‘We’ll get our heads down and try and join our dots.’
‘Here, is it quiz night at the County the night?’ asked Scott, the master of the left field. ‘Need tae gie the grey matter a wee break. You, too, by the look o’ things.’
‘I’ve always thought your grey matter was very well rested,’ quipped Daley.
‘And it’s something tae dae when you cannae get plastered o’ an evening.’ Scott smiled knowingly.
As they prepared to review what they’d managed to glean, both in Kinloch and on Gairsay, Daley’s mind drifted to the journal of Inspector William Urquhart. No matter how bizarre he thought the idea, he had convinced himself that the fate of his predecessor was the key to making sense of what had happened to the Bremner family.
Kinloch, 1945
Andrew Mitchell was sitting on the rocks, staring at a large warship making its way out of the loch via the navigable channel on the other side of the island. He could see sailors going about their business on deck, amid a flurry of ropes, shouts and whistles, as they prepared to enter the sound and the mighty Atlantic beyond.
He never thought he would envy these men. In the early part of the war, as more and more servicemen appeared in Kinloch, turning it from a sleepy county town into a bustling naval port, he’d often wondered why on earth anyone would volunteer to get themselves blown to smithereens. He’d wrapped his sandwiches in brown paper and cycled dutifully to the farm every day, thankful that his life didn’t offer up the horrors that these men faced.
Now, though, he did feel envious. His life had become so complicated and dangerous, he would have happily swum out to the big ship and stowed away, faced any danger in order to escape the misery that was now his existence.
An oystercatcher’s mournful cry yielded a counterpoint to the deep rumble of the warship’s engine. The bird disappeared across the undulating water of the loch, which was changing colour as the sun sank into the Atlantic, invisible to him across the other side of the peninsula. The white dots of sheep and the occasional wild goat began to take on a golden hue as they grazed on the steep slopes of the island to his right.
Though he heard the crunch of the pebbles, he didn’t turn round to see who was coming. He knew.
‘Mitchell, what do you have for me?’
He remained silent for a while, too miserable to reply. He was being forced to play a game he’d never wanted to be part of, and had absolutely no aptitude for. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, could hardly feel. He was content dealing with cows and sheep – not so much pigs, but even that was better than what he was actually doing.
When he tried to sleep, all he could hear were the bloodcurdling screams of Dugald Kerr being trampled to death by that beast. There had been death, and there would be more, and there was nothing he could do about it.
‘Answer me when I talk to you!’ Urquhart’s voice was stern. ‘You’ve dragged me here to tell me something. I want to know what it is, now!’ His raised voice echoed across the causeway, over to the island and back again.
For the first time, Mitchell looked up at the policeman. ‘They want to meet you.’
‘Who wants to meet me, and why? If you’ve told them about our agreement, I’ll arrest you now, and you’ll hang before the summer’s out. That’s a promise.’
‘I’m jeest passing on a message. I dinna know whoot they think, or whoot they know. It didna come fae me. I jeest got telt tae pass it tae you.’
‘By whom?’
‘A man. I’ve never seen him before.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Och, I don’t know. Big chiel, thin, posh.’
‘And he asked for me by name?’
‘Aye.’
‘Out of the blue? You had nothing to do with this, and you don’t know him?’
‘No! Like I telt you, I’ve never seen him afore. He just asked me tae pass this on tae you, somewhere quiet, like.’
‘And what do your fancy new friends say?’
‘Oh aye. Whoot freens? Naebody wants anything tae dae wae me.’ He stood up. ‘I jeest want tae get away fae here – get this o’er an’ get away fae this place. I’ve done whoot you asked, kept an eye on things, no’ said naethin’. That was the deal, right?’
Urquhart had put Mitchell under pressure intentionally. He wasn’t really surprised that whoever was using the susceptible young farmhand had been able to see he was being pulled from both sides.
‘When do you speak to this man?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve jeest tae wait until he contacts me.’
‘Tell me what you need from me.’
