A Small Death in the Great Glen (16 page)

They were sitting comfy by the fire in the study, Joanne's feet resting on the fender, Duncan's opposite, a cup of tea and Dundee cake on a tray between them. Elizabeth was snoozing on the sofa in the sunroom; the children were out in the garden again, enjoying a late burst of autumn sun.

“That was a nice sermon today. A comfort.” They reflected on the subject never far from anyone's mind that day. “Those poor parents.”

Duncan nodded, then started cautiously on his mission.

“What's happening with Bill? We never seem to see him these days.”

“What's happening? I'd like to know that myself.”

The bitterness in her voice made him deeply sad.

“Joanne, I'd like to help; I'm uncle to your daughters so I feel I have a right to speak. The girls are being affected by all this tension.”

She looked down. The criticism hurt. Wee Jean was having nightmares, Annie had started wetting the bed again—at nearly nine years old—but Joanne had no idea that the cracks in her marriage were so visible.

“I hate seeing you unhappy … in my job I see more of it than I care to. But that is what I'm here for, to listen, to help if I can.” He sighed. “It's over ten years since the war ended, but it's not ended for some. Men scarred by war, yes, but families scarred too, women, children, parents, all affected to a greater or lesser degree.”

“I'm trying my best with a husband who never talks, never shares, never shows his feelings. I don't even know if he loves me. I feel sometimes that he resents me and the children for tying him down. We were too young to be married. He can't forgive his
daughters for not being boys. And why does it always have to be me, the woman, that's in the wrong? What am I supposed to do, pray tell me?”

This silenced him. It was all too familiar.

“I know, I know. I've made my bed and all that. That's what my father, my parents—your in-laws—said. No Christian forgiveness there!” Like a hole in a dam, Duncan's concern had penetrated the carefully constructed wall around her emotions. Enough, she chided herself. She took in his concerned expression and smiled.

“My friends, they keep me going. And my job, it's exciting, a challenge.”

Joanne knew the expression “Confession is good for the soul” but had never quite believed that. Confession, she thought, was plain embarrassing. But she couldn't stop herself.

“I need the work at the
Gazette.
It's not the money, though that helps, but the escape, the company, using my education, having others respect my opinions. What I get at home is ‘A husband and children not good enough for you?' Bill can't take the disgrace of having a wife who works. He says it shows him up. His mother makes it clear she's on his side.”

“Perhaps he's jealous.”

“What of?”

“Your abilities, your education, the way everyone likes you.”

“He's told me in no uncertain terms that he thinks I'm above myself. The list of my deficiencies is long indeed, according to him; love of classical music, books, plays on the wireless, fancy food—by that he means coffee—foreign friends, and he goes on about me wearing slacks to work. If men wore the kilt to ride a bicycle they'd soon understand.” She tried a wan smile. “But that's his mother talking.”

There was a comfortable silence for a moment or two while they both pondered the dilemma.

“It's just that … I'm tired,” Joanne started again. “I'm tired of Bill's anger.”

To Duncan, no matter how sympathetic he was, leaving an unhappy marriage could never be countenanced. For the sanctity of marriage, there could be no compromise.

“I'm going to talk to Bill.” He was decided.

“Please, don't.”

“You are my parishioner as well as sister-in-law, I have to try.”

“I'm the one who will suffer if you do.” She rose. “It'll soon be dark, I must away and fetch the girls.” Her neck was stiff from tension. She needed to walk. “Bill's asked me to go on his next trip out west, a wee break on our own. I'll try to talk to him then, tell him how I feel. Give it a try anyhow.” She turned in the doorway. “Thanks for listening.” She gave a little wave with her fingertips, leaving Duncan fixed in his chair by a weight of sadness and outrage and helplessness and admiration.

And they had both entirely forgotten about the little boy.

S
IX
 
 

Monday morning, not his favorite time of any time, McAllister woke to a sky that seemed to have dropped from the weight of unshed rain, so low he felt that if he reached up and poked it, the hole would never be plugged. The day did not improve. Watery gray light persisted; a fitting shroud for the horrifying news that leaked through the town.

It had been confirmed midmorning by the procurator's office; the boy had been dead before he went into the canal lock. It was now a murder inquiry. The police would have summoned the parents for questioning; McAllister knew that family was always first in the suspicion stakes. He believed their story. It had to be checked, probably had been already, but they had both been working, on a public bus, so they were probably covered.

Wait, he reminded himself, see what unfolds, no use speculating; an unexplained death is seldom simple, often a combination of events, and McAllister knew how to wait.

