It appeared that the screams which the residents of Kinloch had heard at the time of a Dalintober moon over the years were all courtesy of the McMunn family, a tradition that had been passed down through the generations and recently brought into the modern era by the use of electronic sound effects.
It was one of the occasions since his arrival in Kinloch that Daley suspected most people of the town knew the truth, but were happy to keep strangers – policemen especially – in the dark. Like most legends, even though it could easily be explained away, more superstitious locals clung to a more macabre origin of the disembodied screams. This was one Kinloch tradition Daley was happy to consign to the past.
As he sat at his desk pondering the death of William Cardle, he stared out into the gloom. The new day had dawned and the weather hadn’t changed. A strong wind was blowing from the north, and the relentless rain carried flurries of snow and hail to add to the tumult.
He picked up the receiver of his phone and dialled a number quickly. ‘DCI Daley at Kinloch. I want you to check our DNA records for samples from Hugh McMunn and Ian Cardle.’ Since both men had been convicted of recent crimes, Daley knew that their DNA would be on file. He gave their details and waited.
‘Yes, we have both profiles, sir,’ answered the efficient-sounding woman on the other end of the phone.
‘Good, I’d like you to do me a favour . . .’
IX
Daley looked at the black-and-white image of an elderly man on his computer screen. The email had arrived from the county archivist at Wantage Town Hall in New Jersey, as promised by Sheriff Engler.
The old man was dressed in a dark three-piece suit; the links of a watch chain stretched across his ample belly. He had a broad jowly face and a plump-cheeked grin under a drooping white moustache. He was bald, save for unruly tufts of hair that poked out from behind his ears. His expression was open, friendly, even, but there was a hint of steel in his eyes. Daley studied the face of Archie McMunn carefully as DS Scott peeked over his shoulder.
‘Aye, It’s amazing how folk change as they get older,’ said the DS. ‘Here’s us looking for a brutal murderer and we’re sent a picture o’ the Santa auditions for the weans’ Christmas grotto.’
Daley had to admit his DS had a point. The man’s demeanour seemed to bear no connection to the brutal Archie McMunn he’d heard about. People did change, though. And the memories of those who had never met the man, coloured by prejudice and time, were hardly likely to have been as accurate as he could have wished for.
‘Here,’ said Scott, ‘I meant tae show you this before.’ He handed Daley a photocopy of another old photograph, this one even grainier than the one flickering on Daley’s screen. Two rows of men stood behind a stow of barrels. All of them were wearing flat caps, save the man in the middle of the bottom row who wore a bowler hat. All had moustaches, apart from one, whose head of thick curly hair poked out from under his bunnet.
‘Yer man with the curly hair is oor Billy Cardle. The guy in the back row behind the bloke in the bowler is Archie McMunn.’
Daley studied both men. Cardle was as his granddaughter had described, with youthful good looks and a friendly face. In this image, Archie McMunn looked the part, too; his head was bowed and his dark moustache drooped at the corners of his mouth. Daley compared this man to the image of McMunn’s older self on the computer screen; the facial hair was about the only common feature. Still, the group photo of the men from Wellside Distillery was a poor-quality reproduction.
‘The plot thickens, Jim.’
Just as Scott finished his sentence, Sergeant Shaw burst into the room. ‘Sir, there’s been a commotion in the Douglas Arms – Ian Cardle and Hugh McMunn. Thought you’d like to know. The lads are off to sort it out now.’
‘We’ll tag along. C’mon, Brian.’
When Daley, Scott and two uniformed officers arrived at the Douglas Arms, Hugh McMunn was already being stretchered out to a waiting ambulance. Clutching bloodstained white wadding to a gash on his forehead, he began ranting at the policemen. ‘Away and arrest some real criminals!’
‘Another whack on the heid, son,’ said Scott. ‘Maybe better just tae keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yoursel’, if you’re wanting tae stay as handsome, that is.’
