‘No, well, no’ that I can see, anyway. He went through all the drawers in my sideboard, mind, but he left my wee collection of boxing awards alone. Och, they’re no’ worth a toss noo, no’ in money, at least. But they’re important tae me.’ He stared along the row of small cups, shields and tiny fighters set on plinths, tight packed above the fireplace. ‘Started boxing in the army and found oot I had a talent for it. Different in they days, Mr Daley – none o’ the fuss and corruption that you see noo. Two men, straight up and doon, Queensberry Rules, an’ may the best man win, as my auld drill instructor used tae say.’
‘When did you pack it in?’
‘Noo, let me think. I was a pro for five years – light featherweight – fighting oot o’ a gym in Paisley. Good days, but bugger me, it was hard tae make ends meet. By the time I was in my mid thirties I knew fine the game was up, so I came back hame, way back in the sixties.’
‘So you’re from Kinloch?’
‘Aye. Well, sort of. I was brought up in Blaan. Been in the toon for fifty-odd years, mind.’
‘I know that the power’s off and everything, but if you could give me a call tomorrow and let me know what, if anything, is missing, I would be most obliged.’
‘Aye, nae bother. But I can tell you aboot one missing item noo.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘Jeest one thing, as I can make oot,’ he said. ‘Strangest thing, an auld photo my daughter had blown up for me. It used tae sit in a frame on the wall, jeest o’er there.’
‘Can you describe it for me?’
‘I can dae better than that, officer.’ He fished out a faded yellow folder, filled with photographs, most of which were black and white. ‘Noo, let me see . . .’
Daley looked on for a few moments as he searched amongst the old images, peering through the gloom with a pair of spectacles balanced on the end of his nose.
‘Ah, here we are, Mr Daley.’ McGuiness handed the detective a small photograph. Even in the poor light, it looked faded, sepia rather than monochrome, curling at the edges with age. ‘That’s the very picture.’
Daley studied it: a big man was standing straight-backed, dressed in a suit and a button-down collared shirt. He was broad shouldered, with a gut, but looked powerful and, a bit like John McGuiness himself, gave the impression of strength despite his declining years. He had a long, drooping moustache. In his arms was a small girl, her hair in a bow, no more than a couple of years old. Beside him, a young boy stared out from the photograph with a disgruntled scowl. He was wearing very long shorts, one sock pulled up to his knee, the other down at his ankle.
‘Is that you as a boy, Mr McGuiness?’
‘No, no’ me. The man wae the ’tache is my great-uncle Nat Stuart. This photo was taken just before he left Blaan.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Och, he was a blacksmith, way back, when folk still had horses and carts. An unfortunate man in many ways, but a bit o’ a legend in oor family.’
‘Oh, why so?’
‘We were a family o’ tinkers, some wid say, though my mother widna hear that name in the hoose. He was like the head o’ the clan, the main man. He had his lands stolen fae him – aye, stolen fae us all.’
‘What land?’
‘Long time ago noo, Mr Daley, but my uncle used tae own the land where the big hoose is built in Blaan. You know, on the cliff. He had his blacksmith’s shop there. The place had been in oor family hunners o’ years. Aye, maybees longer.’
‘Who are the kids?’
‘That’s two o’ his grandchildren,’ replied McGuiness with a sigh. ‘See the wee lassie?’
‘Yes, what about her?’
‘Her mother – his daughter – died in childbirth when she was being born.’
‘Oh, that’s sad.’
‘Och, some folk said the woman wisna in her right mind. The tale is that she was in and oot o’ an asylum maist o’ her adult life. Even worse when her man buggered off and left her on her ain. No’ easy in they days, Mr Daley, whoot wae nae social security or the like. Wid have been hell tae pay if the big man had got a hold o’ him, right enough. He didna suffer fools gladly, so they say. Looks it too, wid you no’ agree?’
‘Yes, I wouldn’t pick a fight with him,’ replied Daley with a smile. ‘What happened to the children?’
‘Auld Nat brought them up like his ain. Took them with him when he left. I never seen my wee pal again.’
‘Oh, did you know them?’
