Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘So you think he would put it on paper?’

  ‘I’m no’ sayin’ that. Mind, we’re just over a’ the shit John Donald was up tae.’

  ‘Come on! You’re not putting me in the same category as him, are you?’

  ‘Naw, naw, cool your jets, eh, ma’am,’ replied Scott, wincing at the expression. ‘Let me tell you, it doesnae matter what your heid’s telling you. We’ve sorted the problem oot. The mair people know aboot it – no matter who they are – the mair chance you’ve got o’ problems. Trust me.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Symington, snapping some guillemots as Scott stared back at the sea, pondering the plight of fish.

  At sea, near Gairsay, 1945

  Urquhart was thinking how quiet Ranald had been since they left the Bremners on Gairsay. He angled his face towards the sun and closed his eyes. He’d learned a lot about Germany during the last conflict. The diversity of people, places and cultures that now made up the united Germany – the enemy they had been fighting so long – was greater than many in Britain realised. The Jews, persecuted, and if the stories he’d heard were to be believed, now victims of unimaginable cruelty, had made a big impression on him.

  As the Armistice was negotiated, he had come to know a German Jewish family; the father had been his counterpart in many ways. He’d been invited to dine with them on a few occasions and enjoyed being part of a family at a time when he was still mourning the loss of the woman he loved, and missing home.

  Everyone welcomed him without demur, thankful, as he was, that the horrors of the trenches were now behind them. Everyone bar one: old Frau Lansky. Though Jewish, she was fiercely protective of her country, and still regarded Urquhart as the enemy.

  Her family – behind her back – had a name for her, a Yiddish name. Tell the yente this . . . don’t tell the yente that. ‘Yente’ meant ‘she devil’ or ‘harridan’ in English.

  When he’d said that name in front of the Bremners, there had been no response: nothing. For a woman with the redoubtable nature of Mrs Bremner, the insult would have been obvious. She hadn’t turned a hair, though there could be no doubt that she’d heard him.

  It had confirmed his suspicions that the Bremners were no more Jewish than he was. So who exactly were they and why were they lying?

  He believed that he knew the answer, but if he was to expose them he had to be sure of his facts.

  ‘What did you think of what Mr Bremner said about the accident, Ranald?’ he shouted above the putter of the engine.

  The fisherman removed his cap and scratched his head, pipe in hand. ‘Can I be honest wae you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That’s exactly what I want.’

  ‘I canna see how an accident like that wid have happened as he said. Poor seamanship’s the only excuse, an’ I tell you, whoot I know of Glenhanity, he was a good mariner.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He wid never have put himself in danger’s way like that. When you dae somethin’ a’ your life, you get used tae how you have tae dae it. Mr Bremner might be new tae the ways of the sea, but Glenhanity certainly wisna. Aye, an’ it’s him that’s away tae lie on the mortuary slab.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘Jeest my opinion, mark you.’ He put his cap back on and stared back at the sea, and their route home. ‘Oh, aye, and another thing.’

  ‘What?’ asked Urquhart.

  ‘There was a wee stow box under the bench seat o’ Glenhanity’s boat.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘No, no’ at a’. Used tae keep stuff in, like your charts and baccy an’ that. You’re sitting jeest above mine. They’re a’ lead-lined. I line mine wae oilskin, tae – it works efter a fashion.’

  Urquhart reached down and felt the wooden sides of the box that fitted neatly under the seat.

  ‘Yes, but what was so unusual about the box aboard Glenhanity’s boat?’

  ‘I didna say naething at the time. I wisna sure if you wanted me tae, you know, in front o’ they Germans.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Well, somebody’s taken a jemmy tae the box. The lid was pulled clean off – freshly done, tae. The splinters were still sharp, and the wood was fresh, and the sea hadna got at it, which would happen quickly on a wee boat like that.’

  ‘Was there anything inside?’

  ‘No, not a thing. I had a poke aboot, but I don’t think they twigged.’

  ‘Thank you, Ranald.’ Urquhart watched as a guillemot dived into the water like a missile.