As the police officers entered the Douglas Arms, the sounds of shouting and smashing glass could be heard. Ian Cardle was standing on the bar brandishing a stool, its metal legs thrust out like the spines of a porcupine. Overweight, his jeans hung below his waist, displaying quite a paunch beneath a blood-soaked T-shirt. His eyes were wild and bulging, as he challenged all-comers. ‘C’mon, ye bastards! Does nane o’ ye have the balls tae come and have a go? All mates wae McMunn, eh?’
A couple of customers shouted back, though they were hushed by an elderly bald man with a hooked nose, who was standing behind the bar, well away from Cardle. Daley recognised him as the proprietor.
‘Now, there you are, Ian,’ he shouted, his accent not of Kinloch but County Antrim. ‘The bloody boys in blue are here now. The game’s up, my friend.’ He winked at Daley. ‘The rozzers’ll pile you into the Black Maria and you’ll be behind bars before Jack can say how d’ye do. Be a good lad and come down, before the copper in the front there gets that Taser out of his pocket and zaps the hell out of you, like bloody Flash bloody Gordon.’
Despite the commotion and the broken glass everywhere, Daley could have sworn the landlord was enjoying this diversion.
‘Can I get a pint of Sixty Shilling, Den?’ asked a red-haired man wearing the distinctive welder’s cap sitting at the other end of the long bar. ‘I’m wile an’ dry ower here.’
‘You want me to risk life and bloody limb so you can have the tipple of your choice, Billy boy.’ The landlord gesticulated wildly with his hands, adding dramatic emphasis to what he was saying. ‘Normal service will be resumed in no time at all now that the constabulary are here.’ He held a Paris Goblet under a beer tap. ‘In the meantime, quench your thirst with a wee pony of good honest ale and try to think more on the plight of bloody others.’ He smiled at Daley opening the hinged bar hatch. ‘Be my guest, gentlemen. I’d offer you all a drink, but I’ve lost enough money during this little battle as it is, and your sergeant there has the look of a man that could drink a brewery dry.’
‘Just you get doon here right now,’ Scott shouted up at Cardle, ignoring the barb, ‘before I come up there an’ get you.’
‘I’m wanting a lawyer!’ roared Cardle. ‘I know fine whoot will happen tae me up the hill if I don’t have representation.’
‘Right! That’s enough!’ said Scott, as he ran towards Ian Cardle and grabbed his right ankle, sending man and bar stool tumbling to the floor.
‘Bravo, sir, bloody bravo,’ said the landlord, clapping his hands triumphantly. ‘Poor Ian.’ He glanced at Cardle, who was lying in a heap on the floor. ‘In the door at eleven like John bloody Wayne, and out again by two like Mickey bloody Rooney. Now, Billy boy, a pint of our best Sixty Shilling, if I’m not much mistaken.’ He thrust a pint glass under a beer tap as the uniformed police officers handcuffed Ian Cardle and hauled him to his feet.
X
Hugh McMunn was patched up at Kinloch’s hospital and returned to the cells at the police office, where he and Ian Cardle, already resident, proceeded to yell abuse at each other through the walls, despite the best efforts of Sergeant Shaw.
‘A Skype message for you, sir,’ said a harassed-looking Shaw, poking his head around the door.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll send Brian in to see them in a minute,’ replied Daley, as they walked down the corridor to the AV suite. ‘That’s bound to shut them up.’
Shaw pressed a few keys as Daley took his seat; soon, after a few flashes and numbers, an image appeared.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector Daley,’ said the elderly man in a deep American drawl. ‘I’m Mayor McMunn, Archie McMunn.’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose it’s later in the day with you there in Kinloch. So, goo
d afternoon, my apologies.’
The perfect pronunciation of the town’s name struck Daley, as he studied the man on the large screen in front of him. In his sixties, he was tanned and healthy-looking with a long thin face and steel-grey hair shaved close to his head, military fashion. Wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt and red tie, he sat straight-backed in front of a sign which read ‘Wantage Mayoral Department’. A furled stars and stripes was visible to his left.
