The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘I trust you had a nice Christmas,’ she said, sitting forwards in her chair.

  ‘Yes, yes I did, thanks,’ Daley replied, suddenly conscious of the fact that he hadn’t said anything so far. He stood and held out his hand, which she shook, her grip surprisingly strong.

  Daley sat back down. ‘The wee man’s first Christmas – always special.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Not something I know much about.’

  Daley could hear Brian Scott’s ‘married tae the job’ maxim echo in his head.

  ‘Well, you know why I’m here, DCI Daley, I won’t try to dress it up.’

  ‘No point.’

  ‘Indeed. You have, what, three weeks of your notice left to work, am I right?’

  ‘Correct. Well, twenty-three days, to be exact.’

  ‘I must tell you that our senior executive officers are still most unhappy with your decision to quit the job. In fact, the chief constable himself has urged me to personally ask you to stay. That’s why I’m here, in fact.’

  ‘Really?’ Daley thought for a moment. ‘But, what do you think?’

  She paused and pursed her lips. ‘In all honesty, from a personal point of view, I’m of the opinion that if an officer becomes so disenchanted with the police service that he or she contemplates taking early retirement, with all that entails, it’s unlikely that they have the correct mindset to contribute effectively. However, I know that this is not an opinion shared by my superiors.’

  ‘Thank you for your candour,’ he said, noticing her take a quick look at her watch. She’d done what she came to do, now she wanted to be on to the next job.

  ‘Do you have anything lined up? For the future, I mean.’

  It was his turn to hesitate. He and Liz had argued long and hard about the future. She couldn’t understand why her husband, having attained a reasonably high rank with prospects of further promotion, had decided to quit his job. For his part, despite being convinced that life as a police officer was no longer for him, he was at a loss to think of anything else he wanted – or was qualified – to do, save the usual options of security consultant or suchlike. In any event, the best and most lucrative of these roles were normally the preserve of retirees from the top of the tree, not its middle branches.

  ‘Oh, I have a few irons in the fire,’ he replied, less than convincingly.

  ‘I would have thought that a man who has just started a family, albeit late in life, would have been looking for security of employment. But there you are, nowt so funny as folks,’ she continued, revealing more of her accent, probably from Yorkshire, Daley surmised. ‘All this aside, however, it is my task to inform you that you would be in line for a permanent appointment as sub-divisional commander should you decide to stay. No immediate advancement in rank, but certainly a greater prospect of such in the very near future.’

  Despite the offer, Daley had the feeling that Chief Superintendent Symington was merely going through the motions.

  ‘Are you Donald’s direct replacement?’

  ‘If you are referring to the late Chief Superintendent John Donald then yes, I am.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked about the room. ‘Your wife has good taste.’

  ‘How do you know I’m not responsible for the décor?’

  ‘I’ve read your file DCI Daley, that’s how I know. Anyway, I’ve imparted the information as requested. I’ll leave you to the rest of your festivities. You’re back at work tomorrow, I’m right in saying?’

  ‘Yes, Hogmanay.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you then.’

  Symington shook his hand again as he showed her out of the front door. She didn’t look back as she got into her waiting car, which took her back down Daley’s drive towards Kinloch.

  ‘Darling, I so wish you would change your mind,’ said Liz, her son on her hip.

  ‘So, you were listening?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, handing him the child. ‘We’d better hope I get better at this baking lark – looks like I might end up doing it full time.’ She looked down, then smoothed the front of her jeans. Daley’s heart sank as thoughts of another woman filled his head.

  2

  Blaan

  The Reverend Ignatius More puffed his way up the hill. He could see his church, small, neat and well maintained, nestled in the valley below and, despite himself, his heart soared with pride. The road from here back to his roots in the Australian Outback was a long one. From rough stockman to a man of the cloth, a minister in the Church of Scotland; it was something he could never have imagined.