  So the Bremners had been searching for something. The question was: what?

  Scott followed Symington into Kinloch Police Office. Though Special Branch had taken over operations at Achnamara, Daley had a team of young detectives investigating the disappearance of the vessel from Belfast that appeared to have been used to effect the family’s escape.

  Symington leaned over DC Potts, who was scanning CCTV footage.

  ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Found this a couple of hours ago.’ He sent images tumbling backwards as he looked for the item he had to show the chief superintendent. ‘Here we are.’ He stopped the footage as the correct frame number appeared in the corner of the screen.

  ‘I cannae see anything,’ said Scott, peering through his half-moon glasses. The image appeared to show a boatyard. A jumble of masts, buoys, lifebelts and general sailing paraphernalia was strewn about the space; a few boats bobbed beside a small pontoon on the left -hand side of the image.

  ‘Wait.’ Potts tapped the keyboard repeatedly, making the image enlarge around a particular area. Soon, two figures could be made out: one, a tall man, was handing something to the other. The transaction over, the former turned on his heel and ducked into a large black SUV, which sped out of shot.

  Scott peered closer, his nose almost touching the screen. ‘Cannae make oot that guy’s face. Can you, ma’am?’

  ‘Talking of faces, what happened to yours, Sergeant?’ asked Potts with a grin.

  ‘Shut up, the pair of you! I’m trying to think here.’

  ‘Dae you think it’s Feldstein? It looks a wee bit like him.’ Scott looked up at Symington.

  ‘I’m not convinced. But it’s somebody, and whoever it is, I’m willing to bet he’s organising the Bremners’ escape. Look at the car. Where’s DCI Daley?’ asked Symington, noting the door to his glass box was open, with no sign of its occupant inside.

  ‘He left about half an hour ago, ma’am. Not sure where he went.’

  ‘Here’s DCI Daley to see you again, Mr McColl.’ Heather Campbell patted the old man gently on the shoulder, making him flinch. ‘Sorry, were you asleep?’ She swung the wheelchair around slowly as McColl blinked his almost translucent eyelids.

  Daley noticed he was much paler and more tired-looking than he had been on his previous visit. The old man smiled at his guest as the manager caught Daley’s eye and mouthed, ‘Not too long,’ out of sight of her charge.

  She made her excuses and left the room.

  ‘Not feeling so great today, Mr McColl?’ asked Daley.

  ‘When you get to my age, you’re just happy to be breathing.’ He coughed.

  ‘I’ve just discovered something I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Oh, if it’s about your friend Hamish, they told me – at least the local minister did, when he was here praying for my soul. Terrible thing. You know, I’ve lived through some of the worst times the world has ever seen – and saw some rough stuff in Hong Kong over the years – and things like that still shock me. Poor man, how is he?’

  ‘He’ll survive. But, I agree, it shocked me, too.’

  McColl licked his lips. ‘Could you pour me a glass of water, Mr Daley?’ he asked, pointing to a jug on the table. ‘Sorry I can’t offer to make you a cup of tea. Heather should have offered you one.’

  ‘She’s got enough to do,’ replied Daley, pouring water into a glass. ‘I’m not staying for long, I can see you’re not feeling too well today.’ He handed the glass to McC
oll, who grasped it with trembling hands.

  ‘Please, stay as long as you want. I do get tired, but it’s part and parcel of being in this condition. Time is heavy on my hands, Inspector. Ironic, really, when you consider how little I have left of it.’

  ‘I’ve discovered something about Inspector Urquhart that I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Oh.’ McColl’s eyes widened. ‘Strange, I was just thinking how much you reminded me of him. You’re taller, of course, but people are taller now, aren’t they? Even in China. Who would’ve thought it?’

  ‘Better nutrition.’

  ‘And a better world, if you find yourself in the right place, that is. I thought Hong Kong would fall apart when the Chinese walked back in. It appears that I was wrong.’ A strange look passed across his face; a mix of surprise and regret, Daley thought.

  ‘Would you have stayed, if you’d known things would turn out the way they have?’