‘I intend to visit your lovely town before I die, Mr Daley. My grandfather told me so many stories about the place when I was a kid, I felt as though I could walk down any street and know where I was heading.’
‘Good of you to get in touch, Mr McMunn. I take it Sheriff Engler has briefed you on our little discovery?’
‘Oh yes, he did indeed. I don’t really know what to say about that.’
‘You remember your grandfather well?’
‘Very well. Though he died in ’63, I spent a lot of time with him when I was a child. He was a kind funny man, and he told a hell of a good story, Mr Daley.’
‘So he was a happy man?’
‘Very. Do you know, I never saw him angry. He never cursed or raised his voice, and even when we got outa line, he brought us back on course with a smile.’
‘So he didn’t hit you, or discipline you?’
‘Hell no!’ replied McMunn, looking shocked. ‘My grandmother was the one who would chase us, or give a quick cuff round the head. My, my, but she was a formidable woman, Mr Daley. But my grandfather, he wouldn’t have hurt a fly. Well, not often,’ he said, suddenly serious, looking at Daley from under his brow.’
‘Very different to the stories I’ve heard here, Mr McMunn.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s kind of why I’m talking to you, right now,’ said McMunn, shifting in his seat. ‘I guess we – my late father and I, that is – have been expecting to hear from someone like you in Kinloch for most of our lives.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied Daley.
‘I could sit here and tell you why, but I think that the man who started all of this will do it so much more justice than I could ever do. We – me, my family, this town – we owe him so much. He came here with nothing and built a fortune, not on the backs of others, but with good old hard work.’ He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and waved it before the camera. ‘I’m sending you a copy of this, Mr Daley.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, let’s just say it speaks for itself,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘When I took he reins of this business from my father when he was dying, he gave me this letter and told me never to breathe a word about its contents.’
‘So why now, Mr McMunn?’
‘Respecting my grandfather’s instructions,’ he smiled again, but Daley could see tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what you’ll want to do after you read it, Mr Daley, but, please, try not to judge him too harshly. Those were very different days.’
‘Thank you for your honesty, Mr McMunn. I’ll be back in touch when I’ve read it.’
‘Thank you, Mr Daley. It’s in your in-box now. And I mean what I say – now that things have changed, I’m going to visit Kinloch.’
He nodded solemnly as the screen went blank.
XI
Daley opened the email, the header bearing the title and logo of McMunn Inc. He clicked on the attachment and peered at the screen. The letter had been scanned, but the yellowing of the page revealed its age. Though the handwriting was old-fashioned, it was bold and clear:
Wantage
September 10th, 1963
To Whom It May Concern,
I fear that my days are running out, and I have more reason than most to shy away from Death’s clammy embrace.
I have been a lucky man – a very lucky man – much more than I deserved to be. For instance, I have loved – truly loved – two beautiful women, though my heart ached for one of them for more years than I care to mention. I came to America with nothing, and America took me to its heart. Here I have wealth, family, respect, security – what more could any man wish for?
Despite this good fortune, I fall asleep with the same image on my mind every night: a face on a distant shore. For the first time since it happened, I will tell the tale.
It was still dark, but I could see the first light of day breaking over the hills as I looked down on that face for the last time. Those unseeing eyes stared up at me; they stare at me still, despite the passage of time. There was blood on his face and in his hair. When I hit him, I did so out of desperation, as he’d come at me with a length of timber. The only weapon I had to hand was a mallet used for hammering bungs into whisky barrels. I will never forget watching the life drain from him as he sank to his knees and then fell forward onto the deck of the little steam puffer. One blow was all it had taken; an act that changed every second of my life still to come, and ended his for good.
Of course, I panicked. I felt the hangman’s noose; felt it tighten around my neck.
I found an empty butt on the deck. It was a cask that had leaked and was to be brought back to the distillery. Because it had been badly coopered – no doubt old Tommy had been drunk when he’d done it – I managed to force two metal hoops up and off, take out the end of the cask, then cram the man I had killed into it. As I drove the cart to Dalintober beach, our old mare was restless and she whinnied, smelling blood and death. I calmed her, and soon we were at the pier. I rolled the cask down the little slipway and onto the sand, dreading the moment that the barrel I had hammered back together as best as I could, would fall apart and its grim contents spill out onto the sand.