‘He wants a time an’ a place, somewhere quiet tae meet you.’
‘Very well. In two nights’ time. Here will do, down by the causeway. Tell him I’ll meet him here.’
‘Aye, an’ you’ve no’ tae tell naebody.’
Urquhart didn’t reply.
‘Whoot if he doesna get in touch wae me before you want tae meet, I mean?’ There was a sudden panic in the young man’s voice.
‘He’s hardly likely to send you here to ask the question, then not follow it up. He’ll contact you, don’t worry.’ Urquhart looked down at Mitchell; he looked young and scared, like so many men in this war and the last. The way he had been. He couldn’t help but feel a certain sympathy for the lad. ‘Do yourself a great service, son. Leave here, get a job far away. Make a life for yourself, and be thankful you still have a life to do something with. Far too many young men like yourself don’t have that luxury.’
‘And you’ll jeest let me go?’
Urquhart shrugged. ‘I think you’ve played your part. Take the chance while you have it.’ He dug into his trouser pocket and withdrew a five-pound note. ‘Here, take this.’
‘Whoot’s this for?’
‘Just say it’s for services rendered. Use it to make a new start. What happened to your raincoat, by the way?’
Mitchell ran his hand over the rip in the gabardine. ‘Caught it on my bike.’
Urquhart lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it as he watched Mitchell tramp back along the rocky shore, then up over the machair to his bike, which was propped against the fence by the road above.
38
Special Constable McAuley switched off the till and walked across to the shop’s door, turning the notice on it from OPEN to CLOSED.
It had been a quiet day. He’d already tallied up, so was looking forward to taking the narrow stairs up to the flat above the shop, having dinner, a small glass of whisky, and putting his feet up in front of the TV for the evening.
Just as he hefted the cloth bag of coins, he heard movement from behind.
‘I’m just on my way up, dear,’ he said to his wife, as she appeared, bird-like, at the back of the counter. ‘Do you need anything from down here before I set the alarm?’
‘Set the alarm! Listen to you,’ she replied. ‘Has there ever been a robbery at this shop – in fact, anywhere on the island?’
‘You know what’s been happening at Achnamara. Gairsay is quiet, but I tell you, dear, you never know what will happen next. Wearing my police hat, I’ve seen things – aye, even here – I never thought I’d see.’
‘Och, you and your hats.’
‘Metaphorically speaking. I wasn’t saying that I can only think about my various duties if I have the right hat on. That would be childish.’
She smiled. ‘I know fine. I’m only teasing, love.’ She bit her lip, a worried expression crossing her face.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Och, just a thought. I haven’t seen Glenhanity today, or yesterday, come to that. Have you?’
‘Now you mention it, no, I haven’t. I suppose I just assumed that she’d been in when you were down here in the morning, as usual.’
His wife shook her head. ‘It’s no’ like her, that’s for sure. She’s normally regular as clockwork, coming in for her cider.’
‘I hope you’re not selling alcohol before ten. We’ve spoken ab
out that,’ he chided.
‘I have not.’ She looked indignant. ‘I know fine when I can sell booze and when I can’t. Even if I did, what could happen? You’re not going to get the appropriate hat on and arrest me, are you?’
He frowned at the dig, but chose to ignore it. ‘I’ll give the hotel a call. I’m betting she’s sprawled across the bar as we speak.’
‘I’ll get your hat,’ she said, smiling at his obvious annoyance.
The three detectives were in the dining room at the County Hotel. It was just after five and they had decided to have a meal prior to having a go at the quiz.
‘They always do lovely fish in here,’ said Symington. ‘I had lemon sole the last time I was here. It was delicious.’
‘Widnae be up tae much if they couldnae manage a decent fish roon here,’ replied Scott, swilling his ginger beer and lime around the glass with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘The loch is just at the bottom o’ the road. No’ many food miles involved up here. Bloody things can near jump on the plates.’
‘Food miles?’ remarked Daley.
