Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  The linoleum tiles were slathered with a grey-brown pool, upon which the body lay, propped up between the sink and the door. Her face was ashen, angled up to the ceiling, a look of abject horror in her staring eyes. A green sludge had trickled from the corners of her slack mouth and down the front of her clothing.

  He rushed out of the kitchen, doubled over and retched. He felt the room starting to spin. Amid his panic and revulsion, he resolved to resign his position as special constable forthwith. However much he enjoyed wearing the uniform, parading about the island when it was full of tourists, the events of the last few days had opened his eyes. If this was real policing, he was happy to leave it to the professionals.

  He straightened up, took another deep breath, and was about to make for the front door and fresh air, when he felt something hit him. He twisted his neck to look down at his shoulder, along which a large silverfish was creeping, antennae twitching.

  Special Constable Malcolm McAuley felt the world slip away as he fainted, landing on the sticky carpet with a thud.

  There was a crack, almost like thunder, but lacking the resonance.

  Mrs McAuley heard it as she stirred the soup for tomorrow’s lunch on the stove.

  The fishermen, hauling creels from their lobster boat in the bay, heard it, too, and looked up into the clear blue sky, wondering from where the noise had come.

  In his kitchen at the boathouse restaurant, the chef jumped, slicing the tip of his thumb with his Sabatier knife, sending a splash of red blood across the carrots he was about to julienne.

  A visiting golfer on the beautiful nine-hole course swung his club and connected only with fresh air, his score now spoiled by the bang, which still echoed across the bay.

  At the fish farm, a worker poured too much cleaning solution into the holding tank, the sudden crack having made his hand wobble.

  Across Gairsay, people emerged from their homes and places of work, looked about, and wondered what on earth had happened. Was it an explosion? It sounded like one.

  In the hotel, looking out at the gathering darkness from the bar, Harris quietly sipped his drink and watched the young barmaid as she swept up the remnants of the pint glass she’d dropped. He smiled at the attention she was being given by the Special Branch officers who were asking her if she was okay.

  Alan Bale walked across the room, a large glass of red wine in his hand. ‘What on earth was that? Sounded like a bomb going off.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that, too. But why on earth would anyone set off a bomb here?’

  ‘We better get on to the local boys. Don’t want to be standing around here in the hotel if something’s kicking off. There’s a special on the island, but better call the main office in Kinloch. I’ll do it. I’m the senior police officer here, in any case.’

  ‘By quite a long way,’ said Harris under his breath as he watched Alan head to the bar, in search of the number for Kinloch Police Office.

  On the floor of Glenhanity’s cottage, McAuley was regaining consciousness. After a moment of confusion, he remembered where he was and forced himself to his knees, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, which he’d knocked when he fell.

  Breathing rapid, shallow breaths, he crawled from the room, out of the cottage, and into the blessed relief of fresh air. The phone in his pocket began to ring, just as he spotted something in the gloaming.

  A thick pall of dark smoke was rising from Gairsay. Though he couldn’t see the source of it, he knew that he was looking across the fields in the general direction of Achnamara.

  ‘M-McAuley,’ he said, scrambling to his feet and answering the call without checking who was on the other end.

  ‘It’s Sergeant Shaw at Kinloch Police Office. We’ve had reports of an unidentified explosion coming from the island. Can you have a look?’

  ‘No, no, I can’t. I resign. Now, in fact. I would get someone over here quick smart, if I was you.’

  He put the phone back in his pocket, pulled the hat from his head, and stamped it into the mud.

  40

  ‘Question one!’ yelled Annie. She was sitting in front of the bar in the County Hotel, brandishing a redundant microphone, which squealed in protest if she spoke too loudly. ‘Whoot place is further north, Kinloch or Newcastle?’

  ‘Might have known,’ said Scott. ‘Obsessed wae themselves. Is every question going tae be aboot Kinloch? If so, we’re buggered.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Brian,’ replied Symington.

  Daley took a sip of his beer. He noticed that his chief superintendent, after a good meal and a few glasses of wine, had relaxed. Looking at her and Scott, his face bruised and battered, he wondered again just what had passed between the pair on Gairsay.