  His wife – as usual – was much further up the hill than he, at the top of the rise, almost. It was at times like this that the twenty years between them told. Mind you, he reasoned, she kept herself so fit it was unlikely he’d have kept up with her even if their ages coincided.

  Soon they were both standing at the peak of the hill, looking down over a glade of oak trees and out across the sea, the loom of the island of Ireland a grey shadow in the distance. The festive season was his busiest time of the year and he appreciated the opportunity to get away from preaching and sermon writing to commune with God in the way he preferred – out, under the heavens, bathing in the glory of all before him.

  ‘Shall we turn back, or do you fancy going down to the woods?’ she asked, her Irish accent lilting on the breeze.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Yes, I have loads of time before I have to get ready for tonight’s service. Why not?’

  This was the second-last day of the old year, the day before Hogmanay, and being a Sunday, his flock would be expecting their evening service. He had to admit, he’d been surprised how pagan parts of the Christmas holiday had clung on here, not only in the village and its surrounding farms, but also in Kinloch, the town only ten miles or so away. It was strange to think that easily within living memory, the people of south Kintyre had worked as normal on Christmas Day, then had their holiday and exchanged gifts on Ne’er Day, as they called the first day of a new year. When he’d first come to the UK from Australia, he’d been fearful that he would be somewhat out of place in this modern, up-to-the-minute society. He’d detected something else though, especially in the more remote parts of Scotland; something old, something unseen and unspoken, but ever-present, nonetheless. People were still reluctant to let red-haired folk cross their threshold in the first hours of the new year; folk memory from a long time ago, when the sight of red-haired people in this part of the world meant death and destruction. It was strange how the tradition had persisted.

  ‘As long as you don’t tell my church elders I’ve been down at the Rat Stone,’ he said to her with a smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare. Sure, wouldn’t they be astonished that we’d made it back alive?’

  ‘I should imagine they would. Mind you, so would most of my parishioners.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine. Come on, time’s not for waiting.’ She heaved the straps of her rucksack higher onto her shoulders and set off down towards the oaken glade with the ancient stone at its heart. Strath na Draoidh – the Vale of the Druids.

  There followed the familiar traipse through boggy ground that sucked at his walking boots, leaving cloying mud on his gaiters, then up onto the little plateau with its circle of trees.

  He’d been here a handful of times before and on each occasion had felt strangely disconcerted as he set foot amongst the old gnarled oaks. It was the opposite feeling to being in a holy place, where the silence soothed and spoke of goodness and peace. Here, though there was quiet, there was no peace; the silence seemed to threaten.

  He stopped in his tracks. The wind was getting up and with it a wail, a moan almost, whistled through the ancient grove. The Rat Stone Serenade, the old song of the trees. Local tradition had it that the trees were wailing for the past, for older, darker days and all those that inhabited them. He shivered, wishing they had opted to cut their walk short at the top of the hill.

  ‘Ignatius, qui
ckly!’ His wife’s shout was short and anxious. As the whine through the trees became louder, he hurried towards her. He tripped and fell over the knotted root of an old tree that twisted from the ground like the curls of a serpent.

  ‘Iggy!’

  He got back up and half limped, half ran towards her – anxious now, hearing panic in her voice.

  ‘Look!’ she said, almost in tears as she pointed to a flat slab of granite, an oblong about the length of a tall man, but twice as broad.

  ‘Oh my . . .’ Fear constricted his throat.

  There, arranged in perfect anatomical order, lay a skeleton, the bleached white bones stark against the black stone; by their size, the remains of a child.

  Having spoken to his new boss already that day, Daley hadn’t expected to hear her voice on the other end of the line when he picked up the phone. Now he was in a rickety old Land Rover with Superintendent Symington and a young DC as they made their way across a rutted field. As the vehicle jolted them along, the farmer it belonged to, Charlie Galbraith, at the wheel, Daley reflected on yet another day off spoiled by a recall to work. Not for much longer, he reassured himself.

