A Small Death in the Great Glen (39 page)

“Let me go through this again. Let me see if I've got this clear. You want me to fix a council contract for your husband. You want me to use my influence to get a payout of money on a half-finished job.”

“Ninety-five percent finished.”

“It's not possible.”

“It is. I've read the contract and in amongst the gobbledygook is a clause that allows you to authorize payment for work done but not completed due to exceptional circumstances. The remainder of the work can be completed in a few weeks, but you could persuade them to authorize an extension.”

“And what are these exceptional circumstances?”

“The weather.”

“This is Scotland in winter, my dear.”

“I'm not your dear.”

“Oooh, touchy are we? Well, well.”

“It would be a good idea for you to agree to this.”

“Oh really?”

He is enjoying this, Joanne thought. Well, here goes.

“It would be a good idea to agree to my proposal because, if you don't, I will write up the story on your ‘Rowan Lodge' project stating that there are irregularities in the planning permission process, you also have a conflict of interest and I'll write anything else I can dig up.”

He roared with laughter.

“Dig away all you want. Everything on that project is aboveboard. I have nothing to do with the development company. It belongs entirely to my wife and her father. There is nothing for you to dig up, as you put it, so I think it is time for you to leave.”

It was his self-satisfied leer that did it. Joanne would otherwise never have stooped to using the private life of others.

“You won't want your wife, a company director and pillar of the church, to go through the pain and disgust and humiliation of finding out that you seduced a fifteen-year-old girl who was in your home, in your care, and then, when she had your baby, you refused to recognize the child.”

Absolute silence. Joanne waited.

“And what proof do you have for this preposterous story?”

“I'll just have a wee word with your wife, point her in the right direction, let her find out the truth. If she asks, I'm sure she will be told.”

“I've done nothing to you,” Grieg protested.

“Yes you have. You set out to destroy my husband and his company so you could get work and materials on the cheap for your Rowan Lodge scheme.”

“Why would you want to save your drunk of a husband? He has nothing good to say about you.” This felt like an ice dagger to the heart, but she would never give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She sat, immobile.

“You can't prove anything.” His agitation, desperation Joanne thought, deflated him and he floundered down to reality like a huge collapsing dirigible.

“You're right. I can't. Not without compromising a lovely young lass who doesn't deserve any more trouble. But I am prepared to tell Mr. McAllister and Don McLeod and your wife, Mrs. Grieg, and my mother-in-law, and all my women friends and”—she'd run out of names, then inspiration struck—“and the whole of the Kyle Women's Institute.”

“Fine, fine. You've made your point.” He stared at her, reappraising her. “I can hardly credit that a minister's daughter would scheme like this.”

“I can and I will, Mr. Grieg. Just like you.”

“Tell me what you want.” He was attempting to be all business and took out his fountain pen, unscrewing the top, but he could not disguise the shake as he went to write.

Joanne knew it; he had folded. Always stand up to a bully, she reminded herself.

“I've told you. It's simple. Bill will put in an application for an extension to finish the contract, citing delays due to weather.”
He wrote. “All work already done will be paid for by the end of December. That has to be put in writing to Bill. You can keep your own wee scheme going; nothing will change. The local firm can finish Bill's contract along with yours, but you must use your own materials, paid for by yourself, not Bill's supplies.”

He nodded agreement and sat back, deflated but relieved.

Joanne, realizing she was winning, continued. May as well grab the chance, she thought.

“Secondly, I want a council house. In my name only.”

That made him stare. “And may I ask why?”

“No, you may not.”

“It's not so easy. The council waiting list is very long, and you've already got a house, a good one.”

“I'll have one of those prefabs you've been going to pull down the last five years. No one wants them.”

Joanne knew it would take them at least another five years to demolish those houses. If ever.

“I'll see to it. But it'll have to be a swap, your bigger house for a prefab.”

“Agreed. Finally, I want you to acknowledge your daughter, even if it's in secret.”

“Now hold on. That's none of your business.”

“Mr. McLean is a fair and discreet solicitor. Mhairi doesn't want a fuss either. Just do it.”

This is too easy, thought Joanne. “One final thing.”

“What now?” Grieg was exhausted. No one had ever turned the tables on him before.

“I want an absolute promise that you will never mention this conversation to anyone. Ever. Otherwise you know the consequences.”

“I promise.” The look of relief on his face made Joanne want to laugh. “You have my word of honor on that.”

“That's not worth much, is it, Mr. Grieg?”

And with that Joanne left the room, shut the door behind her and stood shaking in the corridor outside.