‘Aye, me an’ the wee boy, Lachie, wee used tae run aboot Blaan when we were weans. Bad tempered wee bugger he was, tae. Always ready for a scrap. But he was my buddy. That’s how I got the photograph enlarged. I tell you, Mr Daley, see when you get tae my age, you get fair nostalgic.’
‘Would you mind if I took this with me? I’ll bring it back, I just want to make a copy so we know what we’re looking for if we come across this thief.’
‘Aye, be my guest. Mind if you don’t bring it back, me an’ the auld fella here’ll come lookin’ for you,’ said McGuiness, patting the old dog again.
The animal looked up at Daley, who was studying the photograph intently and stroking his chin. He took the phone from his pocket and snapped a quick image.
Scott was shivering as they pulled up in the car park of the Black Wherry Inn. The small hotel was near the centre of Blaan, on the main road, between a small estate of five private bungalows on one side and a row of cottages on the other. After nearly four hours in the freezing snow searching for Lars Bergner, Superintendent Symington had arrived and taken charge. Because Kersivay House was now bursting at the seams, she had made a forward operational base at the small hotel, where Scott was now to spend the night. Apparently, apart from a bemused honeymoon couple who had thought spending a quiet time on the idyllic west coast of Scotland over New Year was a good idea, the hotel was empty.
That’ll be a honeymoon tae remember, thought Scott, as he watched a dozen freezing police officers pile into the establishment to get dry, warm and fed before being transported back to Kinloch. He was thankful, though, that this meant he wouldn’t have to spend another night in Kersivay House. For a second the small boy’s face passed through his mind but, as he was enveloped in the warmth of the hotel bar, these thoughts soon passed.
A small woman with grey hair was fussing around her new visitors. ‘Jeest get they wet claithes off, gentlemen. There’ll be hot food on the go in aboot an hour. Nae menu, yous’ll have tae take whoot’s on offer. Jeest lucky we’ve got the generator, or it wid be cans o’ soup heated o’er the fire.’
Like Kinloch, Blaan and the rest of south Kintyre was without power.
‘Which one o’ yous is Brian Scott?’ she called.
Once he’d left his jacket steaming on a radiator, he walked over to introduce himself. ‘You’ll be Jessie, then.’
‘Aye, and you’re the famous Detective Sergeant Scott,’ she said, winking at the policeman. ‘I’ve heard a lot aboot you.’
‘A’ good I hope,’ mumbled Scott, starting to feel slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of yet another formidable hotel chatelaine.
‘Och, I thought you might be a bit taller. But she’s right enough, you’re no’ an affront tae the eye.’
‘Cheers, I’m sure. I take it you mean Annie?’
‘Who else?’ she replied, a large grin spread across her face. ‘I know all aboot you an’ her an’ all those cosy wee nights at the County. I’ve been telt tae gie you oor best room – honoured, right enough. Come wae me.’
Jessie led Scott along a narrow passageway and up a creaking staircase. The hotel looked old, with its wood panelling and red carpet, but, unlike the fading grandeur of the County, the Black Wherry was newly painted, neat and well maintained. Scott was surprised to see his case sitting on one of the beds in the bright twin room. The room contained the usual chest of drawers, wardrobe and assortment of brochures detailing the delights of the area, but had a fresh, new smell.
‘We’ve je
est had a refurb, Brian, so make yoursel’ at hame. Because o’ this power cut, we’ll be putting off the electricity in the night. Since it’s Hogmanay, I widna think that’ll be too early, mind you.’
‘Aye, thanks. What’s wae the name, by the way?’
‘Jessie? Och, my granny was called Jessie – and her granny, if you get my drift. Used tae be the name my family gied tae the first born grandchild, boy or lassie.’
‘I’m sure the lads were chuffed tae ten wae that.’
‘We stopped that when my uncle Jessie tried tae droon his mother because o’ it. But, as my ain Granny Jessie used tae say, “don’t affront the name and the name’ll no’ affront you.”’
‘Aye, right.’ Scott hesitated. ‘I was actually meaning the name of the hotel, tae be honest.’
