto the vessel. A grinning crew member gave the passenger an exaggerated salute, seemingly unperturbed by the contusions on his face.

  ‘I think you’re going my way,’ Harris said to the driver of a white minibus with GAIRSAY HOTEL printed on the side.

  ‘I will be if you’re going to the Gairsay Hotel,’ replied the driver.

  ‘I am that,’ he replied, jumping into the vehicle. ‘Busy this morning, eh?’

  ‘Aye, the place has been going like a fair since that family disappeared. Policeman and journalists – och, jeest a’ sorts. Are you here for that, yourself?’

  ‘Here to admire your windmills, buddy,’ replied Harris.

  When the minibus eventually pulled into the hotel car park, Harris heard his phone beep. The message from Flanagan was brief and to the point: Landscape changed. Call ASAP.

  In a few moments, he heard the familiar voice of Flanagan. ‘Listen, Iolo, we have to think on our feet here. A senior Israeli diplomat, if you get my drift, was killed in a road traffic accident in Kintyre last night. I have a meeting with the minister in half an hour, and as you can imagine, Tel Aviv is up in arms. The Americans too, predictably.’

  ‘What about Brussels?’

  ‘The hell with Brussels. I think we might be about to change sides. Any residue of what happened on this little island has to be removed. No need to spell things out. We have to be seen to be squeaky clean in all this. ’

  As he hung up, Harris tried to picture just what changing sides might entail. One thing was certain: though this was a tiny island off the remote Scottish coast, what was about to happen would have global ramifications. Ultimately, high politics was not his business. He concerned himself with much more practical things. He knew what he had to do.

  Daley was trawling through CCTV footage taken across Kinloch the previous evening. DC Potts was assisting him in the search for any sign of Hamish and how he might have come by the injuries he’d sustained.

  As they’d been informed, he’d left the Douglas Arms, crossed the car park in the square and headed onto West Row. Daley watched the flickering image of Hamish stop now and then, look in a few shop windows, and then carry on in his habitual style, hands in pockets, head held high, as though sniffing the air. The detective caught the glimpse of a smile on his old friend’s face, which made him smile himself, then quickly become angry. Who would hurt a harmless old man in such a callous way, and what on earth did they have to gain by it? Daley reasoned that his association with the fisherman was at the heart of the matter, and it made him feel sick to his stomach.

  Well of the winds. Hamish’s words echoed around his head.

  ‘Look at this, sir, this vehicle here.’ Potts pointed at the screen. A dark SUV was driving up West Row past Hamish.

  ‘What about it? It’s just a car driving through the town,’ replied Daley, more irritably than he’d intended.

  ‘But here again,’ said Potts, sending the image flickering forward at high speed, making Hamish look as though he was power-walking along the road. He paused the footage. ‘See, would you not say that’s the same vehicle, sir?’

  Daley stared at the screen; yes, the SUV was driving past Hamish, this time heading back into the centre of Kinloch.

  ‘Worth a look. Can we make out the registration?’

  ‘No, sir, not without augmentation, I don’t think. But look, here again.’

  Daley leaned forward. Hamish had turned into Main Street and headed down towards the loch. The SUV – definitely the same car – was making its way slowly back up the street, its lights flashing into the CCTV camera as it turned back into West Row.

  ‘Why would he be cruising about at that time of night, sir? I mean, it’s not one of the local lads looking for girls – not in that kind of motor.’

  ‘Get this footage up to the tech boys and have it enhanced. Good work. Let’s hope we can get an ID on that plate.’

  He went into his glass box, sat down heavily, making the big leather chair squeak in protest, and called the front desk. ‘Sergeant Shaw, the lorry driver who hit Feldstein mentioned another vehicle. What was its description?’

  He listened as Shaw tapped the keys of his computer terminal.

  ‘Dark-coloured SUV, sir. Possibly a Merc or similar, but not a Range Rover.’

  Daley walked back to the CID suite. ‘Let me see that footage again.’ He leaned over the ba
ck of Potts’s chair, remembering with a pang that the last time he’d done this was when Mary was busy operating the terminal. No smell of strawberry shampoo now, just the slight odour of sweat from the young man who had been working through the night.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, pausing the footage to show the best screen grab of the SUV they had.

  ‘What model would you say that was?’

  ‘Looks like a Merc to me, sir. Not sure which model, but I can check.’

