by Molly Macrae
They waited while Danny tended to the other patrons who’d suddenly discovered their glasses were empty when Gerald left. Then he called a young man from the kitchen to take a turn at the bar, and he brought two more half pints to the table and sat next to Christine.
“He comes in two or three times a year,” Danny said. “I can’t think when was the last time. A dram and he’s gone again. Only the one.”
“Always on the house?” Christine asked.
“The first time he came in, he drank up, and turned for the door just like that. I started to call after him, but I didn’t. I was more interested that he came and went the way he did than a loss from the till. And that’s the way it goes each time.” He shrugged. “For me it’s only a dram two or three times a year. For him? I don’t know, but I do the same and more for you and others from time to time.”
“Is he living here or hereabouts?” Christine asked.
“No idea. He might just pass through from time to time.”
“I wondered if he might be deaf,” Janet said.
They watched Danny think about that, his eyes perhaps tracking the path of Gerald’s other visits—moving from the door, glancing at the darts room, the jukebox. He shook his head. “Runrig came on the jukebox one of those visits. ‘Alba.’ And I got a second nod out of him. Selectively deaf, maybe. Keeps himself to himself.”
“With a wee bit of help from you,” Christine said. “You were like a sheepdog standing there, watching over him and his dram, and wiping that one glass the entire time. You’re a good man, Danny Macquarrie. A good dog, too.”
“Good dog should get back to his bar.” He leaned over and gave Christine a peck on the cheek. “Woof.”
“Before you go, Danny,” Janet said, “did you happen to see what the book was?” She tucked a hand in her armpit. “Under his arm. Big enough to see from here, but it looked comfortable, so nothing too thick or hard. He might have held it too close, but did you get a look at the spine or any part of the cover?”
“I can’t say I paid much attention to it,” Danny said. “Could have been dark green. Or that might be his jacket I’m remembering. That’s how I picture him—with a book under his arm. He’s never put one down on the bar. I’ve never asked what he’s reading. Why?”
Christine pointed at Janet. “Licensed book snoop.”
Danny saluted Janet and went back to the bar.
Christine said, “His book. I’d say I’m surprised you chose that detail to focus on—”
“But you’re not, because you have your own peculiarities.”
“Which I like to think of as strengths.”
They toasted their strengths with the fresh half pints Danny had brought.
“Have you ever seen Gerald in Yon Bonnie Books?” Christine asked.
“I don’t think so. Not Malcolm either. I don’t know about Malcolm, but Gerald doesn’t strike you as much of a shopper, does he?”
“Do you think it’s interesting that Florrie didn’t mention him? She had plenty to say about Malcolm.”
“Not plenty, really,” Janet said. “What she did say left a lot to the imagination.”
“Shall I tell you what I don’t like? I don’t like worrying about someone when I don’t know how to go about helping them.”
“What if they don’t want your help?”
“You’re the certified book snoop, and I trust you to do that properly,” Christine said. “I’m the certified social work snoop, so please trust me, as well.”
“Certified or certifiable?” Janet asked.
“Whatever. But I don’t often let what someone wants or doesn’t want stop me.”
“One of your more endearing strengths.”
As they drank another toast to their strengths, Janet saw Rab MacGregor coming from the darts room. He might have been feigning interest in his phone, so that he missed her wave, but Ranger, trotting by his side, stopped to say hello.
“I sat in your chair in the shop for a wee while this evening, Ranger,” Janet said. “I hope you don’t mind. Rab, will you be in this week?”
Rab appeared to consult the phone, then a corner of the ceiling, then Ranger before answering. “Aye, I reckon that’s a good idea. I was sorry to hear about your experience this morning, finding Dr. Murray. It must have been a terrible shock.”
“It was. Thank you, Rab.”
He nodded. “Best we don’t intrude, then.”
