Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Detective Sergeant Scott, I presume,’ said Harris with a smile. ‘Been in the wars, I see.’

  Without thinking, Scott touched his bruised face.

  ‘Aye, well, you know how it is when you’re a polisman – there’s no shortage of rough and tumble.’

  ‘Funny, I saw a man getting on the ferry this morning. His face was in a worse state than yours. Dangerous island, is it?’

  Harris noted the glance that passed between Symington and Scott. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have been convinced that they were having an affair. But even at this brief exposure to the chief superintendent and her rough-and-ready DS, there was something about the dynamic that didn’t seem right. A shared secret, perhaps, but nothing sexual.

  ‘If we could move things along, please, Mr Harris,’ interjected Symington. ‘We’re heading back today, and we’ve a few things to do before we catch the ferry.’

  ‘Well, I’ll get on with it.’ He turned to Scott. ‘I’m interested in your photographic skills.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You know. Point and click – taking pictures on your phone. In this case, in the cellar of the farmhouse. Achnamara, isn’t it?’ he said, finding the word difficult to pronounce.

  Another exchange of glances.

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Harris?’ asked Symington coolly.

  ‘Unbeknownst to you and Lord Beaverbrook here, the entire cellar was covered by CCTV. Special Branch have just discovered it.’ He looked at Scott again. ‘I’ll need you to hand over all the images you have and make sure they’re deleted from any other devices you might have. This is a matter of national security, and it will be followed up.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Symington, getting to her feet. ‘Sergeant Scott was acting on my orders when he took those pictures, and just to let you know, it was prior to the arrival of Special Branch. As the investigators in charge we had every right to make notes regarding the locus, and photograph anything we liked.’

  ‘Of course you had,’ replied Harris. ‘But now you don’t. So, before you head off back to the mainland, I’d like to see the device which was used to photograph the documents, and I need an assurance from you, Chief Superintendent, that all copies have been destroyed and are not in anyone else’s possession.’

  ‘My phone was used. I’ll let you have it once I’ve removed any information that is personal or irrelevant to this case.’ Symington gestured towards the door, indicating that in her opinion their meeting was at an end.

  ‘Excellent. And what about the copies?’

  ‘None were made. I asked DS Scott to take the pictures to make sure we had a record of exactly what was found at the Bremner property before they disappeared. I have to tell you, I’m very unhappy at the way this case has been passed from pillar to post. This is my patch, and, at the very least, I should be kept in the loop.’

  ‘So you made no copies, and neither did you distribute any?’

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Harris. Now, if you don’t mind, we have a ferry to catch. I’ll leave the phone with you before I go. I’ll need a signature, of course.’ The toothy smile was switched on again, but her eyes were cold.

  Harris bade the two police officers a good day and left the hotel room. He had some sympathy for Symington and the high-handed way the local force had been treated, but he also knew when he was being lied to.

  Kinloch, 1945

  Urquhart was doodling absently on the blotting sheet in front of him. McColl was typing away in the corner of the office, working through the report he’d been asked to file.

  As the inspector had suspected he would, Mitchell had caved in. Heavy-handed tactics, which he’d deployed in the military police, always left a bad taste in his mouth, but in this case the end had justified the means.

  Yet he felt as if there were too many ends and no discernible beginning. He shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that there were elements of every community who didn’t support their own country in this hellish conflict. He recalled being shocked when a general, full of rich food and port, had casually mentioned the abdicated king’s admiration for the Third Reich. The thought had left him profoundly depressed; that this man to whom he had pledged his allegiance was in awe of Hitler was insufferable.

  ‘I know these p-people,’ remarked McColl, having reached the part of Urquhart’s report where locals were mentioned.

  ‘Good. You can tell me all you know about them, and their families. At the same time, you can also forget what you’ve just read and never mention it to a soul. If I discover you’ve whispered a word of this to your father, or anyone else for that matter, I’ll have you charged with treason.’

  McColl gasped slightly and turned back to his typewriter, shoulders hunched, hands shaking slightly as they hovered over the keys.