Rob was busily typing the football news; Joanne was trying to decipher the handwriting of a contributor who reported on the state of the Gaelic-speaking nation of the Highlands and Islands, a report that seemed to be a list of roadworks and ferry delays and not much else. Don was dealing with all the “fiddly bits,” and proofing the cricket team's annual report was one of the more tedious jobs. In his view, the only reason the town had a cricket team was solely because they had an Anglican cathedral that had a cricket pitch, and you couldn't have one without the other. It was in the bylaws of Anglicanism, he declared. The three worked steadily, comfortable company.

Joanne kept returning to the chat with McAllister, wondering if she should broach the subject with Don, ask what he had heard. Rob had no such inhibitions.

“What did McAllister want, the other afternoon?”

“None of your business,” Joanne snapped. Then she felt guilty. She typed somehow louder than usual.

“Serves me right for being nosy.” Rob was incorrigibly cheerful.

“I heard a certain WPC is keeping you company,” Joanne said to get him back. Rob always brought out the wee girl in her.

“A coffee, that's all. Besides, she's too old for me.”

“She's younger than me.” Joanne knew as soon as she said it she'd walked into it and grinned.

“That's what I mean.” He licked his finger and marked one in the air for him.

Rob wondered, should he risk another question, should he ask her about her daughters' weird story? A murder inquiry was so unusual, a child murder at that. So what if the girls
had
seen something?

Woman Police Constable Ann McPherson had been adamant she wouldn't talk about her job. “I'll be fired on the spot if Inspector Tompson thinks I've been talking to you.” She did tell him, to share a laugh she said, the story of Joanne's daughters and the hoodie crow. He hadn't laughed. Something about a hoodie crow sent shivers through him—it was the kind of thing his Gaelic grandmother would talk of, or sing about, scare him with, as a wee boy. He had often laughed with Joanne about his paternal island grandparents' collection of stories and songs about murders, drownings, treachery, bastard bairns, young girls betrayed, endless heroic defeats at the hand of the English and of course witches, spells and the faeries. And hoodie crows.

No. Wait. In poor taste. We're still in shock, he thought, caution winning for once. Rob looked across at Don. “What will happen next with the hunt for whoever … you know, the wee boy?”

Don looked up. “This is a rare event for the Highlands, so they will probably get an expert detective from down south to take charge.”

“Has this
ever
happened here before?” Joanne asked.

“No, lass. Not that I know.”

And since he knew everything, that meant not in living memory.

Inspector Tompson was in a vile mood. He was being replaced as head of his first and only murder inquiry. That made him all the more determined to arrest somebody before an outsider came waltzing in to grab all the glory. He was the man on the spot. He, who had put up with years of slow-witted, silent, stubborn Highland folk, he who was from Glasgow, who had been somebody in the army, who had reached the rank of sergeant by his own merits before accepting promotion and a transfer to this cut-off backwater, he would show them. He knew who had done this, stood to reason, he knew as soon as he had heard it was a murder. No, he had no proof, none whatsoever. But he'd find some.

As for Mr. Angus McLean … Inspector Tompson fumed as he remembered. The solicitor might think he had gotten the better of him with Peter Kowalski and the Polish sailor, but no, not this time. And last but by no means least, he'd somehow see those tinkers charged with something—anything.

“WPC McPherson,” he yelled out his office door. “Here. Now.”

“You'd think I was his sheepdog,” she muttered. But being only a WPC and knowing, never mind her five years' service, that she
was only allowed to work on a high-profile case because no one else wanted to work with Tompson, she was wise enough to keep this thought to herself.

After the long distance between them, Keith was delighted that his mother, Jenny, was on visiting terms with himself and Shona. His brother Jimmy had ignored their mother's prejudices and had been a frequent caller.

Keith, Shona, Jenny and Jimmy had been going over the old family stories, all afternoon they had been, with much laughter and an occasional somber “Aye,” followed by a silence, then back again to more mirth and the occasional burst of song from Jenny. Karl, still staying in Keith and Shona's spare room, was watching, enjoying but unable to understand most of the time. Even their English was incomprehensible to him. Jenny, speaking in Gaelic most of the time, would start, “Do you mind when … ?” singing, “Oh rowan tree, oh rowan tree … ,” sitting back dreamily. “I mind camping up near Ardgay one summer. …” They were gathered to help Keith. Compiling the legends, the sayings, the superstitions of the Traveling people was his newfound passion.