‘Oh, the Black Wherry? Right. That was the name gied tae the vessels o’ the night, if you know what I mean – smugglers. They were rife here, och, a long time ago noo. The story goes that when Aeneas Ronald got too auld tae see in the dark tae cross the North Channel, he built this place tae stick two fingers up at the law. In a manner o’ speaking,’ she said, with a tinge of embarrassment, suddenly remembering Scott’s profession.
‘A nice wee place, anyhow.’
‘We dae oor best. An’ I tell you something else – as long as you an’ the boys are guests in this hotel, yous needna worry aboot any awkward questions, or the like.’
‘Well, that would be very good, thank you, it’s much appreciated.’
Jessie sidled up to the policeman. ‘Mind you, it widna dae any harm tae let me know jeest whoot’s happening. We’re hearing terrible stories in the village aboot a’ these goings-on. Auld Mrs McLachlan was too feart tae take in her washing the day. Frozen stiff on the line apparently, covered in snow. Her Sunday drawers and everything.’ Jessie shook her head, tutting. ‘If you can gie me an idea o’ the right o’ things, well, I can make sure these gossips’ tales are nipped in the bud,’ she declared, looking up at Scott hopefully.
‘You probably know as much as me. Noo, is any o’ that grub you were talking about on the go? I’m fair famished,’ said Scott, anxious to change the subject.
‘Aye, of course,’ replied Jessie with a sniff. ‘If you want tae freshen up, I’ll have something for you in the bar in twenty minutes.’
No’ another one, thought Scott with a smile. But, for the first time since his arrival in Blaan, he felt almost normal.
16
Bruce watched his cousin Maxwell fidgeting in his chair. Despite her age and marginalised position within the company, Ailsa could make life uncomfortable for the most confident interlocutor. Bruce knew it would be his turn next.
‘I must say, I had expected some nasty surprises at this year’s AGM, but the disappearance of Mr Bergner and all this death and brutality, not to mention the connection with Archie, has all come as a bit of a shock.’
‘Nothing to worry you, Aunt Ailsa. In fact, the police tell me that the deaths of the two journalists may be totally unconnected with the family.’
‘And what about the skeleton? Just a coincidence, Maxie?’
Maxwell raised his eyebrows at the contraction of his name, but decided not to make the point. ‘You know how some people see us, Ailsa. Folk here, well, we’re of them but not part of them any more. Must be a bit galling to see what this family has become.’ He stole a look at Bruce, one eyebrow raised. ‘Mostly, we’re a resounding success. Regarding these bones, they still haven’t managed to get DNA evidence and may not be able to at all; they’ve been bleached in some chemical or other. My guess is that this is just a sick prank. Let’s face it, everyone in this sorry hole knows about that stupid bloody curse.’
‘And Lars decided to pop out for an impromptu hike in the snow, I don’t doubt.’ His mother’s response made Bruce snigger.
Undaunted, Maxwell sat forwards on his chair. ‘This is the most important meeting in the history of this organisation. We simply cannot let anything affect the way we take this company forward. I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation for Lars’s disappearance.’ The phone buzzing in his pocket distracted him. ‘I have to go. We can talk about this at the meeting proper tomorrow,’ he said, getting up to leave, a sudden look of concern across his face.
‘Problem, Maxie?’ goaded Bruce.
‘Nothing I can’t handle, cousin. You stick to what you’re best at and let me handle the important stuff.’ He excused himself and left Ailsa’s apartment, high in Kersivay House.
‘Arrogant prick,’ said Bruce, reaching for the glass of whisky on the small table before him.
‘Clever prick,’ added his mother. ‘Please go easy on the bloody sauce this year, darling. You made a complete arse of yourself at the last meeting. It really doesn’t help our cause.’
He stared at his glass, taking a few moments to consider what she’d said. ‘He’s not as clever as you think, mother. And as far as “our cause” is concerned, if we are to continue along the usual path of soft power and persuasion, we’ll get to where we always end up – nowhere.’
‘Maxwell isn’t the boss yet.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Not for the first time, Bruce was riled by his mother’s opinion. ‘My uncle is a demented old man, slavering into a bib and shitting in a potty. Do you really believe for one second that he’ll ever regain his senses?’
‘Please, Bruce, less profanity. Of course he’ll never recover, but while he’s alive, Maxwell cannot get his hands fully on the reins of power.’
