The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Help yourselves,’ said a plump old woman, directing them to a table laden with an array of fruits, breakfast cereals and pots of tea and coffee. ‘If yous would like a cooked breakfast, it’ll be another few minutes.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Scott, suddenly ravenous. ‘The full Scottish for me, dear.’

  As the policemen took their seats at the table, Maxwell appeared in the doorway. He was wearing sweatpants and a white T-shirt and was mopping his brow with the corner of a towel that lay draped across his shoulders. His large minder eyed the police officers with a look of distaste.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant Scott. As predicted, nothing untoward happened last night.’

  ‘Well, no . . . nothing of any significance, anyhow,’ replied Scott.

  ‘Good. When can we expect the results of the tests on the skeleton?’

  ‘I don’t have that information, sir. I’m sure someone will be in touch with Mrs Shannon later today.’

  ‘As I said last night, I’m in charge here. I want to be the first to know of any developments. He poured himself a cup of coffee, but didn’t sit at the table with the police officers. ‘On second thought, don’t worry about it. I’ll call your superior later this morning. I’m sure he’ll see the sense in what I’m saying.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Scott mumbled under his breath.

  Before Maxwell could reply, a young woman walked into the room. She looked to be in her late teens, pale, her hair cut into a bob. An older woman in a plain blue dress accompanied her.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Maxwell. ‘May I introduce my cousin’s daughter, Nadia.’

  She smiled nervously at the policemen.

  ‘I hope you’ve calmed down after last night’s little episode,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, Nadia just wants to have a quiet breakfast,’ said the woman in blue.

  ‘Come and sit wae us, dear,’ said Scott, pulling the seat beside him back.

  Maxwell smiled patronisingly as Nadia took a seat. ‘Well, I must get on, I have a busy day ahead of me. If any of you gentlemen fancy a workout, there’s a fully equipped gym in the basement. A little exercise wouldn’t go amiss.’ He looked pointedly at Scott, then leaned down towards Nadia. He leaned on her shoulder and whispered into her ear, loud enough though for everyone to hear what he was saying. ‘No histrionics today, my dear. We have a lot of important guests.’ He sneered at the young girl’s obvious discomfort. ‘Mrs Watkins, make sure to keep her out of the way today.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Shannon,’ she replied through gritted teeth.

  With his minder in tow, Maxwell strode out of the room without another word.

  ‘He might have been tae one of those public schools, but charm sure wasn’t on the curriculum,’ observed Scott.

  ‘He’s the boss,’ said Mrs Watkins. ‘Please don’t let him put you off your breakfast.’

  ‘Och, don’t worry aboot that,’ replied Scott. ‘It’ll take a wee bit mair than Maxwell tae put me off my scran this morning.’

  Nadia turned to Scott, her brown eyes sad. ‘You see things, don’t you?’

  ‘Eh . . . sorry, lassie. See what?’ said Scott, taken aback.

  ‘You saw my uncle. You saw Archie Shannon. I see him too.’

  Suddenly, Scott’s appetite had gone.

  Maxwell sat behind the desk in his room, phone in hand. ‘I don’t care whether they’re Scotch or Hindustani, I want them off my back. The whole thing is ridiculous. We have a perfectly adequate security team here, we don’t need these Jock plods all over the bloody place. Just attend to it, or you’ll have to survive on your wages from the Met and with your lifestyle I reckon that would be nothing short of a disaster.’ He slammed the phone down, breathing heavily. Nothing, not even the bones of his long-dead cousin, was going to ruin this. It was his time. In a few days he would be in full control of one of the largest companies on earth – one of the largest business enterprises in the history of humanity.

  He picked up the phone again. ‘Is everything in place – for the meeting, I mean?’ He listened to the brief reply. ‘Just make sure that it goes the way we want.’

  Daley barely slept through the short hour’s rest available to him. He thought of the Shannons, of the missing boy from so long ago, of the white bones on the dark stone, of the disfigured face of the photographer. Here he was again, being flung headfirst into a pool of mayhem, murder and horror. It was as though the fates were pulling out all the stops to make his last few weeks in the job as difficult as possible.

