by A. D. Scott
This was a sore point with Granny Ross. Her archrival in the flower stakes, Mrs. Colquhoun, was attempting to take over and push Granny Ross off the flower arrangement roster.
Standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, her soup ladle held like a cudgel, she told him, “Joanne and the bairns need me.”
Joanne went to sooth her mother-in-law. Laying a hand on her wrist she said, “Granny Ross, you’ve done so much for us. But tonight I’d like to impress my future husband with my cooking.” She grinned at Don, then added, “Make sure he doesn’t get cold feet—you know what they say about the best way to a man’s heart . . .”
That swung it—that and the church flower arrangements. Mrs. Ross relented. “Aye, well, I need to see what flowers can be found for Sunday,” she said, taking off her pinny, and left Joanne in control of the kitchen.
Mrs. and Mr. Ross senior, Granny and Granddad, they too had their secret worries—secret even from each other; with their former daughter-in-law remarrying, and their only son about to depart for Australia with his new wife and baby son, they were terrified of losing their granddaughters. Not that Joanne would ever do that, Granny Ross told herself over and over, but what if Mr. McAllister decides to return to the city? She sensed his restlessness, but hadn’t the capacity to see that it was being alone and quiet he missed. To her, being alone equated to loneliness, a fate worse than death.
After supper, when Don was about to leave, he took Joanne’s hand. “Lass, that was a smashing fish pie. Best I’ve tasted in a long time.” He winked. “But don’t tell Elsie I said so. Thanks for a lovely evening. It’s right good to see you looking so well.”
“I’m spending every minute in the garden,” she replied. “Never know when this weather will break.”
“Aye, you’re right, it’s right strange for Scotland to have so much sunshine.” He turned to Mrs. McAllister. “Thanks for the pudding, missus. Fair enjoyed it.”
“Thank you, Mr. McLeod,” was all Mrs. McAllister said, before excusing herself and going to bed at the same time as the girls.
McAllister knew his mother’s exhaustion was a consequence of their flight, but also stemmed from her unease at being away from her flat and sleeping in a strange bed, something she had never done since the few nights they had slept in an air-raid shelter in the bombing, and a week’s occasional holiday in Millport when her husband was alive. And he was proud of her.
He had posted a letter from her to Mrs. Crawford, the neighbor who had the spare key. He included a note from himself saying that his mother was getting to know her future daughter-in-law. He did not want her to know, and worry over, the truth. “You can trust Mrs. Crawford,” McAllister had said. “She’s a right sensible woman.”
As the house quieted and the last of the evening filled the deep bow windows with a soft pink light, Joanne and McAllister sat together, listening once again to the Pastoral Symphony.
“Soothes me,” Joanne said. Then once again, she went to bed before the darkness arrived, leaving him with a kiss to the forehead and a “Night-night.”
He tried to read. He smoked. He drank. He worried. Most of all he was irritated. He had gone to the aid of Jimmy McPhee. He had put his life in danger for him. Now it was over. Jimmy had said so. Mary said so. But Mary had her scoop. Her career. A future.
He poured another dram. He needed it to sleep, and to escape the face of the young man he had wanted to kill that night in the close, knowing he had been a moment away from murder.
• • •
“I’ll take the car this morning,” McAllister told Joanne over breakfast, which for him consisted of two aspirins and two cups of tea. “Pick you up at eleven.”
“The appointment’s at eleven,” she reminded him.
“Half past ten, then.”
“I’ll be ready. See you then.”
He kissed her hair, drove to the office, left the car in the castle car park. Three-quarters of the way up the steep stairs leading to Castle Wynd he was short of breath and his knees ached. Maybe the doctor is right about cutting back on smoking. He was one of those who believed the alternative medical opinion, that smoking was good for you. Continuing on to the Gazette, he justified his smoking, telling himself that, when accosted by the more belligerent of the Gazette’s readers, who, often, would tell him how to run a newspaper, a cigarette would prevent him running amok with an axe.