  ‘Question two! One for you boys in the fire brigade, I’m thinkin’. Name the firemen fae Trumpton.’

  ‘Fuck me, it’ll be Muffin the Mule next,’ said Scott.

  ‘That’s contrary to Section Two of the Animal Welfare Act, isn’t it?’ said Daley.

  ‘Just you get your thinking cap on, Jimmy boy. Wae a’ they books you’ve read, surely some o’ the words will have stuck. Was wan o’ them no’ called McGrew?’

  ‘I don’t even know what Trumpton is,’ said Symington with a hiccough.

  ‘Easy!’ shouted a thick-set red-headed man who sported the weathered complexion that Daley associated with fishermen and farmers. Daley reckoned he knew him, but couldn’t quite place the face.

  ‘Sit down, Kerr,’ shouted Campbell the lawyer. ‘If you’re trying to put us off, you won’t succeed.’

  Kerr – the name rang a bell. Daley recalled that the farmer he’d read about in Urquhart’s journal who had been killed by the bull had the same name, and red hair. Yes, he’d had a farm near Blaan. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  ‘Question three! Name the odd yin oot: a blue whale, a sperm whale, a minke whale an’ a killer whale.’

  ‘Here, how can there be an odd yin oot when they’re a’ whales?’ shouted one of the fire brigade’s team.

  ‘Whoot wid be the point o’ me telling you that? It’s a quiz, no’ Look and Learn. Jeest put doon an answer.’

  Daley eyed the red-haired man.

  Kinloch, 1945

  It had been almost forty-eight hours since he had given Mitchell the message, and there was still no reply. Urquhart questioned the wisdom of giving the farmhand money. He’d given him a hard time in an attempt to find out the truth, but he’d felt sorry for him. Though he knew someone had closed the gate to the cattle float, leaving Kerr to his fate, he wasn’t convinced it was Mitchell, though he was sure he had been present. In any case, all of it would have been almost impossible to prove.

  There were more sinister forces at work, of that he was sure.

  For some reason, he hadn’t felt like going home this evening. He rarely felt this way, but at the moment, rather than shunning his fellow townsfolk, he felt as though he needed company, so had headed to the County Hotel.

  As he was being served, he looked through the serving hatch at the vestibule beyond. A woman in a tatty coat, headscarf knotted under her chin, was standing there, a battered cardboard suitcase at her feet. She could have been almost any age, from thirty to her mid fifties, but the inspector reckoned that she was younger, and that some problem –an illness, or perhaps just a hard life – had worn her down.

  The child at her side, a little girl, most likely only four or five, seemed unnaturally quiet, as though, like her mother, she was at the mercy of some overriding sadness. A red curl had escaped from under her grimy white beret, and he could see she’d been crying, yet she studied the noisy drinkers behind the hatch with no little fascination.

  Urquhart cursed his compulsion to analyse everyone, even if they weren’t suspects, or of interest to the police. It was a habit he couldn’t break.

  ‘Here you are, Mr Urquhart. Have that one on me. Ranald said you’d had a hard day the other day. He said nothing mair, mind you, just that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ repli
ed Urquhart, lifting the dimpled pint glass from the bar.

  ‘I see you looking,’ said the barman, leaning forward. ‘That’s the lassie who just lost her man, you know, on the lobster boat at Gairsay. She’s booking in. Has to make the arrangements, take possession of the body and gie it tae auld Kennedy the undertaker. Sad business, the poor lassie.’

  ‘Can you look after that for me for a moment?’ said Urquhart. He left his pint on the bar and walked out into the vestibule.

  The first ten questions had been asked – a third of the quiz – so Annie was taking a break, allowing her customers to recharge their glasses. Daley walked to the bar, waiting patiently to be served behind a throng of customers.

  Standing next to him was Kerr. The man smiled at Daley, nodded in greeting.

  ‘Some tough questions, eh?’ said Daley.

  ‘Aye, I knew fine Annie widna make them easy. As long as she doesna get too intellectual, whoot wae a’ they lawyers.’