  Thoughts of the future plagued him too. He had slept in the spare room to avoid waking his wife and baby son. How was he going to support them? How was he going to pay the bills? How was he going to spend the rest of his working life? What was going to replace the police force?

  Then there was Symington: neat, efficient and focused, but not without a sense of humour. She was so different from John Donald. There was something about her that reminded Daley of himself; a reticence, almost intangible, but there just the same. What manner of ghosts kept her awake at night, he wondered.

  And Mary. He could see her soulful face, her pleading blue eyes. He knew the sadness he had brought into her life, because he felt it too.

  He looked at his alarm clock, dragged himself out of bed and padded to the shower. His career as a detective wasn’t over quite yet.

  Suddenly Colin Grant was awake. He was naked, kneeling, his hands tied above his head to some kind of frame. He shivered in the rising sun, with fear as well as cold. He was facing out to sea, his knees firmly planted in the pebbles of a beach. A few feet in front of him, a gull pecked at the shale, undisturbed by his plight.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, what is this?’ he yelled. ‘What are you doing to me?’ He had the sense that someone – something – was behind him, out of sight. As the wind buffeted him and blew in his ears, he was sure he could hear breathing.

  He scanned the grey ocean. No vessel was to be seen. To his left was a white hill, covered with snow, as were boulders on the beach, just within his line of sight. He cried out again, before he heard footsteps on the pebbles behind him.

  ‘Who are you? What the fuck are you trying—’

  His words were cut short by a sudden, blinding agony. Something was sliding down his back; something was slicing him open.

  Daley was surprised to find Scott sitting in his glass box when he arrived for work.

  ‘Everything OK, Brian? You look pale.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Jim, just fine. We’re just back fae the hoose of horrors there. By fuck the road’s bad wae snow. It’s not as bad here in the toon, but at Blaan it’s deep.’

  Daley looked out at the sky from the window in the CID suite. It had the pale grey look that presaged heavy snow. ‘It could still be a problem.’ He turned to look back into the busy office, noting a few strange faces; clearly Superintendent Symington had already drawn down help from division.

  ‘Have you met Maxwell Shannon yet?’ asked Scott.

  ‘No, he wasn’t there when the boss and I turned up. What’s he like?’

  ‘Piece of shit, Jimmy. Arrogant bastard. He’s no’ happy that you went to see his aunt and no’ him. Demands tae be the first tae hear any news about the remains found on that stone.’

  ‘Aye, well, wanting and getting are two different things, Bri. I read a file on him yesterday. Looks like the typical spoiled rich kid – you know, secret societies at university, trashing restaurants and pubs. Allegation of sexual assault when he was eighteen, but nothing came of it in the end.’

  ‘Aye, don’t tell me, the lassie withdrew her complaint.’

  ‘Bang on, buddy. Unlike his cousin Bruce, he doesn’t drink now.’

  ‘Good for him,’ replied Scott, the thought of a large glass of whisky passing through his mind.

  ‘Nothing on that stone yet?’

  ‘What? Oh, the bones. They should have news by mid morning according tae one of the nightshift boys. We’ve got something else tae worry aboo
t, though.’

  ‘What, as well as a child’s remains and the body of a mutilated press photographer?’

  ‘Aye, Brockie was working freelance for one o’ the tabloids wae a journalist. Colin Grant, the guy’s name is. They were trying tae get as much shit on this Shannon family as they could.’

  ‘Let me guess. The guy’s disappeared and he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘Got it in one, big man.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  Daley was about to ask more about Grant when the door to his glass box swung open.

  ‘Just to let you know, sir. Reports of four housebreakings last night,’ said Sergeant Shaw. ‘Mostly in Kinloch, one near Blaan.’

  ‘What, including Hamish’s?’

  ‘No, sir. He’s number five.’

  ‘Bugger me, Jim. We’ve got a crime wave. This on top o’ everything else.’

  ‘Yes, strange, isn’t it. Just when all this is going on. Try and find out what, if anything, has been taken during these breakins, sergeant. Oh, and ask particularly about pictures or photographs.’

