Gently North-West

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Man, I’m runnin’ a farm—!’

  ‘Who was it,’ Gently said. ‘Who was spending their evenings up there on the braes? If it wasn’t you you’d know who it was – you do know – and we’ll know too, very soon.’

  ‘I’m tellin’ you!’ McCracken stammered.

  ‘You know who it is. You know their reason.’

  ‘Och!’ Flora McCracken cried. ‘If you winna shoot him, faither, hand me your gun and leave him to me.’

  ‘Whist, daughter, whist,’ McCracken exclaimed.

  ‘Will ye let him outface ye?’ the girl cried. ‘On your ain sod – your fute on Laggart – an Englishman dingin’ you down wi’ words? Och, I’m blushin’ for you, father. This isna the way o’ Hector McCracken. I’ll awa’ to my kin at Gillieknock, where they carena if the sky is black with eagles.’

  ‘Ye daft bitch!’ McCracken snarled. ‘Have ye nought in your harps but wildfire? Robbie, take your sister back i’ the hoose – I canna think sense wi’ her bangin’ ma lugs.’

  ‘Ye’ll rue it,’ she cried. ‘Ye’ll rue it, McCracken, if you chop mair words wi’ the ugly southron.’

  ‘Get her out o’ ma sight!’ McCracken bawled.

  ‘Come awa’, Flo,’ said the young man nearest her.

  Flora McCracken gave him a fierce look but made no move to obey her father. She stood biting her lips, her brows dragged together, her molten eyes glaring at Gently. McCracken affected not to notice her disobedience.

  ‘So ye have these prints, ye’re sayin’,’ he said to Gently.

  ‘We have them,’ Gently said. ‘And we’ll match them. We’ll know who made that call by this evening.’

  ‘But ye canna be sure what the call was about.’

  ‘We don’t need to know that when we know who made it. We know it was made at a certain time and that Dunglass went out as a result of it.’

  ‘Ay, but even so,’ McCracken said. ‘It’s not to say the body who made it was likewise the murderer. There’s room for argyment there, I’m thinkin’, for all you’re pretendin’ nothin’ o’ the sort.’

  ‘There’s always room for argument,’ Gently said. ‘But it’s facts and evidence that win convictions. And I’ve no doubt we’ll come by plenty of both when we question the owner of those prints.’

  ‘But if the body who made the call had guid, strong witness – if that body should prove to have been elsewhere – an’ there’s this other man nearby the spot – it’s very argyable he would quarrel wi’ Dunglass.’

  ‘Only we happen to know differently,’ Gently said. ‘And you know differently too, McCracken. Or you wouldn’t be poking a gun in my chest and threatening to throw me over a crag.’

  McCracken’s grim face twisted. ‘Ye ken what you’re doin’, man,’ he said. ‘But had ye not come here from the quarter ye did, you’d no be traipsin’ down Laggart again to be settin’ on Blayne. What more do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to see that path.’

  ‘It’s more than your puir English feet can tread.’

  ‘I’d still like to see it.’

  ‘Your heid’ll no take it. It’s for men who’ve brushed the dew aff the heather.’

  ‘I’ll show the cratur’ the path, father,’ Flora McCracken said unexpectedly. ‘If he will see it, he will see it, an’ I can show him as well as another.’

  McCracken looked at her, his eyes small, then flashed a a quick glance at Gently.

  ‘What d’you say, southron,’ he said. ‘Will you go up the braes wi’ ma daughter?’

  Gently hesitated, then shrugged carelessly. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘She’ll know the way.’

  ‘An’ your lady-friend too,’ Flora McCracken said. ‘If we take it slow she’ll manage fine.’

  Gently hesitated again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s the car to get back. Besides, I haven’t much time to spare. My friend can go over another day.’

  Flora McCracken muttered something, but took a glance from her father and was silent. Gently walked back to the Minx, where Brenda sat pale-faced, eyes scared.

  ‘I’m going over the top,’ he said, ‘with Miss McCracken. You take the car back to Strathtudlem. I’ll see you there in a couple of hours. Have the kettle on for a pot of tea.’

  ‘Are you sure – are you sure?’ Brenda faltered. ‘I mean, you’re not . . . well . . . used to climbing?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be in good hands,’ Gently said. ‘Never worry about me. Watch your driving.’

  Flora McCracken unlocked the gate and Brenda jerkily, clumsily turned the Minx. When she was level with Gently again she halted and wound down her window.

  ‘What are we doing for dinner?’ she asked. ‘Am I to ring up and book?’

