by A. D. Scott
When she told her husband, he was amused; Rob, less so. “I’m not sure how I feel about working with my mother.”
“Ah, I want to talk to you about that.”
She gave him the brochure. She explained her plan. She knew only a small number of students were enrolled per year, and older students were encouraged to apply. She told him he would of course be accepted. She said his audition was four weeks away. “So I’ve arranged some coaching from Mrs. Ward, the elocution teacher. All you have to do is learn your lines.”
“I’m not sure I want to be an actor.” Rob was staring at the audition guidelines.
“Studying drama is an opening into television,” Margaret explained. “You are now a qualified journalist. Next you study acting. Most of all, you will be there, in a big city with a marvelous theater and television studios, and training to be an actor—think of the contacts you’ll make.”
You won’t be continuously thinking about what happened here, remembering every time you pass that street, which is on your way home, that you killed a woman. Margaret McLean also knew that in a small town like theirs, Rob McLean would forever be the person who killed Moira Forbes with a spade, almost severing her head. The gossip was such that some people had Rob beheading Moira Forbes, à la Mary Queen o’ Scots.
Rob took the brochure up to his room and studied it as he listened to late-night Radio Luxembourg. He liked the idea, saw the sense in it. And, like his mother, he was confident he would be accepted.
• • •
Frankie Urquhart was enjoying his new job. He liked talking to people. He liked the news meeting, surprising himself by how much he had to contribute.
“We might have to make you a reporter instead of advertising,” Don said when Frankie suggested two stories at the Monday morning news meeting.
“Thank you, Mr. McLeod,” was all Frankie said, delighted at the compliment.
That Wednesday, wanting to learn all he could, he stayed on with Rob and Don McLeod to watch the edition being printed. The smell, the noise, the concentrated busyness, the thrill of the first of the newspapers coming off the press and knowing he had contributed to it, made Frankie feel all the more that here, in a newspaper, was where he wanted to be.
Across the floor he saw Alan Fordyce, the compositor and former player on Frank Urquhart’s shinty team. Alan looked up at Frankie, who nodded. Alan turned away.
Rob waved at Frankie and they went out to watch the vans and lorries being loaded.
“So that’s it for the night,” Rob said. “The bundles are off to the train and the bus station and tomorrow . . .” Rob was remembering his forthcoming audition and trying a hard-bitten American newspaper reporter accent. “Hey presto, another edition of the Highland Gazette hits the streets.”
Frankie was used to Rob, so he ignored his gesture of magic wand and swirl of cloak and said, “I’m liking it on the Gazette.”
He refused a lift home, wanting to soak in the atmosphere of the newspaper a little longer. He lit a cigarette in the shelter of the close next to the loading dock. Alan Fordyce walked out, saw Frankie, stopped and stared at him, said nothing, then hurried off down the steps to the river.
Frankie thought nothing of it, but something made him decide to follow. He was certain Alan had been behind the foot in the shinty boot in the washing hamper. Give him a bit o’ scare, Frankie thought.
He ran to the top of the steps. He hurried after the figure halfway down the steps. They were steep, the flight long, hugging the wall to the left of the high ramparts around the castle. Below, the river was barely visible on a moonless night, and the rain intermittent.
Alan Fordyce paused. Looked up. He started to hurry. At the bottom he glanced again at the figure coming fast down towards him. He ran around the corner. By the time Frankie reached the street, Alan Fordyce had disappeared. Frankie smiled. He’d given his ex-teammate a fright. Serves him right.
• • •
The following Monday’s news conference was taken up with an argument over the reporting of the charges against Malcolm Forbes.
“Why can’t I say Moira Forbes and/or her husband were involved in Nurse Urquhart’s death . . . sorry, Frankie, are you okay with this?” Rob looked at Frankie, who was sitting next to him at Joanne’s typewriter.
“I’m fine. I just want the bastard charged.”
“That’s the point,” McAllister said. “There are no charges yet, as there is no direct proof.”
“You know we can’t print speculation,” Don pointed out.
“And no one knows for sure either of them done it,” Hector said.
“What do you mean?” Frankie stared at Hector. He knew him well, from their being neighbors and at school together. Over the years, he found that Hector’s often preposterous pronouncements were just as often uncannily accurate.
“Mal Forbes is denying all knowledge of the attack on your mum,” Rob explained, thinking he’d strangle Hector as soon as they were alone.
“I thought it was his wife who did it.” Frankie’s voice was calm, but his face alert; he was now certain there was information, or speculation, about the death of his mother that no one was sharing with him.
“Frankie,” McAllister said, “no charges have been issued over the attack on your mother.”
“Murder,” Frankie said. “Mr. McAllister, it was murder.”
“Yes, it was,” Margaret McLean said.
The silence in the room lingered until Frankie looked around and said, “Let’s hope someone discovers something soon. In the meantime, you were saying . . .” He looked at the editor, and with a slight shrug, motioned that he was ready to move on.
Rob wrote the front-page update on the charges against Malcolm Forbes. McAllister reported on the recovery of Mrs. Joanne Ross. They both contributed to a backstory on Mae Bell and her recovery and imminent departure from the Highlands, which Margaret McLean wrote, with Don heavily subbing out superlatives. A family trait, he thought.