  Urquhart headed through to the back of the station. He nodded to Constable MacLennan, who took the keys from his belt and unlocked the cell.

  Huddled in the corner, covered by a grubby grey blanket, Mitchell looked frightened. ‘Look whoot you’ve done tae me,’ he protested, touching a weal on his cheek, upon which the blood had almost congealed.

  ‘Get up,’ said Urquhart, catching Mitchell’s shin with a kick, which caused the farmhand to cry out in pain. ‘You know the trouble you’re in, I needn’t tell you that.’

  Mitchell whimpered and nodded his head.

  ‘I can help you. Save you from the noose. You’ll do time, but what happened to Mr Kerr could have so easily been an accident.’

  ‘It was jeest an accident—’

  ‘Shut up and listen. Get cleaned up, go home, and get a good night’s sleep. From now on, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.’

  ‘An’ jeest whoot’s that?’

  ‘Well, Andrew, you’re going to get yourself a new career.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ groaned Mitchell, looking doubtful.

  ‘Yes. Deviate in any way from what I tell you to do, and you won’t see many more dawns – that’s a promise. Get back here tomorrow morning, seven, sharp!’

  34

  Daley had decided to go back to basics. He was constructing a timeline of events in the old-fashioned way, on a board, with lines and squiggles and messy handwriting, the way he’d been taught so many years ago. He still preferred the handson paper-and-pen experience to that of computer, spreadsheets and databases. Recently, he’d come to feel he was existing in some intangible virtual reality – a world from the pages of some dystopian fantasy. He had mentioned this to Brian, who had opined sagely on the efficacy of sucking a peppermint in order to cure dystopia.

  He stuck a photograph of Achnamara farm at the centre of the board. Radiating from it were red lines drawn with a marker pen. At the end of one was the small vessel from Elliot’s boatyard that had vanished, and which he assumed had been used by the Bremners to make good their escape – an escape that had gone tragically wrong, for reasons that were yet to be explained.

  Another red line ended with the drawing of the head and shoulders of a man: Feldstein. From that radiated depictions of a book – Urquhart’s journal – and the SUV.

  Underneath the farm, a dotted red line meandered to the faded image of Urquhart himself. Next to this was a copy of one of the inspector’s drawings of the cigarette lighter.

  He was drawing Stonebrae House when his phone rang.

  ‘Sir, Royal Infirmary in Glasgow for you,’ announced Shaw.

  As Daley asked for the call to be put through, he could feel his heart sink. He’d heard the helicopter taking Hamish there, and he knew how frail the old man had been when he’d last seen him.

  ‘DCI Daley?’

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  The doctor confirmed that he was calling about Hamish. ‘Tough old guy, took quite a battering. But he’s starting to speak now. Says he has something to tell you and only you.’

  ‘I see. I’m a bit pushed here, in the middle of a serious investigation. Can he speak on the phone?’

  ‘No, not yet. But h
e seems to want to see you. I get the impression that you’re a friend of his, as well as investigating the circumstances behind his attack. It would do him the world of good to see someone. He’s becoming quite agitated, actually.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll try to get there as soon as I can. Please tell him I’m asking for him.’

  Daley felt guilty, remembering that the old fisherman had once saved his life. He deserved his attention. He called Symington.

  ‘Hi, Jim, sorry I’ve not been in touch. We’ll be over later today, just winding things up here.’

  ‘You heard about Hamish?’

  ‘Yes, I did. DS Scott was outraged, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Well, he’s regained consciousness and wants to see me. We’re full on, as you know, but I think I should go. He has information, apparently. I owe it to him, you know? There could be some reason he was targeted in this way, that it wasn’t just some random mugger. I was wondering if you could get the chopper to lift and lay me – it would save time.’

  ‘Yes, no problem. I’ll put the request in now. Do you have any idea what he has to say?’

  ‘No, not really. But when he was found he kept muttering something over and over again.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well of the winds.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Symington, surprised. ‘Now, that is a coincidence.’