‘Aye, all the rage noo, Jimmy. The further your dinner has tae travel tae get on your plate, the worse it is for the planet.’ Scott nodded wisely. ‘It’s a’ aboot seasonality and local produce these days, that’s for sure.’
‘And you know all this, how?’
‘Every bugger and his friend knows aboot it. See if we all ate what grows near where we live, or gets reared on local farms, the world would be better a’together. A’ that carbon footprint stuff, you know, the energy it takes tae get your scran halfway across the planet. That’s a bloody disgrace.’
‘Do you have the Food Network at home?’ asked Symington.
‘Aye, we got it a few weeks ago wae oor new satellite package. Right interesting, so it is. Thon Hugh Fearnley-Whitshisname is a right canny bloke.’
As Daley eyed his friend with amusement, the redoubtable Annie bustled in with three plates of food, one of them balanced in the crook of her arm.
‘Right, noo, here’s your lemon sole, Ms Symington. And your steak and chips, Mr Daley.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daley, looking down at the large cut of rib eye, still sizzling on the plate.
‘And here we are, Brian, one kangaroo burger, jeest how you like it.’
‘Spot on, Annie, I’m fair ravenous the day. It’s a’ this sailing yous have got me at again,’ he said, digging his knife and fork into the juicy burger.
‘Lots of kangaroos where you live, Brian?’ asked Daley.
‘Eh, here, this is bloody good,’ replied Scott.
‘Are yous taking part in the quiz the night?’ asked Annie.
Symington looked up. ‘Oh, yes, a little light relief, then back to the grindstone.’
‘Grand. We’ve got a team fae the lawyers coming in the night, an’ the fire brigade, tae. Hope it’ll no’ be a grudge match,’ she said, leaving her charges to their dinner.
McAuley buckled his belt, making sure that his handcuffs and baton were located just where they should be. He looked at himself in the long mirror, adjusting the angle of his hat. He was always amazed just how different wearing a uniform made you look and feel. There had been no sign of Glenhanity in the hotel, and he was now getting ready to pay her a visit at home.
‘You be careful, Malcolm. You know fine how nasty she can get if she’s on a right bender.’
‘Don’t you worry, dear. I’ll go up on the quad bike. That road up past the Well of the Winds is almost impassable now with all the mud. Hopefully we’ll get a decent summer – dry the place out.’
She wished him well as he thudded down the stairs, then listened to him kick-start the bike. He was soon chugging away on the machine.
She pushed her last boiled potato around the plate in a pool of melted butter, then pushed the plate away, reaching across the table for the phone.
The number was a long one, but she knew it off by heart. She waited as the phone clicked and bleeped, then listened intently as an unfamiliar tone pulsed in her ear.
‘He will find her soon,’ she said, without preamble, when the call was answered.
‘Good. You will have time once they have removed her body. Use it well.’
Nothing else needed to be said.
*
Iolo Harris sat in the centre of a ring of Special Branch officers. Each of them had made their point and he had dutifully taken notes, trying to appear as engaged as humanly possible.
‘Right, so any more questions?’ The reply was a collective shaking of heads. ‘In that case, we’ll go live to Whitehall in a few moments. Just enough time for a coffee, do you think, Alan?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’ The Special Branch commander stood up and stretched. ‘Do you think they’ll be impressed?’
‘Oh, I should think so. You’ve found a lot of things the unit from Glasgow missed completely. That micro CCTV network monitored from the bungalow, for a start. Major feather in the cap.’
The burly English policeman put his arm around the shoulders of the slight Welshman, taking him to a corner of the room, where he adopted a more conspiratorial tone. ‘I wouldn’t be averse to a late career change, if you know what I mean, Mr Harris.’
‘Please, Alan, Iolo. Let’s not stand on ceremony. Is life in the Branch not treating you well?’
‘Well, no, I wouldn’t quite say that. This is a high-profile case – could hardly be more so – but one has to take one’s chances when they present themselves, I’m sure you agree.’
What Harris thought and what he said in reply were two very different things. Still, he reasoned, this pompous oaf’s sails would soon be spilling wind.