  ‘What gives you the idea that lawyers are intellectual?’ remarked Daley with a smile.

  ‘I reckon you’ll know a’ aboot that, whoot wae your job, an’ a’.’

  ‘Could I have a quick word with you? Nothing important, daft, really.’

  ‘I’ve never been asked questions by a polisman that didna have some reason behind them. Och, but I’ve naethin’ tae hide, so ask away.’

  ‘If we can step out here, just for a second or two.’ He led Kerr into the hallway outside the bar.

  ‘Here, this is gettin’ serious. I didna dae it, whootever it is.’

  ‘I’m trying to piece together the life of one of my predecessors. Just a hobby, really. The inspector who was here at the end of the war. He was called—’

  ‘William Urquhart was his name,’ interrupted Kerr. ‘He investigated the death o’ my great-uncle Dougie. Aye, then disappeared himsel’, the poor bugger.’

  ‘Oh, so you know all about it.’

  ‘I widna say that. There was a bit o’ a stink at the time, you know, him disappearin’ jeest after Dougie was killed. Terrible death it was – crushed by a great lump o’ a bull in a cattle float.’

  ‘Yes, it sounded horrible. I’ve been reading all about it. Everyone blamed the farmhand, a man called Andrew Mitchell, I think.’

  ‘Aye, they did that, but we never believed it – the family, I mean. No’ for many years, anyway.’

  Daley was surprised. ‘I thought it was pretty open and shut.’

  ‘No, not at all. He left a note, well, no’ a note addressed tae anyone in particular. My faither found it in his papers a few years later. He moved in exalted circles, auld Dougie. He had freens in high places, the laird o’er at Glenlargie, for one. He was on the local council an’ that. Got mair than he bargained for. So my faither reckoned, anyway.’

  ‘So you don’t blame Mitchell?’

  ‘Well, in the note, Dougie wrote aboot how he’d found somethin’ oot. Some secret that scunnered him o’ a’ they dignitaries he kept company wae. He was worried that he was in danger.’

  ‘Yes. I know he’d arranged to meet Urquhart on the day he died. Do you know what he was worried about?’

  ‘No, no’ really. Just that it was something tae dae with the war. The story in the family was he found a spy, but, och, that’s likely fanciful. He wrote it for his wife, but she never got tae see it. For some reason it jeest got lumped in wae his belongings when he died. My faither found it when he was clearing oot an auld loft at the farm.’

  ‘Did he report it?’

  ‘Naw, this was nearly twenty years later. Naebody was bothered by that time. Maist o’ the folk that would have been involved were deid, anyhow.’

  ‘Did you hear any more about Mitchell? He left town, according to Inspector Urquhart’s journal.’

  Kerr looked puzzled. ‘No’ the story I heard.’

  ‘Oh. What did you hear?’

  ‘They found him deid. Flung himsel’ off the rocks near Machrie – roon the coast, anyway.’

  ‘Funny that the inspector didn’t mention that.’

  ‘You’re the man wae the records. I’m thinking he disappeared no’ long after Mitchell topped himsel’. Mind you, that’s jeest a notion.’

  They heard the microphone squeal back into life in the bar. ‘Yous have two minutes tae get back intae your teams. We’ll be here till four in the morning at this rate.’

  ‘That’ll be fine!’ Daley heard someone shout.

  He walked back into the bar, deep in thought. He’d broken the rules of investigation, many of them his own. He had read Urquhart’s description of his meeting with Mitchell, how he’d given him money to help him leave the area and make a new life. He’d assumed that the younger man had taken the advice and gone. Daley had failed to check the records of the time to see if anything could be gleaned from them. It was a basic mistake, but it annoyed him nonetheless.

  He returned to the table where Scott and Symington were looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Did you forget your wallet, Jimmy? asked Scott, a withering look on his face.

  ‘Sorry?’ replied Daley, mystified.

  ‘He means, where are the drinks?’ said Symington with a broad smile.

  Daley headed back to the bar, deep in thought.

  Kinloch, 1945

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Inspector Urquhart.’