  ‘Am I right in thinkin’ you’re English?’ asked Galbraith, turning in his seat to look at Symington.

  ‘And that’s important, why?’ she replied, staring straight ahead.

  ‘Och, you know how it is with us Scots, missus. Rightly or wrongly, we don’t always see eye tae eye with Sassenachs. That’s all I’m saying, mind.’

  ‘We’re not far away now, are we, Charlie? Daley asked, trying to shut the elderly man up. ‘Bloody dark already.’

  ‘Aye, dark in mair ways than one, Mr Daley. This land has been in oor family for generations. I grew up here, aye, an’ I spent my life right here on this farm. But I’ll tell you something; I’ve only been amongst they auld oak trees a handful of times.’

  ‘Really, in your whole life?’ enquired Symington, suddenly interested in what he had to say.

  ‘Aye, and it’s many years since I was last there, tae.’

  ‘Oh well, this’ll be a nice change for you,’ she replied, not without a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘No, not for me,’ he said, bringing the Land Rover to a halt. ‘I would rather cut oot my ain eyes than go up there tae the stone. This is as far as I’m going.’ He folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘You aren’t being serious?’

  ‘I am indeed, madam. In any event, there’s no way this auld thing would make it up the rise. From here you’re on foot. Aye, and on your own, tae.’

  Daley shone the heavy torch along the ground in front of him, anxious to avoid tripping over the tree roots that thrust from the terrain like the gnarled fingers of an old woman. He heard Symington curse as she tripped, and turned to see her being hauled up by up the large and more than capable figure of DC Wilkinson.

  Daley was used to death; its cloying stench had followed him throughout his years as a police officer. From the pensioner lying dead of cold in a Glasgow multi-storey to the gangster, face down in a pool of his own blood, he had seen it all. But rather than become inured to it, each time he looked into the glazed eyes of a corpse he pictured them shining bright with the vitality that had been taken away. These were people robbed of something more important than all the wealth in the world – their own existence. Yet another melancholy thought he hoped would disappear with his police ID.

  ‘What a bloody racket!’ shouted Symington above the whine of the wind through the trees. ‘I hope we haven’t got much further to go.’

  There was indeed an eerie moan; high-pitched, it echoed through the trees.

  ‘No, nearly there,’ replied Daley, seeing the flash of a torch up ahead.

  Soon, they reached a clearing, where three figures stood, huddled into their coats.

  ‘Hello, sir. Sorry to drag you out, but I thought you’d better see this right away,’ said Pollock, the middle-aged, thickset constable whose rural beat covered Blaan and who had been first to respond to the call. ‘It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, sir,’ he continued, his salt-and-pepper moustache bristling.

  Daley stepped closer to the couple who were entwined in an embrace, their breath rising in clouds. The man was tall, but only slightly more so than the woman, who was wide-eyed and upset, her head leaning on his shoulder. By the lines on his face, Daley saw that he was older than his female companion. He’d heard of Ignatius More, the minister at Blaan church, though he hadn’t met him. He remembered the rumour and innuendo in Kinloch when he had taken a new – and much younger – wife. Recollections of a young woman, nervously pressing the front of her skirt, flashed through his mind again. He banished the thought.

  ‘Reverend More, I’m Jim Daley. Sorry to have kept you here, I came as quick as I could.’ In fact, thought Daley, he was surprised that Pollock hadn’t sent the couple home out of the cold once he had arrived at the scene.

  ‘Hello, Mr Daley, I’ve heard about you – all good, of course,’ said More, his Australian accent strong. ‘This is my wife, Veronica.’

  Daley shook the woman’s gloved hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, though I wish the circumstances were different, Mrs More. Let’s have a look at what you’ve found.’

  ‘Oh, it’s horrible, Mr Daley,’ she said. ‘Just horrible.’