‘One must indeed take the chances while they’re there to take.’
39
McAuley brought the quad bike to a juddering halt in the yard at Glenhanity farm. A pile of black plastic refuse sacks were propped up against the wall beneath what he knew to be the kitchen window. An emaciated hen, bald patches on its wings, was pecking hopefully at the muddy ground. An ancient bicycle, originally black but now more rust than paint, had been abandoned near a stretch of dry stone wall which looked very much as though it was ready to collapse. A crow hopped along its length, regarding him with a beady black eye.
That this was called a farm really was a joke. The dwelling house was nothing more than a hovel, the parcel of land barely large enough to be thought of as a croft. The owners of Gairsay, way back in the mists of time, had renamed it ‘farm’ in the hope that someone would take the place on. No one ever had, so it had remained in the possession of the old woman who spent her days boozing; physically there, but living only in her tortured, alcoholic mind.
He grimaced at the thought of ending his days in such a way. He had the lease of the shop and the flat above, but had been giving more thought recently to what he would do when he and Jean retired and were forced to make way for younger shopkeepers. In the back of his mind, he really wanted to leave the island, the place he’d spent most of his life, to experience something new and different before he was too old to care. He wasn’t sure his wife would share the notion, but it was a discussion they would have to have soon.
The caw of the crow echoed across the yard, returning him to the present, and his duties.
‘Hello! Anybody there?’ The question sounded forced, but for want of something else to shout, it would have to do. He realised that he was again looking for someone in a place that looked as deserted as Achnamara. While he hoped the outcome would be different, he had decided as he bounced across the hillside on the quad bike that if she was lying drunk and most likely abusive, he was going to call for the community nurse. Helping geriatric alcoholics was not in the remit of a retained police officer, as far as he was concerned.
He turned the handle of the front door, unsurprised when it creaked open. The stench of the house, a mix of unwashed skin, cat piss and general decay, almost made him choke.
‘Glenhanity?’ He entered the living room, noticing a
bottle of whisky on the mantelpiece, its cap cast onto the carpet. He’d been here many times before, helping the old woman with her groceries, but it definitely looked worse than normal. There were ashes in the hearth, and the old clock was almost two hours slow, its tick sounding hesitant and hollow, like a diseased heart about to stop.
He stared at the painting – the only thing in this house he had ever admired. The woman smiled from the front of the Gairsay Hotel of old. He walked towards the fireplace and looked more closely. The frame was soot-black, but when he put on his reading glasses, he could make out a small brass plate with something etched into it.
He’d never had the chance to examine the painting at close quarters, so took the opportunity to run his finger across the brass, revealing the name more clearly: Well of the Winds.
That didn’t make sense. Though the subject was on Gairsay, the scene was of the village, and nothing to do with the tiny loch on the hillside not far from here.
He shrugged his shoulders, tutting when he looked at his blackened finger, which he rubbed on the greasy velveteen arm of the couch as he walked by.
‘Glenhanity, where the hell are you?’ he called again, this time with more urgency and exasperation.
The door into the tiny kitchen was ajar. This, of course, was his destination when he delivered the groceries – such as they were. Usually a loaf, some potatoes, a few tins of beans and some sausages, always complemented with gut-rot whisky and cans of head-splittingly strong cider.
For a while, when he’d first taken on the shop, he’d wrestled with his conscience, concerned that he was profiting from the old woman’s misery by selling her booze. Then, his wife, not for the first time, made him see sense. Would Glenhanity not just buy her alcohol somewhere else if they didn’t provide the service? One thing was for sure, if she was forced to buy whisky from the hotel – the only other outlet on the island, and much more expensive than the shop – the meagre list of foodstuffs that she could afford would dwindle to nothing.
He wrinkled his nostrils at a new smell, even more offensive than the general odour of the place that assaulted his senses every time he visited. He pushed at the door with the toe of his boot, and had to grip the door jamb to prevent himself from collapsing when he saw Glenhanity.
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