The butt remained intact, and as I rolled it along the beach, I could feel the motion moving the dead man within. Rolling a barrel with a dead man in it is much easier than carrying his weight over your shoulder, and though the bright blue Dalintober moon helped me, by the same token it would have been my undoing had I not been able to hide the body and someone seen me at my dark deed.
As the last shovels of sand buried the dead man, I considered my next move. I took the horse and cart back to the pier in Kinloch and started walking.
It was light now, though early, and I was mindful lest a hardworking crofter already at their toil should witness me. I cut across fields away from the road, in the main. Luck was with me though and I wasn’t spied.
After a long and fretful trek, I knocked on the cottage door of the Gentleman from Blaan, as we in the distillery used to call him. Simply put, he was a smuggler; I won’t name him here, but he and I had done a handsome trade in illicit whisky, which he sailed off to Ireland under the very nose of the Excise men. I hope, like me, he had a long and prosperous life; he deserved it. He helped me – gave me a few coins to see me on my way – and never breathed a word.
I took to sea with him to Ireland, and once there made my way to Cork, where I sought to work my passage on a ship bound for America. At every moment I feared two things: the hand of a stout Bobby on my collar, and the thought that I would never see the woman I loved again.
Oh, Cathy McMunn, how I missed you.
For a long time, I hoped that I would be able to send for her, and that is why I did what I did. When the purser on the Winter Star asked me my name, I gave it: Archibald McMunn. I knew it was a risk, but in those days word spread more slowly than it does today. I was told that the name under which I travelled would be the one given to the authorities in America. Despite the risk of discovery, I had to do it. Soon, when the fuss had died down back in Kinloch I would send for Cathy and we would live as man and wife.
It was in that hope that I carried the name that took me to the United States of America, and the name I have lived with all these years. It is a name that belongs to another. To a dead man buried on the beach at Dalintober, where I left him so long ago.
As the years passed, the fear of being caught lessened. I kept myself busy and tried to plan how to bring Cathy and the child she had carried in her belly when I left and that I knew
to be mine, over to America to be with me. But the time was never right; mostly I couldn’t raise the money, and when at last I could afford it, I had fallen in love with another – my beautiful wife Rebecca.
I found that America and Scotland were very different. People took to me and I was able to make my way, first as a salesman and then with my own small company. It didn’t matter who you were here. You didn’t need wealth or a title to succeed. If you worked, and worked hard, you could live the American dream. I did.
I made one mistake, though. Feeling guilty, I sent money to Cathy, to help her and her child, who by that time would be grown and perhaps in need of a start in life. You may ask me why I didn’t offer this same financial support to my own wife and family; the answer is, I don’t know. I suppose we were married very young – mere children - and anything I had found alluring about her I later found irritating. If it is any consolation, I will take the guilt of abandoning them to my grave. Along with everything else, that is.
I was the town sheriff, and when the questions came from Kinloch, it was easy for me to dismiss them as the ramblings of men in a distant land. How could Archie McMunn, Sherriff and doer of good, ever have been responsible for such a thing? The folks here in Wantage used to joke about it, while my blood ran cold.
I feel guilt, real guilt; not for the man, but for the crime. I had no love for the real Archie McMunn, and still don’t. He was a brute, and the world was better off without him; but as for murder, I feel it in my soul every waking minute. I am leaving strict instructions for those who come after me, so I suppose that now you are reading this, the body of Archie McMunn has been discovered on Dalintober beach. I have made financial provision for him to have a proper Christian burial with a headstone. I want it to bear his real name: Archibald McMunn. It is a small price to pay in return to the man whose very name – whose life, in truth – I stole.
For me, I await God’s judgement. Ultimately, it is all that really matters. I seek forgiveness from no other.
Dalintober Moon Page 3