  ‘Of course,’ Gently said. ‘The sooner the better. Cut along and book two tables.’

  Brenda went.

  Flora McCracken closed the gate, watched the Minx disappear behind a ridge. She turned, avoiding her father’s eye, and stared levelly at Gently.

  ‘I’ve a sma’ business in the hoose,’ she said. ‘It winna take mair than a minute. So if yell jist bide where you are, I’ll be wi’ ye – I’ll be wi’ ye.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Frankie and Johnny were sweethearts,

  Oh and how they did love.

  ‘Frankie and Johnny’

  WHILE FLORA MCCRACKEN was gone Hector McCracken stood bearing down on his rifle and scowling stupidly at the ground near Gently’s feet. His mouth plucked and twisted and he bored at the earth with the rifle-butt. At last he jerked back his savage grey head and fixed tiny, ice-like eyes on the detective.

  ‘You’ll be drawin’ the blinkers over me still,’ he said. ‘I ken it, I ken it. You’re a smooth, deceivin’ body, like every Englishman that ever breathed. You’re a’ velvet an’ soft speakin’ an’ innocence an’ empty hands, then in a blink the knife’s at our craig, an’ we dinna ken which way it came.’

  ‘That was much your neighbour’s situation,’ Gently said. ‘With the addition that his back was turned at the time.’

  ‘Dunglass was a traitor, ye weel ken. Back or front, it was no matter wi’ him.’

  ‘A subtle distinction,’ Gently said. ‘But all murderers are traitors. Killing is easy. You stand here alive because other people have honoured their contract.’

  ‘English blethers,’ McCracken sneered. ‘We ken the value o’ rich language. We’ve had it cuitlin’ up our lugs since the days o’ Wallace an’ the Bruce. But for a’ your sophisticatin’, Englishman, dinna be weighin’ your woo’ yet. Ye have your fute where it’s fatal for southrons – it’s a far call frae the Bow Bells.’

  He glowered at Gently, then turned his back. His sons remained staring uncertainly at Gently. One of them, Robbie, had gone to the gate, and leaned massively against it, whistling untunefully.

  Flora McCracken returned from the house, her sweater exchanged for a denim jacket. She paused for a moment before her father and looked up steadily into his eyes.

  ‘Shall I send the boys wi’ ye?’ McCracken muttered.

  ‘What for should I need them?’ she replied scornfully.

  ‘Jist watch your step, lassie, wi’ yon slimy customer.’

  ‘Dinna fear about that. I ken his like.’ She turned to Gently. ‘Come, Englishman,’ she said. ‘Here’s an honour you winna have often repeated. You’re goin’ up the braes wi’ McCracken’s daughter – I hope you mayna boast about it later.’

  ‘I appreciate that privilege, Miss McCracken,’ Gently said.

  She looked at him scathingly. ‘Perhaps – perhaps no’. But we’ll see what you make of a regular hill-path, where the feathers of a’ the eagles are black. Let’s awa’.’

  She set off at a swinging pace towards the firs behind the house. Gently followed. McCracken, his sons, the dogs stood silently watching them out of sight.

  Beyond the firs an easy track followed a contour of the braes and led to a steep rocky gully filled with boulders and rubbish. The route was obviously well-trodden.
There was a worn line through the short hill grass. Rocky areas were scratched and abraded and heelmarks were showing in puddles of mud.

  Flora McCracken stalked ahead without wasting a back-glance at Gently. She had a springing ease in her step that seemed to mock at the law of gravity. Though so tall, she had the perfect body of some well-developed wild creature, a deer, a snow-leopard. Her footing was rapid but very sure.

  They reached the gully. She went straight on up it, never slacking her pace for a moment. Her figure, lean in the jeans and buttoned jacket, went swinging rhythmically away from Gently. Gently let her go. He tackled the gully at his own deliberate pace. When he reached the top, panting and streaming, he found her sitting on a boulder, cool and unblown.

  ‘Is that the best you can do, Englishman,’ she sneered. ‘I wouldna want to take to the braes wi’ you often. I’m thinkin’ your roast beef is no’ what it was when you were makin’ such work at Culloden.’

  ‘I’m out of practice,’ Gently said. ‘Up here, you can run rings round me, Miss McCracken.’

  ‘Ay, is it comin’ to you now?’ she said. ‘But that should have been thought of before you ventured.’