‘It’s only a matter of time until the old boy croaks.’
Ailsa looked levelly at her son. ‘And I suppose you think the same about me.’
‘Please don’t, Mum. Must every conversation we have be this way? No wonder I drink. I’m bloody sick of it. I’m taking steps of my own this year, if you must know.’ As quickly as he said it, he regretted it.
‘Wonderful, Bruce. Another of your pathetic little plots that invariably come to nothing and make you look even more inadequate than you actually are.’
‘Oh, bugger this!’ He slammed his glass onto the table and got to his feet, his face red with fury. ‘When will you get it into your head that this bloody pantomime we attend every year is just that. The real decisions are made in Zurich or New York or in Maxie’s new office in the fucking Shard. Blaan, this bloody house, it’s all just a relic of the past. Give it up, Mother!’
‘This company’s true wealth will always be based on the mineral contracts in Russia and the Far East, negotiated in the fifties and sixties. Your cousin forgets that.’
‘Oh, great, another wander into the past. It’s the same as this bloody place.’
‘You’ve always hated it here.’
‘Do you wonder why? Living with the ghost of my dead brother for company every year. I sincerely hope that skeleton is his, then maybe we can move on with our lives. Surely fifty years in mourning is enough?’
She placed her china teacup back on its delicate saucer and sighed wearily. ‘Let’s imagine that we leave the dead where they are. What then? What about the living? It’s clear to me that you have as little regard for them.’
‘Mother, I see you when I can. You wouldn’t want me hanging about like a bad smell all the time. I love you, you know that.’
‘No, not me!’ For the first time in the conversation, Ailsa raised her voice. ‘What about your poor daughter? Have you even spoken to her since you arrived, or were you too keen to get your face in a glass as soon as you walked through the door? You’re a disgrace!’
He took a deep breath. No, he hadn’t seen his daughter. Yes, the first thing he’d done when he arrived was pour a large measure of malt whisky. A disgrace? Yes, he probably was. Yet again, Bruce’s mother had succeeded in making his feelings of self-loathing even more pronounced. Yet again, the guilt he felt over his daughter almost made him cry out with the pain he felt in his heart. Did this ever change? Did these feelings alter from year to year?
He drained his glass and left the
room, with only the familiar feelings of deflation, defeat and shame for company; his oldest friends.
Snow covered just about everything. Gnarled roots poked from the snow like beckoning, blackened fingers; a silent come-hither from the realm beneath. Heavy fir branches drooped, bowed under their chilling blanket, as though weeping at the burden. The sharp, craggy lines of a large boulder, left behind by an ancient glacier, were cloaked once more in white, a fleeting return to the frozen world of long ago.
On the Rat Stone, however, not a single flake had settled. Its black eminence glowered; harsh, unforgiving, irresistible.
It lay darker than the dark night as the last hours of the old year seeped away. Neither the winter moon nor stars glinted across its surface, as though terrified their distant twinkling light might be sucked in, consumed in a dance with time itself.
The man ducked under the line of yellow police tape, stretched between two metal posts. An unseen animal rushed through the undergrowth; snow cascaded from an overburdened branch. He watched it spring back to life in the beam of his large torch, the pine needles green and sharp in a soft, white world.
He mumbled under his breath, the words old and barely perceptible. Then, in a louder voice, in the common tongue, he spoke: ‘Light of the sun, radiance of the moon, depth of the sea, splendour of the fire, stability of the earth; today I return.’
He sank to his knees, the snow halfway up his thighs, and pulled back the sleeve of his jacket. His flesh was as white as the snow; the steel of the short dagger he held glittered in the torchlight. The calluses on his hand were at odds with the a neat manicure that left the tip of his fingernails white and even. He ran the sharp blade down the length of his thumb. The thin line of blood soon became a rivulet; he leaned forwards and rubbed it along the length of the stone.
‘Be still now.’ The woman’s voice was quiet but insistent. She pulled his head back, revealing his pale throat. The beam cast by the torch revealed his face as an echo of the skull that lay beneath. His eye sockets were dark and lifeless, his cheekbones threatened almost to pierce his skin.
The Rat Stone Serenade Page 11