  Kinloch, 1945

  Urquhart was startled by the sound of an explosion. From his window, which overlooked Main Street, he could see the telltale wisp of white smoke rising above the loch. The blast he’d heard was the call to arms of the local lifeboat crew and could be heard across the town. It always amazed him how quickly these dedicated men – mostly retired or working fishermen – got to the boat and launched. He watched as a man in huge gumboots raced down the street in the direction of the pier, soon followed by others.

  ‘Ranald is here, sir,’ said McColl, poking his head round the door. ‘He wants to see you, urgently.’

  The fisherman’s tanned features were obscured by the cap he wore, pulled down over one eye. He had a small boy by the hand, who could only be his son, such were the slant of his blue eyes and the proud way he held his head.

  Urquhart walked to the other side of his desk and knelt down in front of the child. ‘What’s your name, son?’

  The boy – barely more than a toddler – looked up at his father, who smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Hamish,’ he replied in a tiny voice. ‘Whoot’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Inspector Urquhart. Here, this is for you.’ He fished into his trouser pocket and brought out a sixpence, which glinted in the sunlit room.

  Hamish’s eyes lit up, but still he looked up at his father before he took the money on offer.

  ‘Whoot dae you say?’

  ‘Thank you, mister,’ replied the child, studying the coin closely, as though he was seeing money for the first time.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector Urquhart,’ said Ranald. ‘You didna need tae.’

  ‘Happy to. Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You’ll have noted that the lifeboat’s away oot.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Well, they tell me there’s been an accident jeest off Gairsay, no’ far fae the beach where we found that poor soul. My friend tells me there’s somethin’ no’ right aboot it.’

  ‘In what way?’ Urquhart looked puzzled.

  ‘Och, jeest that. A collision o’ Gairsay boats. Hardly the weather for that kind o’ thing. And, well, it jeest makes me feel uneasy. That’s a’ I can say.’

  ‘Uneasy, how?’

  ‘Well, now, you see, if I knew that, I’d be a rich man. Och, sometimes you jeest get a feeling, you know, in the pit o’ your stomach.’

  ‘Do you think I should take a look?’

  ‘Aye, I think maybe you should. I’m mair than happy tae take you. Need tae gie me an hour or so, before we can set off.’

  ‘Can I get a poke o’ jujubes wae this?’ said Hamish, still mesmerised by the sixpence.

  ‘I dare say you can, son.’

  Daley was soon being whisked into the air, the thud of the helicopter blades pounding through his headphones as the aircraft dipped its nose and headed out over the loch, gaining height as it went.

  As they approached the island that guarded Kinloch from the worst the sea could throw at it, he looked down. The causeway was visible now that the tide was ebbing. Soon it would again fulfil its ancient purpose, and tourists and locals alike would be able to walk across it.

  He remembered doing just that with Liz, not long after he’d first arrived in Kinloch. The feeling of walking across the water had been unsettling, and his recollection of the sensation matched his mood today.

  He wondered if old Mr McColl, stuck in his wheelchair at the high window, was watching the helicopter from his room in Stonebrae House.

  The sea darkened as they flew over the island and out into the sound; the waves, choppy and tipped with white, were more restless than they had been in the sheltered waters of the loch.

  Soon they had left the Isle of Arran behind, passing over small islets and skerries before they reached the Ayrshire coast and its patchwork of fields, dotted here and there by sheep and cattle, then small towns and villages. The urban sprawl of Glasgow lay ahead.

  Though he was, in fact, coming home, it didn’t feel like that. He wasn’t quite sure when he had lost the feeling of the city being his home. He supposed that the death of his parents and his move with Liz to the leafy Renfrewshire suburbs had all played their part in the process. These days, nowhere seemed to qualify as home. Kinloch was as near as it came, yet it was already filled with the ghosts that had followed him from the place over which he now flew.

  The tinny sound of the pilot’s voice in his headset announced that they were landing, and he was soon led from the aircraft and into the hospital.

