The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  If Sandy Marshall could have run away to Gretna Green he would have. He’d offered but his fiancée had laughed. “Elope?” she’d said. “Then my dad would have to come after you wi’ a shotgun.” They had laughed so much, and he loved her so much, he’d willingly walked down the aisle, McAllister his best man, with his inoffensive five-foot-four of a father-in-law bursting with pride.

  And now, Sandy thought, we are middle-aged men. “Life is a compromise, McAllister. Cliché I know, but that’s how it is. And from where I’m sitting you don’t look much of a catch . . .” It was true, his friend was disheveled, needed a haircut, and his fingers were so stained with nicotine they were the color of a kipper. “Middle-aged, obstinate, with a weird taste in music, be grateful someone is willing to have you.”

  McAllister had the grace to laugh.

  Five minutes later, they parted outside the restaurant and McAllister walked down Hope Street wondering whether to go back to his mother’s flat or drive to Govan to see Gerry Dochery senior. He did neither. It was past 2 p.m., public house closing time. He went to the Station Hotel. As he wasn’t a guest, he flashed his press card, which persuaded the barman to serve him. “Double Glenlivet and a pint of bitter.”

  McAllister took his drinks to the saloon bar. He thought over his conversation with Sandy. Between the steps of the restaurant and the steps of the hotel, the good cheer he had felt in the editor’s company had vanished. He’d told Sandy most of what was bothering him, just not the extent of his fears. And guilt. He’d said nothing about Gerry Dochery’s girlfriend, Sheena. Nothing about his absolute certainty that there would be, or had been, a confrontation between Gerry and one or all of the Gordon brothers.

  And he’d lost Jimmy and failed Jenny McPhee and was waiting for a body, or bodies, to turn up.

  What he didn’t know was how lost he himself was.

  • • •

  A body turned up.

  It was early, only a few minutes past eight o’clock, but the boardinghouse breakfast was so dire, watery porridge and plastic hard eggs, that McAllister bought fresh hot rolls and drove to his mother’s for a real fry-up. He was also hoping to persuade her to return to the Highlands with him.

  “A note was delivered not half an hour ago from the Herald,” his mother said as soon as she saw him. “I couldn’t mind the name o’ the place you were staying, so I told them to leave it here.” Her bottom lip was twitching in anxiety; telegrams, messages delivered by courier, were never good news.

  He ripped open the envelope, read the note, pushed it back into the envelope and into his pocket. “No, it’s fine, Mother, just Sandy asking me to drop by.” He looked around. Although the flat was sparsely furnished, and clean, the tea service was in use, the frying pan at the ready, and there were some sweet peas in a jam jar filling the air with summer.

  The flowers reminded him of Joanne. His throat tightened. It was hard to swallow. He missed her.

  “Mother, I’m driving back up north tomorrow. I’d like you to come back with me.”

  “I’ll take the train up maybe the day before the wedding. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Mrs. Crawford to come with me. Not that I asked her to the wedding, mind, I would never be that forward . . .”

  “I’d be delighted if Mrs. Crawford came to the wedding,” he said, thinking, Another old woman in the house? I’d better book a B&B. “The more the merrier.” And he meant it. Just not in his house.

  He went straight to the editor’s office. Sandy was with Mary and the chief sub-editor. He waved McAllister to the visitor’s chair. “Two minutes,” he said.

  McAllister listened as they argued over a story. He heard the name Gordon repeatedly. He caught the gist of the dilemma: was the story watertight? Mary thought so. Her colleagues didn’t.

  Mary was furious. “There is enough there to damn the man, look.” She pointed to a document. “The company had four shareholders—four Gordon brothers. Here is a list of the council contracts they were awarded . . .”

  “None were directly awarded to Gordon & Sons, Ltd.,” Sandy repeated. “Gordon & Sons were the subcontractors twice removed.”

  “Aye, but with Councilor James Gordon being on the planning committee . . .”

  “Mary, Councilor Gordon signed over his shares to two of his brothers after he was elected to the council . . .”