  ‘I might’ve considered it. But, och, better you die where you were born. It’s the natural way of things. As much as I loved Hong Kong, I didn’t want to spend the rest of eternity under the soil there – not under the communists. Buggers would just build a bloody great skyscraper on me, anyway . . . Sorry, I’m rambling. What did you want to tell me?’

  ‘Information has come into my possession about Inspector Urquhart’s disappearance.’

  ‘Oh, I see. How s-strange. How did you come by this?’

  ‘Can’t say, I’m afraid, but I know how he died and where it happened.’

  McColl dropped the glass of water. ‘W-what?’

  Daley watched as the tumbler rolled on the thick carpet, the water turning the carpet a darker shade of red.

  ‘I-I’m sorry, Mr Daley, bit of a surprise after all this time.’

  Daley regarded the old man, mentally cursing, not for the first time, his lack of tact. He had thought that McColl would be intrigued to find out what happened to his mentor, so long ago. He hadn’t considered that it would be so upsetting for him. All of a sudden, McColl looked exhausted, and he’d stammered again, something Daley had noticed on his previous visit.

  ‘Look, let me get the nurse. Do I press a button?’ He looked around the room for an alarm.

  ‘N-no. Tell me, what is it that you know?’

  Daley sighed. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

  ‘Yes, yes, please go ahead.’

  Daley thought he detected a momentary high-handedness that was characteristic of someone with McColl’s background, as well as the time he had spent in the officer class of the Hong Kong police – much more like the army in its structure than its UK equivalent, with indigenous lower ranks largely overseen by patrician ex-pats.

  ‘He was murdered. On the strand over there, near the island.’

  ‘I knew it!’ declared McColl. ‘He took too many risks, wouldn’t share his workload or his theories. He was trying to expose influential people, Mr Daley. Very influential people. I tried to tell him . . .’

  Daley watched the old man’s head sink to his chest.

  37

  ‘Make it go away, Iolo. We have what we need – the leverage we require. The last thing we want is for this bloody place to end up as some kind of curiosity shop, a damn museum.’

  ‘Can’t we just dismiss the Branch and shut the investigation down on a nod and a wink?’

  ‘No can do. Special Branch have already tried to ring-fence the whole thing. They know the significance. Just do the business, then we can let the locals deal with the aftermath, which of course they will be singularly unable to do.’

  ‘Wouldn’t bet on it, sir. Couple of sharp minds up here – more so than that collection of supercops.’

  ‘They have nothing to go on. Bits and pieces they shouldn’t have, that’s all. We’ll shut it down at their HQ. Goodness knows there’s been enough strife in the short time Police Scotland has been in existence. The top brass there won’t want any more bad headlines. Whatever comes of this – and more will – we won’t be implicated.’

  The call ended and Harris immediately dialled another number.

  ‘Alan, I would like to have a sit-down with you and the team – a partial debrief, if you like . . . No, best if it’s everyone. You know how it goes with operational inclusivity these days. We’ll be on Skype to Whitehall, so a good chance for you to make your point to the suits.’ He listened to the response, smiling at the altered tone on the other end of the line. He could almost hear the Special Branch commander purring at the thought of communion with senior members of the intelligence community. ‘Good. Make it for about six? We can have a run-through at five, if you want.’

  Harris took a deep breath, pondering on the subtle arts of pragmatism and discretion.

  ‘You’re looking a bit peely-wally,’ said Scott, sitting opposite his old friend in his glass box.

  ‘Peely-wally? You look as though you’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. What happened to your coupon?’

  ‘Long story, buddy. Suffice tae say, I was a knight in shining armour on a big white horse.’

  ‘The closest you’ve ever got to a white horse is drinking it. Tell me that whatever happened isn’t going to rebound, Brian. I’m not in the mood for any complications right now.’

  ‘Nah, just a storm in a teacup. The other guy’s off wae a worse-looking coupon than mine. Aye, an’ a flea in his ear, tae boot.’