“Thank you. Good night. Good night, Ranger.” Janet turned to Christine as man and dog walked off. “That was sweet. Oh, but wait—” They watched Ranger’s tail disappearing out the pub door behind Rab. “I didn’t ask him when he’d be in.”
“He wouldn’t have answered anyway,” Christine said. “Here come Tallie and Boudicca. How do you think Summer would like it if we started calling her Boud?”
“It’s a secret identity; don’t blow it. Look, a hound’s following them, too.”
James Haviland, newshound and editor of the Inversgail Guardian, came in behind Tallie and Summer. He’d recruited Summer to write the paper’s advice column soon after the women arrived in Inversgail. He played fiddle in a ceilidh band and captained the Guardian’s darts team. And he and Summer might, as Janet had wondered to Tallie that morning, be something of an item. As a journalism student he’d spent time in the States interning at the New York Times, and he often reminisced about the garlic dill pickles he’d loved and left behind.
“Evening, lasses,” Christine said when Tallie and Summer joined them.
“How’s your project?” Janet asked.
“Steady and on target,” Tallie said.
“A ways to go, though.” Summer asked a couple at a neighboring table if she could take an empty chair and pulled it over next to Janet’s.
James brought three pints from the bar. Before sitting, he pointed at Christine’s and Janet’s glasses. “Another round for you?”
They declined and he sat, but not in his usual Nev’s pose—fingers knit across his stomach and looking like a favorite uncle about to doze after a good meal. Janet had never thought of him as birdlike, but the way he glanced around the room now, tipping his head one way then another as he listened, reminded her of a robin in the back garden.
“What is it?” she asked.
James tipped his head toward her. “I was listening for Death, but I don’t hear him.”
Summer bumped him with her shoulder. “You’re being metaphorical. I hope.”
“Sorry,” James said. “Sorry, Janet. I assumed folk would be drinking to Malcolm Murray the nicht, but this feels like a different level of energy.”
“We reached another level a wee while ago,” Christine said. “And by ‘we’ I mean”—she swirled a finger over her head—“the room. We had a visitor.”
“Almost a ghostly visitation,” Janet added. “Gerald Murray.”
“Ghostly, is it?” James smiled. “You’ve a bit of the storyteller in you, Janet. But, aye, the shock of losing his brother could do that, I reckon.”
“You’ve met him?” Summer asked.
“We ran an article about him when he demobbed. Years ago, now. He was a Sapper. Royal Engineers.”
“Do you have any current information about him?” Christine asked. “Where he lives, by chance?”
“Or about their sister, Florence?” Janet asked.
James looked less like a robin and more like the newshound he was. “Why?”
“As a concerned friend,” Christine said. “As you say, considering the shock.”
James shook his head. “I only met him the once and never knew about a sister. You’re kind to think of them. Malcolm did a lot of good in the community. Quiet good. He didn’t put himself forward, but he was there when needed.”
“What happens next concerning his death? Officially?” Tallie asked. “Who investigates?”
“A Road Policing Unit out of Fort William is looking into it. They’ve made an appeal for witnesses. You can find it on their Twitter feed.”
>
Janet and Christine raised their eyebrows.
“Are you not on Twitter?” James asked. “You hear all the latest there. No matter; we posted the appeal in our online edition as well.”
“I didn’t hear anything about that,” Summer said.
“You were busy.” James mimed throwing a dart. “It’s all routine, anyway—the investigation, the appeal to the public.”
James took his phone from the breast pocket of his coat, tapped and scrolled and tapped again, then handed it to Janet. Christine leaned in to read over her shoulder. Tallie and Summer took out their own phones. The appeal read:
Regarding the death of Dr. Malcolm Murray, by collision, while riding his bicycle October 4 near the Beaton Bridge outside Inversgail. We need to hear from anyone who was in the area of the bridge that afternoon. Did you see a motorist before, during, or after the collision? Our enquiries into this tragic incident are ongoing, and we would appeal for anyone who saw Dr. Murray the afternoon of October 4, who has not already spoken to police, to contact us on 101. Our thoughts are with Dr. Murray’s family and friends at this difficult time and we ask that their privacy is respected.