“Mr. McAllister.” He was surprised to see Detective Inspector Dunne. And worried. Standing beside the local police inspector were two men. From their buttoned-up overcoats and faces that suggested they suffered from constipation, McAllister guessed they were policemen.
One of the men stepped forward. “John McAllister, I’m—”
“Not here.” DI Dunne stepped in front of the man, practically pushing him to one side. “Mr. McAllister, would you care to come to the police station, we’d like a wee word.”
McAllister nodded, grateful for the local man’s courtesy. Glancing over the heads of the visitors, he saw Fiona the receptionist staring, her normally ruddy cheeks pale.
“Phone Angus McLean, the solicitor,” he told her. “Tell him—” One of the men gripped his elbow, turning him towards the doors. Fiona was nodding, too shocked to speak. Now with a man on each side of him, the one slighted by DI Dunne gripping his other arm tightly, he called over his shoulder, “Tell Don Joanne has an appointment—”
“That’s enough,” the second policeman interrupted.
“What?” Fiona was doing her best not to panic.
“This is my jurisdiction,” DI Dunne intervened.
McAllister was through the doors, out into the deserted lane, when a sly shove in his back made him stumble on the last step.
“Joanne has an appointment at Raigmore at eleven,” he repeated, as he was marched over the cobblestones the short distance to the police station.
“I’ll let someone know,” DI Dunne promised.
And in the space of fifty yards the weather changed, a cloud as black as the bruises on a boxer covering the sun. The temperature dropped. McAllister shivered. Not from cold—someone stepping on ma grave, his mother would have said.
And the nightmare began.
Fiona called the solicitor. She knew nothing of the law. Had no idea that a phone call to Angus McLean meant nothing; Scots law indulged no rights of representation after a charge was made. Then she ran up the stairs to tell Don McLeod. “Mr. McAllister said Mrs. Ross has an appointment—”
The phone rang. “Gazette,” Don said, holding up his hand in a “one minute” gesture. He listened, saying nothing, but his body slowly uncurled from his usual stoop until his spine was straight and his face beetroot-red. “Thanks, Sergeant Patience, right good o’ you.” He slammed down the phone. “Rob, where does McAllister keep his spare car keys?”
“Why, has he lost his again?”
“Shut up and listen.” Don was almost shouting. “McAllister has been . . .” Charged was what he was about to say, but he didn’t know that, so he quoted Sergeant Patience. “McAllister is being questioned by the police over an incident in Glasgow.”
That got Rob’s attention.
“You take Joanne for her appointment at the hospital. Make up an excuse for McAllister, and make sure Joanne doesn’t realize . . .” He guessed from the way Rob turned away how fragile the reporter still was. “Your father is onto it, so it will all work out.”
Lightning flashed directly overhead. Thunder boomed out seconds later. Fiona squealed. Then burst into tears. “I hate thunder,” she lied. Another burst of thunder. Again right above them, rattling the high window, darkening the room.
“That fair set ma fillings a’rattlin’.” Don smiled at Fiona. “Rob, call McAllister’s house, speak to Mrs. Ross, ask her what time Joanne is due at Raigmore, say . . .”
“I’ll say the press room is flooding, so it’s all hands to the pump, so to speak.” Rob followed this with a grin, but his heart wasn’t in it and his mouth looked like a stret
ched, deflated balloon.
Don cocked his head, listening to the rain drumming louder than a Boys’ Brigade band kettledrum. “Aye, that’ll do.” He saw Rob was more than nervous. Fear, Don realized. He’d had enough of hospitals. “On second thoughts, ask your mother to take Joanne. A woman’s touch,” he explained.
“My mother is good with doctors. She understands their gobbledy-gook.”
As Rob dialed home, Don turned to Fiona. “You mind the front desk, lass. And if anyone should hear of this—”
“I’ll no’ let on anything to anyone, Mr. McLeod.”