  “What does Derrick Keith say?” the sub-editor asked. McAllister had worked with the man and knew him to be one of the best in the country and the reason the Herald’s legal bills were so small.

  “Derrick Keith?” Mary asked. “Mr. Useless? I knew he was sleazy, now I know he’s useless with it.”

  “You mean you haven’t consulted him?” Sandy said. “I told you to work together. So now, you and him, together, go over all the documents again. If you find corroborating evidence that Gordon was influencing the bidding process, and it’s watertight, and passes the legal boys, then and only then might I publish.”

  “Gordon is on the planning committee. They oversee the sealed bids. Contracts end up with his brothers’ company . . .”

  “Very indirectly.” Sandy was fed up with again and again discussing, arguing, the same points. “I need more or we won’t publish.” He was firm. Discussion over.

  “Fine.” She walked out. She hadn’t even said hello or goodbye to McAllister, only a glare as though he too was one of the older overcautious males preventing her publishing a front-page scoop.

  “One determined young lady that one,” the sub-editor said as he gathered up his papers. “Mind you, it’s a good story if we can prove it. McAllister. Sandy. Catch you later.”

  “A body?” McAllister asked when they were alone.

  “Aye.” Sandy sighed. “I’m sorry, McAllister.”

  “Jimmy.” The way McAllister said the name it came out as a moan from a person in torment.

  “Gerry Dochery.” Sandy knew that in spite of everything, a childhood friend, a boy you had grown up with, kicked a ball with, gone fishing with, spent holidays with—that person mattered.

  McAllister, looking up at the ceiling, for he didn’t trust himself to look directly at his friend, asked, “What happened?”

  “Not sure. Late last night, Dochery was found in a lane out the back of the warehouse in Whiteinch. This detective I know—no, not Willkie—gave me a tip-off.”

  For cash, McAllister guessed.

  “He’d been tied up, beaten right badly, then his throat cut. The body was dumped there and two, maybe three people, were involved, so the police think.”

  “Aye, it would take more than one to handle Gerry.”

  “Some anonymous caller phoned for an ambulance. When they got there he was dead.”

  “Murdered, then.”

  “Aye.”

  They let that hang in the air for a moment.

  “Does Mr. Dochery know?” McAllister asked.

  “He identified the body.”

  “How come Mary is not chasing this? It’s a big story.”

  “I’m about to tell her. I wanted you to know first. Give you time to do whatever you need to.”

  He meant visit Mr. Gerald Dochery senior.

  “This is big news, it will placate Mary for the corruption story not running.” McAllister sounded bitter. He knew he had no right to be, but he was irked that Mary was keeping her distance.

  He drove to Govan. As he locked the car he could see that the news of Gerry Dochery’s death had spread. Most of the curtains of the flats on the communal close were closed. A group, some with arms folded as though protecting themselves from the bad luck of a violent death, was gathered tightly together, listening to an older woman. He overheard her say, “I’ll take him his dinner. Sadie, you make his tea.”

  As he climbed the stairs, McAllister knew he too was grieving. He accepted he had to be here but as to how to comfort a man whose only child had been killed, his throat cut, dying slowly as the blood ran out into the gutter of a back close in a foreign part of the ci
ty, Rangers territory, Protestant land, alone, McAllister was at a loss. Then he reminded himself, We parted friends, I’ll tell the old man that.

  He knocked on the door. “Who is it?” a voice called out. It was coming from the kitchen, and McAllister didn’t recognize the voice, but grief could twist the vocal cords.

  When the door opened and he peered into the dim of the entrance, the curtains being closed, he thought it was a ghost.

  McAllister stared. He began to shake. It was as though through some cruel trick of light, and his grief, and exhaustion, were deceiving him. When the apparition said, in a voice that would have been appropriate if they had parted the day or a week before, “McAllister. We’ve been expecting you,” he knew it was real.

  “Where the hell have you been? Why the hell didn’t you contact me?” He was furious. His trembling turned to anger, to the edge of violence. “Your mother, everyone, we’ve been looking for you.”

  “That’s why we kept Jimmy here,” Old Mr. Dochery said. He shuffled towards McAllister, held out his hand. “It’s good of you to come over,” he said.