  Daley shone his torch down to the dark slab at their feet. It was only knee high, but long, approximately rectangular in shape. The bright white bones stood out on its black surface, all in order, as he’d been told. The neat little skull was on his left, the thin bones of the feet to the right.

  ‘Let’s get you back out of the cold and we can talk,’ said Daley, seeing Mrs More shiver.

  ‘May I enquire why you left these good people out here to freeze in the first place, constable?’ asked Symington.

  Pollock shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Aye, well, ma’am. I wasn’t just sure how you would like to proceed. I mean, it’s not every day we come across something like this.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t blame the constable,’ said Reverend More. ‘We weren’t about to leave him here alone.’ As he spoke, the wind whined louder through the trees. ‘Not the kind of place anyone should be alone, I reckon.’

  As Symington and the Mores picked their way by torchlight through the glade of oaks, back to the Land Rover, Daley took the chance to speak to PC Pollock.

  ‘I’ll leave DC Wilkinson with you until SOCO and the rest of the troops arrive. I want to interview the minister and his wife at home. You know the score, maintain the integrity of the locus etc. I’ll be back to see how the team are getting on.’ Daley hesitated. ‘Are you OK, Willie?’

  ‘Aye,’ he paused. ‘As you know, sir, I’m not one for romancing. None o’ this bloody fanciful stuff – a spade is a spade as far as I’m concerned. But I’m not ashamed to say, well, there’s something about this place . . .’

  ‘C’mon, Willie, I expect that kind of thing from old Charlie Galbraith, not you.’

  ‘Aye, easy to say, not so easy to dae, sir.’ He looked down at the small skeleton. ‘Who’s going to tell the Shannons about this?’

  ‘The Shannons? What do they have to do with it?’

  ‘You’ll recall, sir, that every year the Shannon family hold their AGM up at Kersivay House. Remember you had me detailed there over Hogmanay last year? You know, at the gate, sir?’

  ‘Ah yes, the Superintendent’s idea, not mine, if I remember rightly,’ replied Daley, recalling Donald’s obsession at getting everything ‘just right’ as far as the Shannon family were concerned. Was that really only a year ago? So much had changed.

  ‘You might remember that they suffered a family tragedy, back in the sixties, sir.’

  ‘Vaguely. I think I’ve read something about that, now you mention it.’

  ‘Aye, a wee boy, about six when he disappeared. Never saw hide nor hair of him again, apart from his left shoe lying on the beach.’ He shone his torch down on the black stone. ‘I’m no pathologist, but that’s t
he skeleton of a child, sir. And the way the bones are bleached, well, they look old – in my book, anyway.’

  Daley stared at the little skull. He knew something of the Shannon family case, knew that they were a very rich family and that Pollock was right, as far-fetched as it may seem, to flag up a possible connection between the bones laid out in front of them and the family who visited the clifftop mansion once a year. It looked as though the last few weeks of his police career were not destined to be as calm as he’d hoped.

  3

  The manse stood at the edge of the village, on the road back to Kinloch. Having been driven back across the field by the indelicate farmer Galbraith in his Land Rover, Symington and the Mores had swapped vehicles; Symington’s exceptionally clean police car, complete with driver, was now parked on the gravel driveway outside the solid Georgian house.

  Daley raised a hand in farewell as Galbraith reversed back down the driveway. He chapped at the large brass knocker and the Reverend More opened the door.

  ‘DCI Daley, do come in out of the cold,’ he said, ushering the detective into the warm hallway. Daley noted the paintings of local beauty spots jostling for space with photographs on the walls as he walked into the wood-panelled lounge, a blazing fire at its heart. Veronica stood elegantly, her back to the flames, while Superintendent Symington perched on the edge of a Chesterfield couch.

  After the usual pleasantries – and the offer of a glass of whisky that Daley regretfully declined – More made his apologies and left the room to change, in readiness for the evening service. He would, he reassured Symington, only be a few minutes, following which he would be able to answer any questions she and Daley might have for him.