“Standard stuff,” James said when Janet handed his phone back.
“But a collision,” Janet said. “And a motorist. What evidence did they find that makes them think a car was involved?”
“That’s the reason for the appeal, isn’t it?” Tallie said. “They don’t know that a motorist was involved. They’re still looking for evidence.”
Janet pictured the side of the road that morning. “I stepped over ruts when I looked for a way down the bank. I wonder if the ruts from a moving car are different. You know, different from ruts left by a parked car. I suppose they use—What are those things people use to measure small things very precisely?”
“Calipers,” Tallie said.
“I imagine measuring ruts and treads is precise work,” Janet continued. “I wish I’d taken pictures of the ruts.”
“Why?” Tallie asked.
“Because once you get past how awful it was to find him, it’s interesting,” Janet said.
“And how on earth do they manage to photograph and measure tire tracks and such with some of the roadside vegetation we have around here?” Christine said. “That was a wee bit of a pun, there. How on earth and the ruts being in the mud or soil.”
“Very wee,” Janet said. “But the vegetation is a good point. The bracken at the edge of the road was flattened.”
“People might stop there for the view,” James said.
“It’s worth it,” Janet agreed. “But not much room to pull over safely.”
“A bit dicey, I agree, but when has that stopped anyone?”
“The view might be the problem,” Summer said. “It was a beautiful day yesterday. Distracted driving.”
“Could well be,” James said. “I can show you statistics. There are more wingdings on bonny days.”
“How many riders were there?” Summer asked. “Didn’t they block the road off in some way for safety?”
“Sixty-three riders,” Danny said, coming around to pick up empties. “And no, they didn’t block the road. They bought the haggis from me and I delivered it to the finish. I drove past Isla rounding up stragglers, but no one near the Beaton Bridge.”
“Did you see Dr. Murray?” Janet asked. “Did you know any of the others?”
“No. Had my eyes on the road, didn’t I. Skintight kit on some of them, but I didn’t get a good look.”
“What color was the skintight kit?” Christine asked.
“Absolutely brilliant shade of pink.” Danny glanced at her. “But my eyes were on the road. Strictly forward. I only happened to notice the kit along the periphery.” On his way back to the bar, Danny called over his shoulder, “Mind, my peripheral vision is excellent.”
“They’ve closed roads for races in the past,” James said. “Never that road, though, that I recall. And this was more of a ramble and ride at your own peril. I spoke with Norman Hobbs earlier; he’s received a bit of abuse over closing the road for the scene of collision investigation.”
“Scene of collision,” Janet echoed. “Distracted driving.” She felt she was having trouble getting past those points. “Has anyone come forward?”
“No word on that.”
“James, do you have bike statistics?” Tallie asked. “Maybe there are more bicycle accidents on bonny days, too.”
“It isn’t such a busy road, is it?” Janet asked. “It wasn’t this morning. No one passed me.”
“Not so busy, but an artery,” James said. “You were out that way this morning, Janet?”
“I found him.”
James took a long pull on his ale, looking at her over the rim. She saw wheels of some sort turning in his head. Focused wheels, though, not distracted, she thought, and immediately tried to wipe the image from her brain.
“You didn’t know Janet found him?” Christine asked.
“Not all the details are out there for public or journalist consumption,” he said. “It could be that Norman wanted to spare her endless calls and questions from the likes of me.” He looked at the phone still in his hand, tapped and swiped, and then slipped it back into his pocket.
Janet only tentatively believed him about missing out on the details. Then she wondered why, and if she was going to start being suspicious of everyone.
A fiddle tune started dancing in James’s phone pocket. He pulled the phone out again and looked at it. “Sorry, I should take this. And I’ll be back for that.” He pointed at his ale and then pivoted, phone to his ear, and went out the door.