“Good girl.” He patted her as though she was his favorite puppy. Then he looked at the two juniors; their joint ages wouldn’t add up to forty, yet he knew he could rely on them, trust them. “Like the storm, this’ll all blow over soon.”
• • •
None of them was sure of that, but chose to believe it anyway.
In the interview room at the police station, when asked about “an incident” outside his mother’s flat on Sunday night, McAllister said, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
The policemen kept up a barrage of questions and threats. “Where were you on Sunday night?”
“At the Herald, then home,” he replied.
“Who did you meet in the close outside your home?”
“No one.”
“We have witnesses who say different.”
If the inspector in charge, Detective Inspector Willkie, had said “witness,” singular, McAllister would have worried. It was the plural that made him suspect the detective had nothing, no one.
When the inspector said a name, describing him as a “close acquaintance of leaders of the criminal fraternity,” asking, “Why was he outside your mother’s house?” again McAllister answered, “I’ve no idea, why don’t you ask him?” The inspector replied, “I’m the one who asks the questions.”
So he wasn’t the boy I thought he was. From the way the inspector was questioning him, McAllister considered the possibility that the inspector had been tipped off. But why? And by whom? He knew he would eventually find out.
Who did you meet? Why were you meeting him? I know you know this man. I have witnesses. Of course your mother will back you up. But who’d believe your mother? He continued to threaten McAllister, threaten the Herald, promising to come back with a warrant, promising to lock McAllister up and throw away the key. He made it clear he hated journalists. Scum was one of his less profane words for the profession.
McAllister knew DI Willkie was enjoying himself and he kept refusing to answer, except to say, “I don’t know. I was at work. I came home. I saw no one.” He knew his refusal to say more meant the interview would continue until he, or the inspector, gave in. It might also mean time in a police holding cell. Without a cigarette.
The only bright spot was DI Dunne’s refusal to leave the room. “My station, my jurisdiction,” he repeated.
Finally, when the policemen realized there would be no answers, particularly with DI Dunne insisting everything be done following police regulations, they told McAllister he had to come back to Glasgow with them.
“Do you have a warrant?” he asked.
“It would be regarded favorably if you helped the police in their inquiries.” DI Willkie was attempting to appear conciliatory. The effort to hold his temper in strangled his voice and made his already red nose—a boozer’s nose, McAllister noted—turn a color worthy of Rudolph.
“We’ll be needing to talk to your mother to back up your story that you were at home that evening.” This was Willkie’s last stab at threatening the editor. “So where can we find her so she can give a statement?”
“She’s visiting relatives,” McAllister said. “I’ll let you know when she is home and she can go round to the local police station, make a statement there.” He had no intension of letting DI Willkie anywhere near his mother. Or letting his mother anywhere near a police station.
Inspector Willkie was sitting back in his chair, arms folded. “Oh, really?” He smirked. “It’d be better for you if she does that sooner than later.”
McAllister knew this was the policeman’s trump card, and he had no choice but to ask, “Why is that?”
For the first time, the second policeman spoke—McAllister had forgotten his name but knew he was a detective constable. He could see the decency in the man, and the embarrassment; wouldn’t last long as a Glasgow detective, had been McAllister’s initial impression, he’ll be posted to Auchtermuchty or some other tiny place if he doesn’t harden up.
“Unfortunately there’s been a break-in at your mother’s house. It would be a good idea if she came back and listed what was stolen.”
“Not much stolen, but the whole place was trashed.” DI Willkie was enjoying himself. “So when your mother gets home to clear up, she can give us a statement as to your whereabouts Sunday night.”
McAllister was gripping the edge of the table. He saw his knuckles white, felt his jaw tight, and saw DI Willkie willing him on. It was the malevolence in the man’s eyes, the unsaid, Come on, hit me, that stopped him.
“Thank you, Inspector, for coming all this way to let me know, but a phone call would have sufficed.” McAllister’s’ voice was deliberately conciliatory and the satisfaction of the fury on the detective’s face was the only good moment of the three-and-a-half-hour interview.