  “We? Who’s we?” He was still furious, and thinking furiously also. We? Gerry? His father? How? Why?

  The story came out. It did them all good—the three men—to tell it, to listen to it; the talking kept the remembrance of Gerry Dochery, now lying on a mortuary slab, at bay.

  “Ma collarbone snapped and my arm broke, when I hit the edge o’ the dock,” Jimmy began. “Not that I haven’t had broken bones before, but the current took me. I went with it and kept maself at the edge o’ the river, came ashore, not too far down, on some big wooden steps. A night watchman found me. Wanted to get me to hospital. I said no. He gave me tea and whisky and made me sit by his fire. I must have passed out. Next thing I knew, Gerry was there. The watchman manny, he’d heard of the reward and thought I might be the person wanted. A whiley later Gerry turned up. He brought me to his father, then sent for a doctor to strap up ma bones, so here I am.”

  “Aye,” the old man said. “No one would think o’ looking for Jimmy here.”

  “No, they wouldn’t.” McAllister was turning it over in his mind, trying to make sense of it all. And couldn’t. Why would Gerry Dochery protect Jimmy? Was that why he was killed?

  “He was a fine lad when you and he were wee laddies tegether.” Mr. Dochery was looking at McAllister seeking confirmation that his son was not all bad.

  “He was,” McAllister agreed.

  “I did ma best to bring him up right, but he was lost to me a long time since. Now . . .” He was staring into his teacup hoping to find better fortune in the leaves.

  “Mr. Dochery,” McAllister said, remembering that at one time he would have called him Uncle Gerald, “Gerry told me that if anything should happen, I was to tell you about this lass Sheena.” He went on to explain about Sheena, her daughter and Mr. Dochery’s granddaughter, where they lived, and how he had met them. As he spoke he saw the old man’s shoulders rise, his head lift.

  Scarcely believing what McAllister was saying, his voice a bare whisper, the old man asked, “I have family?”

  “You do. And from what I’ve seen of this Sheena, she’ll be happy to meet you.” McAllister watched as the news sank in. His only son was dead; all McAllister could do was to tell him of a granddaughter he never knew of. And much as he didn’t want to, he knew he had to be the one to tell Sheena, tell her before she read about it in the next day’s newspaper, maybe even in today’s late edition of the tabloids. He looked at his watch. “Sorry, it’s getting on, and I have to drive to Strathblane . . .”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Mr. Dochery, it might not be for the best. Maybe later when—”

  “I don’t want to meet her over ma son’s coffin.”

  McAllister was hoping Sheena would have the sense to miss the funeral but thought that was unlikely.

  “If you don’t take me wi’ you, I’ll take the bus. I know how to get to Strathblane.” Mr. Dochery’s voice and his right hand were trembling. “Besides, if it’s the Sheena I’m thinking of, I ken her mother.”

  “An’ I’ll be hitting the road,” Jimmy said.

  “Wait till dark,” the old man advised.

  “Where will you go?” McAllister asked.

  “Best you don’t know. But I’ve relatives all over.” Jimmy gave McAllister a grin that did not reach his eyes. “We’re tinkers. Haven’t you heard? We’re as countless an’ as aggravating as the fleas on an auld dog.”

  “Take the boat to Ireland like I telt you,” Mr. Dochery said.

  “Maybe I will at that.” Jimmy turned to McAllister, shook his hand, and again McAllister felt he was communicating with a wraith, so slight was the hand, and no strength in the arm from the yet-to-heal breaks. “Look out for Ma, will you?”

  “I’ll do my best,” McAllister promised. “But I don’t seem to be much use to anyone these days.”

  “Stop being so maudlin, man.” Jimmy had no time for self pity. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

  • • •

  On the drive to Strathblane, McAllister thought how he’d done more driving in the past few weeks than he had in two years. It surprised him how much he enjoyed how his instinct would kick in, taking him easily through the traffic, through the turns and twists of the narrow country road, then up and over the steep braes, leaving his mind free for thinking.