  ‘Please do,’ replied Daley.

  Alan Bale wheezed as he leaned down to switch on the computer in the incident room at Gairsay Hotel. He hated having to liaise with the spooks, but at least this chap seemed approachable, not one of the high-handed ex-public schoolboys he was more accustomed to dealing with.

  ‘Here we are, take a look.’

  ‘Well, there’s no doubt what he’s doing, but who is he?’

  ‘One of the Kinloch plods. A DS Scott, I think.’

  Harris looked on as the screen image revealed the detective photographing page after page of documents in the cellar of Achnamara farmhouse, somewhat inexpertly, he thought.

  ‘Get this!’ shouted the man onscreen. ‘I’m fucking Lord Beaverbrook, me.’

  ‘I have no idea what he means,’ said Bale, brushing a strand of grey hair away from his forehead, his cheeks flushed.

  ‘Means Lord Snowdon, I reckon,’ replied Harris, trying to hide his smile. ‘You know, the photographer who used to be married to Princess Margaret.’

  ‘Oh, very good. Anyhow, as you can see, he’s taken a picture of nearly everything in the place. Not sure how you want to approach this?’

  ‘Just how did you come across this footage?’

  ‘Hidden cameras everywhere. The local boys missed the lot, inside and out. Took us ages to find them.’

  ‘Have you found anything else? I mean apart from this copper taking snaps of all the documentation, that is?’

  ‘There was a computer in the bungalow, but it’s encrypted. Might be some kind of record of what went on down there, but we don’t know yet how long for. We pinged the files down to London.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. Let me know the minute you hear anything.’

  Bale exhaled loudly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Harris.

  ‘Just want to get things straight. I’m not one for beating about the bush . . .’

  ‘No, indeed,’ replied Harris, exasperated that the policeman was doing exactly that. ‘Just spit it out, man!’

  ‘Well,’ Bale began cautiously, ‘frankly, I’m too high a pay grade to be an office boy to you. If you’re taking charge up here, well, at least have the decency to tell me, so that I can deploy somewhere else. It won’t be news to you, of all people, that we are just keeping our heads above water with all the security threats we face in this country at the moment.’

  ‘No need for concern, sir. It’s your pigeon. I’m just an observer.’

  ‘Oh, yes, well, if you say so,’ replied Bale doubtfully.

  ‘This DS Scott, is he still on the island?’

  ‘Yes, he and his chief superintendent – Symington’s her name – are here. Leaving today, I think. They’ve been helping with the handover. Not too happy about us taking charge here.’

  ‘Yeah, never easy, is it?’ Harris replied blandly. ‘I’ll go and have a word before they take off.’

  ‘Be careful. Symington’s a smart cookie. Don’t know for the life of me what she’s doing up here in the back of beyond. Waste of a clever cop, if you ask me.’

  ‘You never know. Maybe they need clever cops up here, too,’ replied Harris before taking his leave.

  As he walked through to the hotel reception, he reflected on his encounters with police officers over the years. He’d met a few – very few – who were dedicated and selfless. The great majority, though, were not; especially those in the senior ranks. He’d spent half of his career trying to cover for preening officers who’d been promoted beyond their capabilities and had made a hash of the jobs that had been entrusted to them. He longed for the day when the police would emerge from the dark ages and put in place a dedicated officer class: executive ranks chosen for their expertise, not their ability to brown-nose or handshake their way to the top of the tree. He thought of Daley. He certainly possessed some of the defensiveness and watchfulness of his kind, but he also appeared to have a soul and a quick mind. Not that he would ever reach the rank of commander or beyond: he was too straight, too intelligent, lacked the requisite naked ambition. Daley would have been better doing a job like his. The ability to twist and turn was constant, but remaining grounded, knowing which way was up, as an old mentor of his once said, was just as important.

  He wondered in which direction up might be found when the spirals of this case eventually unravelled. He wondered if Daley would orient himself in that direction, too, or would he need help?

  ‘You have a Ms Symington staying in the hotel. Could you get a message to her, please?’ he asked the receptionist.

  33

  Kinloch, 1945

  Andrew Mitchell’s face was beginning to swell where Urquhart had landed him a punch. There were tears in his eyes as he faced the inspector in the spartan interview room, only a rickety table between them. A stony-faced constable stood by the door, arms folded.