  Scott looked puzzled.

  ‘I’ll explain in a minute,’ said Daley, thinking about the blank space above Hamish’s mantelpiece.

  10

  Bruce Shannon yawned as the company jet flew north, leaving the sprawl of London behind. This was the means by which most of those attending the Shannon AGM travelled; a special flight from London to Machrie airport and back again – as soon as possible, he hoped.

  Normally, the meeting took a few hours, though if complex issues were on the agenda, adjournments – favoured by older members of the board – could see the family and its senior business managers marooned at Kersivay House for days on end. He shivered at the thought.

  Kersivay House had always been straight out of his worst nightmares. His older brother had disappeared from the place, so, unsurprisingly, his mother had kept him a virtual prisoner when he visited Blaan as a child, terrified she would lose another son to the mansion on the cliff. Now, while there, he always felt as though his head was about to burst. Nothing to do: no fun, no sex, with only the local hostelry and dubious delights of Kinloch as any kind of diversion.

  His head hurt. He had drunk too much whisky the night before, though he had been sensible enough not to attend the party his American friend had organised after the pub in Notting Hill closed. Now that he was reaching his middle years, he disliked nothing more than watching younger men play the game of chase, capture and reward he’d excelled at during his halcyon days. It wasn’t mere jealousy, it was seeing it all done so badly, so clumsily, that annoyed him most. In his teens, twenties and thirties, it was all he had lived for. The most depressing aspect of it all was the realisation that, apart from drinking, it was all he was really good at. He was like an old sports car; still plenty miles in the engine, but the body-work was crumbling, dated by the shiny curves of newer, sleeker models.

  He looked around the cabin. He was one of twenty-five passengers, mostly lawyers and accountants and including the Swedish Global CEO Lars Bergner and his subordinates Matthew Lynton, Chief Operating Officer and Charles Brady, Finance Director.

  Bruce despised Bergner. They were the same age, but the years hadn’t ravaged the Swede the way they’d ruined him. No sign of a paunch, bags under the eyes, or even wrinkles. Bergner was the classic example of Scandinavian manhood: tall, fit and blonde; effortlessly elegant. If this wasn’t enough, he was intelligent, bordering on brilliant, with a hefty dollop of ruthlessness thrown in. In short, he was the perfect leader in the dog-eat-dog corporate world. He and Maxwell – interim chairman, though de facto boss – made an interesting pair. Bruce often wondered how two men so similar could operate as a team at the head of a multinational organisation. Somehow, though, they did.

  The real company workhorse was Matthew Lynton. An Oxford-educated former City banker, he was in his early sixties. Everything that happened within the organisation passed across his desk. He wore his power lightly, in a self-effacing way that almost bordered on subservience. He was neat, efficient and quiet. A grey man in a grey suit. He left the cut and thrust of business to Bergner and Maxwell while he made sure everything hung together.

  Charles Brady was the only one of these three men whom Bruce liked. In fact, he supposed, Brady was one of his dwindling number of close friends. A tough-talking New Yorker, Brady had the responsibility of controlling the company finances. With a turnover outstripping many small countries, this was no mean task, but Brady’s burdens did not weigh him down. He liked women, drink and gambling and this alone commended him to Bruce. His cousin Maxwell hated him, but such were the complexities of Shannon International’s financial affairs that he was forced to tolerate the thickset accountant in his mid-fifties. Brady, Bruce and Ailsa formed a power block on the board. But that was going to change.

  ‘A large G and T, please,’ he said to a uniformed flight attendant as she passed. He was depressed to note that she stopped and whispered into Bergner’s ear before heading back to the galley to fix his drink. It was obvious that the responsibilities of the CEO included how much alcohol he was permitted to consume.

  He was looking out at grey clouds when the waitress returned.

  ‘Get me another,’ he demanded.

  ‘Sorry, sir? This is your usual double measure. I . . .’