  She sprang off the boulder and marched on, leaving Gently to wipe his sweat. But now they had climbed on to a heathery top and had a fairly flat section before them. Behind them the Laggart plateau lay partly in view, ahead a range of craggy cliffs. To the right reared the crooked, alp-like peak with its dull, unsunned snow-in-June.

  After a while Flora McCracken slowed and permitted Gently to draw abreast of her.

  ‘An’ do you feel it quite safe up here, ma man,’ she said. ‘When your heid is so full o’ so many great secrets?’

  ‘Pretty safe,’ Gently said. ‘That eagle’s still flying over Glenny.’

  ‘But Glenny is Glenny,’ Flora McCracken said. ‘An’ there’s nought on Laggart Braes but crows. An’ Laggart crows are hungry creatures, always ravenin’ after carrion.’

  ‘I’ll back the eagle,’ Gently said. ‘I imagine he’s used to dealing with crows.’

  Flora McCracken stopped, looked carefully all round her. ‘I canna get sight of an eagle,’ she said.

  She kept close to him. They walked on.

  ‘Let me tell you a tale, Englishman,’ she said. ‘It’s about a handsome chiel an’ a rich ane, who was for settin’ himself up in the hills.’

  ‘Did he come from Glasgow?’ Gently asked.

  ‘Ay, from thereabouts,’ she said. ‘But he was a proper man for a’ that, with a dark eye that rinned through ye. An’ he was strong, wi’ mowin’ shoulders an’ a neck like a young bull – the lassies were wild for him – he was marrit to a mouse of a female he caredna a rush for.’

  ‘Rich, handsome,’ Gently said. ‘And a patriot too, I’ve no doubt.’

  ‘You may weel say so. It was kent an’ held o’ him he would lead the motion against the southron. He could speak het an’ strang, baith at council an’ on the stand – he had a voice would sing in your bluid – you couldna withstan’ him – you wouldna try. He was elected out o’ hand to be leader next to the great chief. He was chief in his own right over the lealest district o’ them a’.’

  ‘He had a lieutenant,’ Gently said. ‘In this very leal district.’

  ‘He had sich a man,’ Flora McCracken said, ‘as would give his heart’s bluid – or take another’s.’

  ‘And they were, naturally, often together,’ Gently said. ‘And this handsome patriot met his lieutenant’s family – four hopeful sons with patriotic names, and a fiercely patriotic daughter.’

  Dinna scoff at me,’ Flora McCracken scowled. ‘I winna thole your scornin’, Englishman. What if Donnie did cast his een ma way – who so fit as masel’ to go beside him?’

  ‘Who indeed.’ Gently said. ‘My apologies.’

  ‘I didna ken the weakness in him i’ those days. I didna ken his heart was false an’ fickle – his brain deluded by his anglified upbring. I took him for the man I saw walk in wi’ his honour an’ loveliness upon him – och, it was that man I loved sae lang, sae true – an’ who gied me the same coin. Ma feet didna touch the braes when I went ower the tops to Donnie. I never saw the heather sae fair, never heard the birds sing sae sweet. An’ this lang time – it would be three summers, a’ goin’ by like a dream – was never a cloud came between us – never a harsh word or look. I had it – I had it. It doesna signify where the warld is goin’ now.’

  They had come to the cliffs and to a second gully, even more steep than the first. Flora McCracken led slowly into it, her eyes staring ahead.

  ‘There were two men,’ she said. ‘Two Donnie Dunglasses. Ane I loved an’ he loved me. Ane is livin’ wherever I go, he canna be choked in any grave. Ane is walkin’ on the brae-side an’ by the burnie an’ through the trees. I canna see a windflower blowin’ but Donnie is smilin’ at me there. There’s a sound o’ him in the breeze an’ a warmth o’ him in the sun an’ a look o’ him in the morn an’ a feel o’ him in the dark. I couldna have harmed Donnie any mair than harmed masel’. If Donnie were scratched, ma ain flesh would bleed. They say he’s deid, but it’s a black lie, an’ ye may cast it in their teeth – for I’m livin’ yet. An’ so is ma Donnie.’

  She went on climbing, but slackly, allowing Gently to keep pace.

  ‘But what of the other Dunglass,’ he panted. ‘The one who ran after Poppy Frazers.’

  He saw her lithe body jerk. ‘So ye ken that, do ye?’ she said.

  ‘We know he kept a woman in Balmagussie. A high-class prostitute from Glasgow.’

  She hung on a moment. ‘Ay,’ she said. ‘Your English nose would lead you to that. There’s a need – there’s a need. We’re no’ so far off it now.’