  Sitting in a corridor, waiting for someone to take him to see Hamish, he watched the medics bustling to and fro. A doctor, who seemed impossibly young, jogged past, looking at her watch and muttering under her breath. A few moments later, a distinguished-looking man in a pinstripe suit underneath a pristine white coat strolled past him, followed by a gaggle of trainees clamouring for his attention.

  As always when he visited hospitals, he was forced back to the times when he’d gone to see his mother, before cancer finished off what was left of her. This place was more modern, with bright landscape paintings on the pastel walls and an air of cleanliness and efficiency.

  The stuffy warmth was making him feel drowsy. He could feel the touch of his mother’s cold weightless hand on his, see the anguished face of the woman he had loved. There had been no words, no need for awkward platitudes, just a silent, drawn-out farewell between a mother and son bound together by blood and unconditional love. One life full of endless, fascinating potential; the other dwindling. It was a final goodbye he played over and over in his head.

  ‘Chief Inspector Daley, isn’t it? Please come with me. Your friend is just down at the end of the corridor.’

  He accompanied the nurse to a private side room off a large ward, where the only noise came from bleeping, buzzing and humming machines. Only one bed here, though, and one patient.

  Daley gasped when he saw Hamish’s face. Such was the swelling around both eyes, yellow, black and purple, it made the old man virtually unrecognisable.

  The nurse gently shook her sleeping patient’s shoulder.

  ‘Have we hit a shoal?’ Hamish looked around, bewildered; his body in a hospital bed, his mind in a fishing boat at sea.

  ‘This is the policeman from Kinloch you asked to see, Hamish. He’s come all this way.’ She smiled as the old fisherman tried to focus on his visitor through his puffy eyes.

  ‘Och, I wisna expecting you tae come a’ the way up here, Mr Daley.’

  ‘Well, no signs of memory loss, anyway,’ said the nurse to Daley. ‘I’ll leave you to it. See you in a wee while, Hamish.’

  ‘Aye, she’s
a good wee lassie, that yin,’ said Hamish, smiling up at Daley. ‘There’s this other yin wae an arse the size o’ a small country and a voice like the Pladda foghorn that I’m no’ too keen on.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Och, nae worse than if I’d been oot on the batter for a few nights. A sair heid and I canna feel my right arm very well, but that’ll come back, so they say.’

  Daley felt his temper rise – a rush of anger, as though he was rising off the floor. He fought to keep his expression neutral. ‘Have you remembered anything about what happened? They tell me you kept saying “well of the winds”. What’s that about?’

  ‘Damn me, I canna remember a thing aboot it. You needna worry. I’m no’ the first poor soul who’s taken a hiding, and that’s a fact. No, whoot I have tae say is much mair interesting.’

  ‘The Well of the Winds, it’s a place on Gairsay, right?’

  ‘No. Well, aye, but it’s no’ that I’m blethering on aboot.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘It’s a boat. Well, used tae be a boat. They said it was an accident, but I know that it wisna.’

  Daley began to worry that his old friend was confused and that his journey had been a wasted one. He’d hoped that Hamish had remembered something that would identify his attackers. Instead, his mind appeared to be wandering.

  ‘They Bremners you’re looking for – they did for him. Aye, and mair besides. It jeest came back tae me, efter all these years, tae.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Glenhanity. Och, he’d a real name, but I’ve never known whoot it was. He was a fisherman on Gairsay. They killed him tae shut him up. Folk will tell you it’s a rumour, but I mind different.’

  ‘Who did this? The Bremners?’

  ‘Aye, try an’ keep up, will you? Have you had a dram or two the day, already? You’re away wae the fairies, so you are.’

  ‘So why did they want to shut him up, and how do you know?’

  ‘What they didna know wiz my faither’s friend, auld Malky Lang, was oot on his wee lobster boat. It was a nice day, and Malky was mair a crofter than a fisherman, so he liked tae stay well intae the shore. He was just at the mouth o’ the burn when he saw whoot happened . . .’