  ‘I’ll ask you again: how did you come by the fancy clothes? From your new friends?’ barked Urquhart, his face still red with fury.

  ‘Whoot business is it o’ yours?’

  The inspector flew at him across the table, grabbing him tightly by the collar of his shirt. ‘I told you. I’m investigating the death of Mr Kerr. I know you know much more than you’re letting on, so just tell the truth.’ He pushed the farmhand backwards with such force that the younger man almost toppled off his chair.

  Mitchell looked pleadingly at the constable, but got no response.

  ‘I think you locked Mr Kerr into that cattle float and made sure he was trampled to death. I couldn’t work out what you had to gain before, apart from losing your job, but when I saw you with your new pals, well, things started to become clearer.’

  ‘I don’t know whoot you mean. I jeest treated mysel’ tae the suit an’ that fae my savings, if you must know. Is it a crime tae wear a nice suit, noo?’

  ‘And how much did it all cost?’

  ‘A few quid, I canna remember.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Urquhart, picking up his notebook. ‘The suit’s Savile Row, London, as was your shirt. The shoes are from Milan. Just where did you purchase these, for a few quid?’

  ‘I paid a frien for them.’

  ‘And this frien is?’

  ‘I’m no’ saying’. I don’t have tae answer they questions.’

  Urquhart stood up suddenly, making Mitchell cower. ‘In that case, I have no choice but to charge you. Can you note this down, Constable McLennan?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The constable took his notebook from his top pocket, placed it in the palm of his left hand, and licked the tip of his pencil. ‘Ready when you are, sir.’

  ‘Andrew Mitchell, I am charging you with the murder of Dugald Kerr at the premises of his farm on the day of—’

  It was Mitchell’s turn to stand up. He yelled at the top of his voice, ‘No! You canna dae this!’

  ‘I can do what I like, son. Of course, you know what the penalty is for murder.’

  ‘No! You’re no’ hangin’ me. I never done it!’

  ‘Put the cuffs on him, MacLennan.’

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ shouted Mitchell, making a bid for the door. MacLennan caught him in the midriff with a punch that made the farmhand double over.

  As Mitchell was handcuffed by the burly constable, Urquhart bent down and said, ‘You’ll die for this, son. Pity, really. I’m not even sure you did it, but, if you did, I know somebody put you up to it. In fact, that’s why you were working at the farm, wasn’t it? To keep an eye on him.’

  ‘I’m no’ sayin’. They’ll kill
me!’ screamed Mitchell as the constable pulled him upright.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Who’ll kill you?’

  ‘I canna say!’

  Urquhart stood up straight, rubbing his hands together as though wiping them clean. ‘Well, you’re going to hang anyway, so my job is done. Take him away, Constable.’

  ‘Haud on! I want tae say somethin’,’ shouted Mitchell, his eyes wide in desperation.

  Symington apologised to Harris for the lack of biscuits.

  ‘No problem. I’m sad to say that I suffer from the same problem that afflicts so many of my countrymen: short legs, long backs and the ability to put on pounds at the drop of a hat.’

  Symington smiled politely. It hadn’t taken long for Harris to take in the shadows under her eyes and her air of distraction. Despite the occasional deployment of a toothy smile, here was a woman under extreme pressure.

  ‘So, when can we expect to see DS Scott?’

  ‘He won’t be a moment, Mr Harris. Just writing up some case notes before we head back to the mainland.’

  ‘Good . . . You’ve not been up here in Scotland for long, have you?’

  ‘No, not long at all. I arrived in November last year. It’s all been a bit of a blur, really.’

  Harris recalled the details of Symington’s file. She’d already been part of a high-profile case involving a wealthy local family. Here she was again, on the edge of something even more significant.

  ‘I must admit, it makes a pleasant change from traipsing around Whitehall. The sea air and the scenery.’

  ‘I can hear you’re a Welshman, from what part?’

  ‘Port Talbot, also by the sea, but not the same clean air as up here in the Highlands.’

  There was a firm knock at the door and in strolled Scott.

  ‘What’s this aboot a spook?’ asked Scott. Only Symington was visible to him as he came up the short hallway. ‘Last thing we fuckin’ need – spooks and Special Branch, eh?’ The look on Symington’s face made him hesitate, and as he turned to his left he spotted the dark-haired man in jeans and a sweatshirt sitting on the end of the bed.