  ‘Get me another!’ he snapped, drawing the attention of his fellow passengers. ‘And this time, do me a favour, don’t OK it with Mr Bergner first. Remember, I’m a Shannon, not him. I hope you’ve got that.’

  He felt vaguely sorry for the girl as she headed back to the galley, but he wouldn’t be told what he could and couldn’t do by some Swedish automaton.

  After gulping down both drinks in a fit of childish petulance, he felt tired and closed his eyes. But his doze was shortly disturbed by the captain.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be landing at Machrie airport in about five minutes, please ensure that you return to your seats and fasten your belts. It’s a bit snowy down there, so please wrap up before you leave the aircraft.’

  ‘You,’ he called to another flight attendant. ‘Get me another drink. Quickly.’

  Bergner returned his smile with a blank stare.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Bruce whispered under his breath. We’re nearly there, he thought. I need all the help I can get.

  Veronica More watched as her husband traipsed back home through the snow. Her own boots lay beside the large kitchen range, steam slowly rising from them. The sky outside was a luminous white and everything was still. It was as though their little part of the world lay asleep under its white blanket. A small bird flitted from branch to branch, flicking powdery snow as it went.

  ‘Out walking early today, darling,’ she said, as he arrived in the large kitchen.

  ‘Oh, yes. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about that skeleton. And it was such a beautiful morning, I just wanted to get out and see the place in the snow. You don’t get a lot of the white stuff where I come from, dear,’ replied the Reverend More, his cheeks red from the cold.

  ‘You didn’t take the camera?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ He seemed suddenly unsure. ‘I never bloody thought. What an idiot.’

  Veronica poured a little hot water into a large brown teapot and left it to warm. For her, making tea was an art, a blessed routine that took her back to her childhood in Ireland. Warm the pot, infuse the tea, then pour; she loved the whole process. It was calming and familiar, like an act of devotion. She tipped four heaped spoonfuls of dark tea into the pot, followed by hot water.

  ‘What variety of tea are you having now?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, just plain old English breakfast. Give it a few minutes.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Just around. Didn’t want to go too far in case I got stranded. Big drifts up past Achenbrie Farm. I had a trot about, took in the scenery. The place looks spectacular. Did you know, a guy I worked with as a stockman – Ted, his name was; bi
g rough bloke – that was his one ambition in life.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘To stand knee-deep in snow. Never got his wish, poor bugger.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Got crushed to death by a Mallee bull. He was a good mate.’

  She watched as her husband sat in front of the range and bent to take off his walking boots. ‘So did you see anyone?’

  ‘No, not especially. Old Jock at a distance – he was walking across the low field. Gave me a big wave. That was all, really.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said quietly, looking out of the window at the footprints her husband had left in the snow.

  *

  Bruce gazed out the window as the jet circled the long runway at Machrie then began its descent. The aircraft landed awkwardly and then began to taxi towards the small terminal building.

  He was unbuckling his seatbelt when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  ‘You all right, Bruce? You look pale. That landing a bit too tasty for you?’ asked Brady in his low New York drawl.

  ‘Bit of a head, you know.’

  ‘Bit of a fucking hangover, you mean. Listen, I need to tell you something.’ He sat in the seat beside Shannon and spoke conspiratorially into his ear. ‘They found bones up on some old stone relic yesterday.’

  ‘What kind of bones?’

  ‘A child’s skeleton. You know what I mean? I wasn’t sure whether you knew. I know our big Viking over there wouldn’t mention it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. What – I mean, do they have any idea who it is?’ replied Shannon, remembering the missed calls and texts he’d had from his daughter Nadia the previous evening.

  ‘Still running tests. The skeleton of a child, though, buddy.’ He looked at Shannon with raised brows. ‘The cops are all over it. And they found a mutilated body on the road under the house.’

  ‘What? Shit, what are we walking into here, a bloody war zone? Who was it?’

  ‘Some paparazzo, down there to aim his lens at us. Listen, I’ll talk to you when we get to the ranch.’

  Bruce watched as Brady walked down the aisle of the plane towards his very attractive blonde wife. He felt guilty about what he was about to do, but it was all for the greater good.