  Before the woman had a chance to reply, the little girl piped up. ‘We’re fae Glenhanity croft on Gairsay, an’ my dada’s deid, all ’cause o’ the evil woman an’ that wean.’

  The mother pulled her daughter roughly by the arm, instantly making her burst into tears. ‘Whoot did I tell you aboot that mooth o’ yours!’ she shouted, then fought to regain her composure. ‘Sorry, Inspector, my daughter hasn’t worked oot yet when tae speak an’ when tae keep quiet.’

  ‘You have my condolences. I’m investigating what happened to your husband, and I can assure you—’

  ‘My husband drooned!’ she shouted. ‘Drooned, plain an’ simple. You’ve naethin’ tae investigate.’ Despite her protestations, he could see she was frightened.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I’ve a lot tae deal wae. I jeest want tae get the wee one settled, and dae whoot we’ve got tae dae the morrow and get back home, so if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  Urquhart turned round, seeing the receptionist was back at her post, brandishing the room key. He watched the mother sign the hotel register and take the key. After a nod of thanks to the receptionist, she picked up her suitcase and made her way up the staircase. The luxurious thick red carpet made the mother and child look pitifully out of place.

  The little girl turned round to take a last look at the policeman with her big dark eyes, before rubbing her nose on her sleeve. ‘How did you no’ tell the man aboot Well o’ the Winds?’ she exclaimed.

  The woman tugged at the girl’s arm, almost making her topple over. ‘Shut up!’

  Urquhart walked back into the bar and drained half of his drink without returning to his seat. The last thing he’d wanted to do was upset the grieving woman, but he’d been surprised by her reaction. Grief could do strange things to a person – he knew that – but she had seemed genuinely terrified.

  The big doors of the bar creaked open. Though Urquhart didn’t bother to turn round to see who came in, he soon felt a tap on his shoulder.

  ‘McColl, what do you want?’

  ‘Sir, a letter for you. Someone posted it through the front door of the station.’

  Urquhart looked at the plain brown envelope. It read: INSPECTOR W. URQUHART. PRIVATE.

  He untucked the envelope flap, read the contents of the note inside, and then stuffed both into his pocket. ‘When did this arrive, and why is it open?’

  ‘Not sure, sir. A constable brought it to me a few minutes ago. I thought you might be in here, so I thought I’d bring it down. What is it?’

  ‘I have an appointment in a couple of hours or so.’

  ‘Shall I come
with you, sir?’

  ‘No. You get home, get some rest. I have a feeling you won’t be getting very much in the foreseeable future.’

  McColl looked crestfallen.

  ‘Don’t be so precious, McColl. This is a job I need to do alone. As you progress in your police career, you’ll realise it’s the only way sometimes.’

  ‘V-very good, sir. I’ll s-see you tomorrow.’

  Urquhart watched the young man walk off, not without a touch of petulance, which, he reasoned, was no bad thing. Perhaps his young charge was beginning to emerge from the long shadow of his father after all.

  Mitchell had done his job. Maybe now he would be able to get to the bottom of things.

  41

  Gairsay’s part-time fire service had done its best to save the farmhouse, but the explosion had torn out the heart of the dwelling and virtually nothing was left, save for a few charred timbers and a mass of blackened, melted detritus – the remnants of furniture, cooking utensils and electrical equipment, the stuff of domesticity.

  Commander Bale looked under the arc lighting that had been erected by the fire brigade from the mainland, who had arrived as quickly as possible to aid their island colleagues. ‘Whoever did this made a bloody good job of it. Nothing left – absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Yes, looks as though the charge was set in the cellar, so it’s in even worse shape. You guys will have plenty images, though,’ said Harris, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a thick winter jacket.

  ‘We have what we have, sir. Couldn’t legislate for this happening – well, we couldn’t.’

  Harris contemplated the smouldering wreck of what was once Achnamara farmhouse and stroked his chin. ‘What are you suggesting, Commander?’

  ‘Me? Nothing, apart from the fact that it was convenient we were all taking part in your debrief when this happened. Normally, we’d have had somebody there round the clock, but you wanted to speak to us all. So what is it my granddaughter comes out with? Ah, yes, “just saying”.’