  Daley scrutinised his friend as he was speaking. He knew he was being spun a yarn, but he had neither the strength nor the inclination to probe further. Brian was a big boy now; whatever he’d been up to, he’d have to get on with it.

  ‘Our new gaffer looks distinctly furtive, too. What gives there?’

  ‘Och, you know, wee bit o’ man trouble. You know yoursel’, the heart’s a sair maister, eh? As my dear auld mother used tae say.’

  Daley sensed that Scott was trying to bring this conversation to an end, so decided to let him.

  ‘We’ve got a guy handing something over at that boatyard in Belfast, so we can assume that he was part of the effort to extricate the Bremners.’

  ‘Yes, and driving a vehicle that bears more than a passing resemblance to the SUV that was crawling round Kinloch on the night Hamish was attacked.’

  ‘Aye, bang on, Jimmy. Ever get the feeling there’s somebody at the back of all this, just pulling strings?’

  ‘Yes, but why? Pity we haven’t got access to all of the files from the Bremners’ place.’

  ‘Who says we haven’t?’

  ‘What have you done?’ Daley looked dismayed.

  ‘Me? How come naebody ever says, “Aye right, Brian, well done!” Naw, for me it’s always the opposite.’

  Daley looked unconvinced.

  ‘I’m pleased tae say, Jimmy, my auld mate, I was following orders to the letter.’

  ‘Indeed he was,’ said Symington with a smile, entering the room.

  Daley looked at her. She was presenting the same façade – head held high, authoritative but friendly manner – as she walked into his office, but he detected something else. He’d seen it when they first arrived back from Gairsay. There was always something to be found behind the eyes. Maybe he was just looking for things that weren’t there, overthinking everything. If that was the case, though, he’d been overcomplicating things to solve crimes his whole career, so he saw no reason to doubt his judgement.

  ‘Here, tell him about they photos you had me take, ma’am,’ said Scott.

  ‘You mean the ones I had to surrender to Special Branch?’

  ‘Aye, they ones.’

  Daley was thoroughly confused; not just by what Symington and Scott were trying to tell him, but by the strange familiarity that was now apparent between them. The visible manifestations of bonds forged in adversity, he thought. He remembered Scott’s constant difficulties with John Donald. The pair had barely managed to tolerate each other for years. Now, it seemed, his friend’s relationship with Donald’s successor was of an entirely different nature.r />
  ‘I want us to pool all we have,’ said Daley. ‘Everything you picked up on Gairsay, and what I’ve got, plus what’s happened in the interim . . . if you think that’s appropriate, ma’am?’

  ‘It’s still our patch. We’ve managed to salvage enough evidence to try and make sense of things, so I think we should try.’

  ‘Tae what end? I mean, even if we discover what they Bremners were up to or what happened tae them, what good will it dae? That Welsh spook’s there to make sure the whole thing gets covered up – trust me,’ said Scott, grimacing as he took a gulp of cold coffee.

  ‘Okay, here’s my overview,’ offered Daley. ‘We have a family embedded on the island for decades, clearly spies, and possibly for other, more obscure purposes.’

  ‘Like spiriting away Nazis at the end of the war, for instance,’ remarked Symington.

  ‘Yes, undoubtedly, but I’m sure there’s more to it. Something’s nagging away at me. If you have access to the paperwork from the cellar, we can maybe make progress on that front.’

  ‘I have an expert looking at it all. We’ll have to keep it quiet, but I can trust him.’

  ‘So, we stand a chance of discovering what happened over a number of years. But it doesn’t answer the question as to what changed so suddenly to encourage an entire family – three generations of them, remember – to up sticks and flee at the drop of a hat. What on earth could prompt it? Even if the activities of senior members of the family during the war had come to light, surely the impact on everyone else would be minimal?’

  ‘Unless they was still up tae something – the whole lot o’ them,’ said Scott.

  ‘But what could that possibly be?’ said Symington. ‘And you say this Harris wants to meet with you, Jim. I wonder why.’

  ‘No idea, ma’am. He called earlier – all very mysterious.’

  ‘That mob are always mysterious – that’s why they’re called spooks, Jimmy.’