Janet glanced at Tallie and Summer. They’d bent their heads to their phones again, so she tapped Christine’s elbow and beckoned her closer. “Did you notice the discrepancy in the police appeal? They’re asking for people near the bridge, or who saw him, yesterday afternoon, but Florence says he came home after the ride and didn’t go out again until later.”
“Can we trust her to know what time he went out again?” Christine asked.
“Can we trust that she told the police he came home after the ride?”
“Surely she did,” Christine said.
“Then why isn’t the appeal for a wider time range?”
“Evidence?” Christine said. “Maybe that’s a detail amongst those not for public or journalist consumption.”
Janet sipped her Selkie’s Tears and wondered what those details might be and how she could find out. Ask Norman Hobbs? He’d want to know why she wanted to know. Or maybe not. By now he knew her nosy ways. No, she told herself. Being interested, because I’m involved, isn’t the same thing as being nosy.
“Janet? Are you away with the selkies?” James sat back down, looking at her as though she’d missed something.
“Sorry, what?” She started to take another sip of ale, but put the glass down and pushed it away.
“I meant the creatures, not the ale,” James said. “You looked thoughtful. But I was saying we might want to interview you about the accident. Background details, that kind of thing. Have the police interviewed you yet?”
“I talked to Norman when he got to the scene. He said there was no telling how long it would take for the Road Unit to arrive, so he let me go on.”
“No doubt they’ll get round to you,” James said. “If they need you, they know where to find you.”
“You’ve missed the turn,” Janet said later as Christine drove her home, “but you can turn at the next corner.”
Christine didn’t make the turn at the next corner. Unlike the white-knuckle trip between the Murray house and Nev’s, she drove sedately on.
“What is this, Christine? If you had too much to drink, then why don’t you pull over and let me drive?”
Christine said nothing.
“I should’ve gone with Tallie. I should’ve had her drive you home. This isn’t funny, Christine. Really. What are we doing?”
“I had no more to drink than y
ou did. I’m taking no chances.”
“Then what are we doing?”
Christine made a turn onto a road that climbed steadily into the hills as it left Inversgail. “We’re on a mission. Trust me.”
“Hmph,” Janet said, but only as a matter of principle, because she did trust Christine. And then she thought she knew the road they were on. “It’s different in the dark, but the bridge should be just up ahead.”
Christine slowed and the Beaton Bridge appeared in her headlights. “I’ll cross over and stop on the other side.”
“But you will not get me to walk down to the burn in the dark,” Janet said. “And don’t you try to go down there, either. I really do mean that, Christine. We’ll break our necks.”
“And we’re not reckless fools, so put that notion right out of your head. There’s a large torch in the boot. Come on.”
“Don’t you want your emergency flashers on?”
“No. Bring your mobile.”
A cold wind scurried around them as they got out of the Vauxhall and closed the doors. Christine took the flashlight from the trunk, but left it off, and they walked to the middle of the bridge.
“As I rode up this hill, thinking I’d never make it to the bridge, I made up new words to that song by the Proclaimers,” Janet said. “About riding five-hundred miles, instead of walking like the guy in their song, and riding five-hundred more just to fall down dead at my front door. I wish I hadn’t.”
“They’re identical twins, did you know that? The Proclaimers.”
“That’s a fun tidbit. No, I didn’t know. I was standing here, looking out like this, when I saw his arm in the burn. The thought of him lying there all through the night—” Janet shivered and looked away, then looked up. “How many more stars we can see here than back home.”
“I hope he’s up there somewhere among them,” Christine said.
“Malcolm?”
“Mm. And I hope there is a somewhere, somewhere up there.” She flicked on the flashlight and leaned over to hold it low to the ground. “Look how the pebbles and bits of debris on the road cast shadows. It makes them stand out more. Tire tracks and ruts should do the same. Let’s get those pictures you wished you’d taken this morning.”