“I’m not sure I can write without adjectives,” Margaret had told him.
“Sure you can,” Don replied. “Besides, if I can train your son, I can train anyone.”
The fate of the boy—the very existence of the boy—was not mentioned outside their small circle, and news of the boy, and his parentage, never leaked out. That Angus McLean might have threatened the staff at the council department with a lawsuit for neglect, no one except those involved knew, not even his wife.
• • •
It took ten days before Frankie decided to confront Alan Fordyce after the shinty match, a home game at Bught Park. He had to know for certain Alan had not attacked his mother.
The other players and supporters were long gone. Frankie waved cheerio to his dad, calling out that he would see him later. He told Rob they would meet up at the billiard saloon. He watched Hector leave with Rob, and soon everyone had gone. Alan was waiting in the stadium changing rooms, having agreed to talk to Frankie, albeit extremely reluctantly.
“If we’ve to work together,” Frankie had said, “let’s get all thon business out in the open.”
Alan had agreed. He was nervous but didn’t look particularly so.
It was light, it was clear. Frankie didn’t care.
He was more worried by what their coach had said—shouted. He’d lied about his fitness. Weeks later, his foot was not fully healed and his team had lost by three goals to nil, two of which were his fault, even though he’d played only ten minutes before being substituted.
“I know it was you put the leg in the washing basket,” Frankie began.
“I’m really sorry,” Alan said. “I meant for your father to find it.” He was looking at the concrete floor, afraid of Frankie’s anger.
“Aye. Well. It was ma mother that came across it. No’ that it worried her that much, her being a nurse.”
“Look, I said I’m sorry.” He was now leaning against the wall, favoring his other foot. Even though he had healed remarkably well, he was hurting after all that run
ning. “I must be getting back; the others are waiting.”
“They’re drowning their sorrows in the pub. They can wait.”
They walked outside and were in the shadow of the stand, the short tier of seats rising up, empty of everyone including the ground staff and cleaner. Frankie had his right hand in the deep front pocket of his duffel coat.
“What I don’t get,” Frankie said, as though trying to puzzle out a tactic in shinty training, “is why you threw the acid.”
“I never. I never threw the acid.”
“Yes, you did. I know you did.” Frankie pulled out the gun. It was black, heavy, and uncomfortable in the hand; Frankie had never used a gun. He had touched it once, when his father had shown him his souvenir from the war.
“German it is,” Coach Frank Urquhart had told his son. Why he kept bullets for it Frankie never knew, but when he looked for it in the trunk under the bed in the spare bedroom, he was pleased to find a full box.
“I never hurt your mother.” Alan Fordyce’s voice was high and shaky.
“I know you did,” Frankie said again, and held out the other hand. In it was a watch, a distinctive watch, on a pin, with a ribbon. On the reverse was Nurse Urquhart’s full name, her RN registration; it was the upside-down watch she had always worn, the watch that fascinated Frankie. As a child he couldn’t work out how his mother could read it until she pinned it to his jumper to show him.
“I found this in your locker at work.”
“You’d no right . . .” Alan started. Then stopped. Why he had taken the watch he couldn’t say, even to himself. It was there, bright and shiny; the nurse was wriggling, screaming out in pain. Someone could have come. He could have been caught. It didn’t matter. He wanted it the way a jackdaw wants a shiny object. He took it. He kept it. He examined it often, remembering her screams that quickly faded to a choking as she scratched at her throat, trying to tear the acid from her clothes, her skin.
Frankie was now holding the gun out, pointing it at Alan, saying, nicely, “Tell me what happened. Then I’ll let you go.”
“I never meant her to die.” Now Alan was crying. “I only meant to burn her a wee bit.” He was on his knees. “You’ve got to believe me.”
“Why?”
“It was her got me kicked off the team. Everyone knows your dad is no’ the real coach. Everyone knows what Nurse Urquhart says goes.”
“But acid? That’s a terrible thing to do to a person.” Frankie had not once raised his voice, not let emotion show. In these moments, he had none.
“I never meant to hurt her, I only wanted her watch; she always wore it, but she wouldn’t give it to me.” That was his justification. He asked her for the watch, some strange compensation for her getting him kicked off the team.
She’d laughed at him. “Don’t be silly,” she’d said. “I need it for ma work.”
So he had no choice but to throw the acid.
Frankie remembered his mother wore her watch even when she wasn’t in uniform. “Never know when I might need to take someone’s pulse,” she always said. It was not that—she was proud of the watch—as proud of it as any soldier with a medal.
Frankie had not lowered the gun. It was still pointed at Alan Fordyce, square in the chest.
“I only wanted to get her for kicking me off of the team,” Alan whined. “I didn’t mean for her to die.”
“You killed my mother because you were kicked off the team,” Frankie said again. “But everyone knows you were kicked off the team because you’re useless. Letting in two goals today? Even though you’re injured, you’re still useless.”
“Can I go now?” Alan was huddled on the ground, his face smeared with mud and tears and snot. Frankie still had the gun pointed at him.