“I think that covers everything, don’t you, Inspector?” DI Dunne had had enough. He stood. “If the Glasgow police visit my jurisdiction again, I will need the professional courtesy of a phone warning.” “My chief constable should be notified as well,” he added.
“Oh, I don’t think there will be any problem with your chief constable. Not when we come back to charge McAllister wi’ murder.”
“Murder?” McAllister stood, catching the chair before it fell over. “What murder?”
“Can’t say anything that might prejudice our investigation.” The inspector was not about to explain. Seeing McAllister’s shock, he smiled, satisfied. “We’ll see ourselves out, Dunne.”
DI Dunne ignored the deliberate lack of courtesy to a fellow officer. He was too busy making sure McAllister stayed silent. And didn’t move within striking distance of the inspector.
“Not at all, Willkie, I’ll see you out.”
When DI Dunne came back he took the seat opposite McAllister, offering him an ashtray as an invitation to smoke, something denied by the visiting officers. He was examining the man he had known for two and something years. “We’ve seen a lot together, Mr. McAllister. I respect you and your judgment. So what’s this about murder?”
“I have no idea. Well, maybe an inkling, but nothing I can share. Not yet.”
DI Dunne nodded. “I don’t like this. Not one bit.”
“Neither do I.”
“Mrs. Ross doesn’t deserve any more trouble.”
“My mother neither,” McAllister replied. His hand was shaking as he tried to strike a match. And failed. DI Dunne took the matchbox and did it for him.
McAllister thought of the man he’d encountered in the close. Could he be dead? How? Why?
Then he thought of his mother’s home. Her possessions that meant so much to her: the shrine to his brother, photographs, the cabinet with his brother’s boxing trophies, the album he didn’t know existed until recently, with articles where McAllister had a byline, cut out and pasted in over the years, the only physical record of his career. He thought of her everyday teapot and hoped it had been spared. He remembered her best china tea service—collected cup by cup, plate by plate, since she never had enough money to buy a complete set and always refused his offer to purchase one for her, telling him it gave her pleasure to collect the items this way—and he feared for it.
“I trust you’ll sort this out.” The way the inspector spoke—calm, mild, serious, certain—reminded McAllister that the policeman was destined for the church before the war changed everything.
“I’ll do my best.”
The inspector accepted McAllister’s assurance. But the slight shake of his head and the grim set of his mouth were saying to McAllister, Good intentions are not always enough.
FOURTEEN
It was nearing two o’clock when McAllister arrived back at the office.
Don was waiting. “Margaret McLean wants to talk to you.”
“I haven’t time—”
“She had a conversation with the consultant at the hospital.” He saw McAllister’s cigarette shake. “Nothing bad, so she said. And your mother called, she’s in a right state, something about a burglary.” Don didn’t mention that he knew the Glasgow police had come all this way to question him, he was waiting for McAllister to tell him.
“I know. That’s why the police were here.”
“Oh, aye?” Don knew this was not all, but continued, “Mary Ballantyne phoned, says you have to call back. Urgently.” He was looking at McAllister as though measuring him for his coffin. “This can’t go on—”
“I know.”
“You’d better tell me what’s what. Someone has to mind your back.”
“Later. I have to go home.”
“Mary—”
“You talk to her.” McAllister said this as he grabbed his hat. “And find Jimmy McPhee. Urgently.” He hurried down the stairs.
Fiona was about to say something, but seeing his face, she hesitated. “Mr. McAllister,” she called out to the retreating figure. “An urgent message from a Mr. Dochery. He said—”
Too late, he was out the door and didn’t hear.
He drove home. He went into the kitchen and found Mrs. Ross but no Joanne. If looks could kill . . . he remembered his mother’s expression as he asked where Joanne was.
“Resting,” Granny Ross replied.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ross, you can go home. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
She took off her pinny, muttering, I know when I’m not wanted, and as she left, she slammed the door behind her, shaking the glass in the kitchen windows.