  As they passed through Milngavie, he thought again about Councilor Gordon and his brothers. So much violence and for what? Money? Pride? Revenge?

  The old man was silent most of the journey, but when they came out into open moorland, to the sight of the Campsie Fells, passing a lochan on the right where the water, ruffled by a strong breeze, seemed to be dancing, Mr. Dochery remarked, “Right bonnie.”

  McAllister glanced to left and right, saw the light in the clumps of birch trees and hawthorn, beech and oak, saw the shades of green and rust and the darker smudges of conifers on the lower slopes of the high ridge ahead, and agreed, “Aye, it is.” He was distracted on the why of it all. Something had been nagging at him—four brothers. He asked, “Mr. Dochery, what do you know about the Gordon brothers?”

  “Not much. And if you don’t mind, I don’t want to know more.”

  “I’m really sorry. That was completely thoughtless of me.”

  “I have a granddaughter, you say?” The old man was saying the words to himself as though learning a foreign language. I have a granddaughter. I am a grandfather. “This Sheena was no more than a baby when we came here on visits to ma mother-in-law. The mother, she was called Sheena an’ all, was a neighbor, and as I recall, a nice woman.”

  “She still lives in the village,” McAllister told him as he did his sums. That would make Sheena in her early thirties. She looks younger. He remembered the friendly freckled face, the large brown eyes, and knew her visitors were about to break her heart.

  “What’ll I say to them? Maybe they won’t want to know me?”

  McAllister replied, “Be yourself, Mr. Dochery, that will be enough.”

  The meeting was as difficult as McAllister had feared, but also better. He was left with the impression that Sheena took the news as inevitable; there was a stoicism about her that he knew would see her through tough times. He was reminded of the widows of firemen and police officers and miners and, yes, criminals, all those whose husbands were in dangerous occupations. Women who, when he was a cub reporter and sent to doorstop, to interview in the first moments of grief, had broken down, but also shown a dignity, if only to protect their children.

  Sheena thanked McAllister for driving out to the country to tell her in person. She thanked him for bringing the old man. She thanked him for his concern for her welfare, saying, “My mother is here, and my sister. The eyes were still big, still brown, but the sparkle had gone.

  Wee Sheena was outside, playing on the step with her new grandfather. She’d been shy at first, but they had walked to the shop for sweeties
and he had given her a piggyback ride and she had taken to the old man with a child’s open and unguarded delight in a person who gave undivided attention.

  When it was time to leave, McAllister asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Wait a moment.” Sheena stood and, brushing a curl off her forehead, gathered herself together as countless women from time immemorial did when having to deal with a husband’s death, a child’s survival. “Gerry left something for you.”

  She went into the house, returned with a box about the size of the one they used to store files in at the Gazette. She handed it over. It was heavy. “I’ve no idea what’s in it, and I don’t want to know, but Gerry made me promise if anything happened, it would go to you.”

  Sure enough, it had his name printed boldly across the brown wrapping paper, which was tied with string, the knots secured with red sealing wax.

  “Since Wee Sheena was born, he changed. But he was trapped, said he couldn’t get out of the life even though he wanted to. He knew what might happen, and he told me to trust you.”

  She didn’t mention the one thousand pounds Gerry had left with her only a week ago. In case anything happens, was all he’d said. It was so much money she was terrified to keep it, guilty at knowing it probably came from somewhere bad, but it was a future for her and her daughter, and she would keep it, not even telling her mother of the legacy.

  They said their goodbyes.

  “Mr. Dochery,” Sheena said as she took her daughter from him, “I’m not going to bring Wee Sheena to Glasgow, or Govan, I’ve no good memories of the city. But you can visit us whenever you want. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to see my mother.”

  McAllister nodded. Mr. Dochery said, “Cheerio, lass. Be well.” He said, “See you soon, ma wee pet,” to the little girl wriggling in her mother’s arms.

  They walked the track alongside the burn in silence. It was early evening, still a good three hours of light left, and as they drove through the ninety-degree turn in the road at the top of the village, heading back towards the lochan and the city, McAllister said, “Best not to visit until this is all over.”