“Frankie, let him go.” It was Rob. “I heard it all, I’ll be a witness.”
“Rob, what are you doing here?”
“A man walking his dog said he thought there was someone here with a gun.” The man wasn’t sure, thought it must be a game. But Rob believed him. “Put down the gun, Frankie.”
“Naw. I let him go; they’ll only charge him with manslaughter; he’ll be out in a few years.”
“Put the gun down, Frankie. He’s not worth it.”
“Get your notebook ready, Rob, this’ll be the headline of the year.”
Frankie pulled the trigger. There was a click. Nothing happened. Frankie tried again. Nothing. He turned and looked at Rob.
Rob stepped forwards, took the gun, and linked his arm through Frankie’s. “Let’s go.”
Frankie let himself be led towards the river. They were unsteady; Frankie walked as though falling, and Rob did his best to hold him up. To a bystander it would look as though Rob was holding up a drunk.
Alan Fordyce they left in a puddle of pee and tears. Rob didn’t care. Alan would be dealt with soon enough.
Rob led them across the road to the riverbank. He let go of Frankie and, holding the gun as high as he could, swung his arm back and threw the gun far out into the current. Seeing the distant splash, Rob said, as though discussing next week’s football fixtures, “You forget about the safety catch.”
“The safety catch?” Frankie was holding his elbows in his crossed arms, rocking himself as though chanting Orthodox prayers to the fast water. “It has a safety catch?”
“Aye. And I doubt it would fire anyhow, it’s that old.” This he was not certain of, only saying it to reassure himself.
“A safety catch,” Frankie uncrossed his arms. He started to laugh. “A fucking safety catch.”
Rob couldn’t help it. He laughed. They stopped, looking where the gun went in. They looked at each other. Relief, release, hysteria made them laugh again.
They heard the shrill of police cars. They didn’t look round—they were watching the river flow.
Five minutes passed.
“C’mon, Frankie,” Rob said, “It’s over. Let’s go home.”
EPILOGUE
Highland Gazette
17 May 1958
Missing Flight Clue Found
Norwegian ship captain Magnus Johanssen handed over to local police a life jacket he found three years ago on a Norwegian beach. The harbourmaster, Mr. John Douglass, advised the captain it may have come from the aircraft missing from RAF Kinloss airbase since 1952.
“It is not unusual for debris from shipping or from Britain to end up on Norwegian shores,” said Captain Johanssen, 53, from Bergen in Norway. “I found the life jacket three years ago whilst walking my dog on the shore outside of town and kept it aboard my vessel. It can still be used in an emergency.”
When asked why he took so long to inform authorities of the find, the Captain told the Gazette reporter, “I was in the Harbourside Cafe reading the newspaper to improve my English when I saw the story of Robert Bell, the missing airman. I told the harbourmaster I had an old RAF lifejacket. He checked it and called the police.”
Detective Sergeant McPherson from the local constabulary confirmed that the life jacket came from the missing aircraft: “RAF personal have identified the jacket as belonging to the flight that disappeared with five airmen on board, including Robert John Bell.”
The widow of Robert Bell, Mrs. Mae Bell, who recently spent ten weeks in the Highlands looking for information on her husband’s disappearance, was unavailable for comment. Charles Bell, brother of the missing, now presumed deceased, airman spoke to the Gazette via telephone from Paris.
“I guess finding the life jacket proves the plane ditched in the North Sea, but it doesn’t clear up the mystery of what happened on that flight.”
According to the American Air Force authorities the case remains open. The police say their case is closed. “The whereabouts of the aircraft may never be solved,” said Detective Sergeant Ann McPherson.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To all the lovely people who looked after me in the United States: Will and Carol Jennings, Alex Marshall, Sam Miller, Janet McKinley, Jon Hendry, Katy and Clive Ho
pwood, and the many kind strangers who cheered me on as I sojourned in a strange land.
To all the bookshop people and readers, thank you for the feedback and encouragement and for having me in your stores as a guest.
To Sophie Mae Young, thank you for that first spark.
To Martin and Helen McNiven, my first and most encouraging readers.
To Catherine McKinley, thank you for reading a very rough draft and giving such perceptive feedback.
To Jennifer Smart for support and feedback and laughs.
To Jan Cornall for cracking the whip.
To everyone at Atria: thank you for your support, your dedication—it was so good to meet you in the real world.
To all the usual suspects; Sheila, Peter, Sarah, Judith.
And Hugh.
• • •
Note. My foremost inspiration for this book is Annie Ross, jazz singer and actor extraordinaire. However, none of the events in this novel are in any way connected to her. As far as I know she never lived in Paris, never married an airman, never visited the Highlands. She and her music are a source of inspiration, nothing more, nothing less.
© Etienne Bossot
A. D. Scott was born in the Highlands of Scotland and educated at Inverness Royal Academy and the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama. She has worked in theater and magazines, and as a knitwear designer, and currently lives in Vietnam and north of Sydney, Australia.
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Also by A. D. Scott
Beneath the Abbey Wall
A Double Death on the Black Isle
A Small Death in the Great Glen
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