  ‘When did you find out?’ Gently panted.

  ‘What can that matter to you?’ she flung back. ‘You’ll no be tatlin’ about it to Blayne or your southron hizzie wi’ her painted chops.’

  ‘I’d say you found out recently – last week.’

  ‘An’ if I did – what then?’

  ‘Dunglass had changed. You would have noticed it. You’d have been spying on his movements.’

  She climbed a few yards silently. ‘Ay, Donnie had changed a’ right,’ she said. ‘He was down in Glesca in May – he wasna the same after that. But I didna spy on him, southron. I wouldn’t have spied upon Donnie. I may have guessed – I may have grieved – but I didna go searchin’ for his secrets.’

  ‘Who told you, then?’

  ‘There’s aye ane to bring the bad news.’

  ‘Your family knew?’

  ‘Ma brothers kent it. I wasna ignorant lang after.’

  ‘What day was this?’

  ‘Jist the Tuesday. Jist the Tuesday after the meetin’. Jist the day Donnie turned a traitor an’ a’ the truths were comin’ out. An’ I couldna believe it – an’ I was takin’ his part – an’ Wattie ups an’ ca’s me a name. An’ I askit him what was his meanin’ – an’ he was ower-gleefu’ to tell me. An’ I kent . . . I kent . . .’

  She hauled herself up to a narrow platform at the top of the gully.

  ‘What was it you knew, Miss McCracken?’

  ‘I kent I’d be killin’ that other Donnie.’

  She stood waiting for him on the platform, her back pressed against a shaft of rock. They had reached the divide. Beyond the platform was a sheer drop to the Strathtudlem Braes. It commanded a wide prospect. The strath, the village, the roads leading in and out, the bare tops above the forest, the Lodge, the Stane. Near the shaft where Flora McCracken stood a trough or cleft wore its way down the cliff-face. It looked a desperate sort of thoroughfare, but there was no other to the tops below. Gently climbed cautiously on to the platform.

  ‘Luik, luik,’ Flora McCracken said. ‘Feast your een on the bonnie outluik, the sweet Glen o’ Strathtudlem.’

  ‘It’s a good observation point,’ Gently said. ‘Better than the Stane – it includes the Stane.’

  ‘Does it no’,’ Flora Mc
Cracken said. ‘There’s little ye canna see from here. An’ many’s the day I’ve stood watchin’, many the night an’ the gloamin’ – in the het sun, the dashin’ rain, the whirlin’ ghosties o’ the snaw. I have stood here grey an’ stiff but wi’ ma heart boundin’ like a bird – an’ I have stood wi’ that same heart bangin’ an’ burstin’ in ma breest.’

  ‘You’d have seen McGuigan’s meetings with Mrs Dunglass.’

  ‘Tell me what I wouldna have seen.’

  ‘You knew where he hid his car. You were waiting, watching there – Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Friday.’

  ‘Ay, Friday. An’ Friday he came, as I kent he would if I kept ma patience. It was late, late, an’ still he sat there, glarin’ awa’ at his paper. Then he got out an’ luiked around, as though he half-kent there was a watcher. Then he jist closed the door quietly an’ took the auld path up the braes.’

  ‘Those were your finger-prints on the phone – and on the letter pushed under my door.’

  ‘I warned you, Englishman – you canna say other. But you jist came rushin’ on to your fate.’

  ‘You phoned Dunglass. You told him his wife had a lover waiting for her on the braes. You told him to make an excuse to go out, but to double back and to meet you at the Stane.’

  ‘Ay,’ she said. ‘His legs should have carried him there though his brain kent nothin’ o’ the affair – it was there we met an’ there we loved a thousand an’ ane nights together. An’ when I saw his dark een – when I heard his voice – I thought I never should get to ma purpose. But he was cauld. His only concern was his reputation an’ his pride.’

  ‘McGuigan came.’

  ‘You ken he did. You were sittin’ below wi’ your London hizzie. He was watchin’ you an’ watchin’ the house, an’ the bit o’ the track where it comes through the trees. Then you got up an’ saw him, which he didna like, an’ he pulled back, though he was still watchin’ – an’ you went aff down, an he went down, an’ Donnie’s woman jumps into his arms.’

  ‘And Dunglass went to the Stane.’

  ‘Ay. We were hid in those trees you can see. I fetchit Donnie to the Stane an’ bid him watch what would happen. An’ he sees a’, an’ it was bitter to him, an’ I ken he would have slain them baith. But he didna, he didna, for ma ain dirk was goin’ into his back.’