“Oh my goodness me!” She grinned, amazed at herself. She ran down the stairs, skipped along the corridors, fairly dancing along the riverbank, full of glee and desperate to catch Don McLeod, to recount the whole interview, in every tiny detail.

Then she stopped. “What on earth possessed me?” She grabbed the railing on the riverbank, her heart racing. She had asked for a house, had made the decision—she was leaving Bill. That hadn't been her intention. She turned back. Then stopped. It didn't have to be a final, final step. She would not put her children through the disgrace. But it could be a bargaining chip when she spoke to Bill. She tried to laugh; I've been spending too much time with Don McLeod. The river went out of focus. She shook her head, blinking rapidly. A voice, a well-modulated, bitter voice, came down through the years, her mother's voice, You've made your choice, Joanne, it said, and forever more you will have to live with it. “
No,
Mother.” This she spoke aloud, then quickly looked round to see if anyone overheard. But the wet, cold pavements were empty.

Scared but terminally optimistic, she went over the possibility of a new beginning, of living up to her own expectations of a single life with two children. There would be the condemnation from town and kirk, the challenge of working on the
Gazette
and keeping house, her mother-in-law's reaction, and her sister and brother-in-law and how hurt they would be. And how would she tell the girls? And tell Bill and get away safe? And a new house, her very own, how would that be?

“Well, at least it will be exciting,” she told the cherry tree beside her.

S
EVENTEEN
 
 

Eight-thirty-November-morning light was only one or two notches up from dark. Four-thirty in the afternoon and dark would return, leaving the counties of the north shut in under an immense blackout curtain. The MacLean household was lit up like the
Titanic.
Rob felt the need for brightness before tackling his morning. Digging with gusto into the full Scottish breakfast of eggs, bacon, black pudding, white pudding, tattie scones and toast with homemade whisky marmalade, Rob greeted his father with a full mouth, a grunt and a gesture toward the frying pan.

“If you're offering, then yes.”

His father had just come back from his morning constitutional. His face glowed in the heat of the kitchen.

“So, to what do we owe this banquet? A promotion? An engagement? Last request before the scaffold?”

“I felt like cooking,” Rob explained. “I'll be going into work later but first I've an interview next door with Father Morrison. He's off to a new job down south.”

“Mr. McAllister put you up to this?”

“No, it was my idea.” Rob was pleased with himself.

His father looked over his spectacles at his son. He was confident in his boy but uneasy just the same. Rob caught his father's frown and was grateful.

“Don't worry, if he turns obstreperous, I'll yell for Mum. That'll put the fear of God in him.”

“A fear of God appears to be distinctly lacking in this case.”

“Dad, you surely don't agree with McAllister's wild theories?”

“No, I don't. It is an impossible thought.” He hesitated. “All the same, call me when you're finished.”

The doorstep of the Big House took up more space than most people's kitchens, Rob reflected, and the house was as welcoming as a vault. Hand poised on the bell, the realization that this was the last place wee Jamie had been seen alive chilled him. Ridiculous. McAllister had two and two making thirty-nine. Rubber footsteps came squelching down the linoleum in the hallway.

“Here we go.” Rob prepared a Cheshire cat smile.

Father Morrison filled the doorway, cheeerful as ever. “Come in, come in. A dreich day. At least you didn't have far to walk.”

Rob followed him into the sitting room, where a freshly lit fire was struggling to stay alight against the frequent blowbacks. A dim overhead light, with a parchment-colored shade, sent out a watery custard light.

The house and the room were far different from Rob's childhood memories of when his grandparents lived here. Ornate sideboards, bookcases and a desk were still in situ—too large to move. Some of the original carpets and runners had also been left behind—too old to matter. What
was
different was the general air of shabbiness and the faint institutional smell of boiled cabbage and disinfectant. Close up, the priest too had an institutional tinge; boiled-tattie complexion, musty soutane and a home haircut. He was big, granted, but frightening? No. Up until now, Rob had always thought of Father Morrison as a nice man—if he thought of him at all. Now, in his newfound role of investigative journalist, he furtively examined the man. He searched for the right word. Gone to seed, like a former sportsman down on his luck; that was it. That is how he would describe him—if Don didn't cut it out.

Exactly one hour later Rob scurried down the driveway, turned left to his own house, walked through to the kitchen and dropped into a chair.

“That didn't take long.” Margaret was ironing. Rob sat silent. She made tea. She let him be. Waited. Elbows on the well-scrubbed, well-worn table, he cradled the cup, taking slow sips.

“Mum, you know I love you.”

Margaret was shocked. A normal Highlander did not say such things beyond the age of six.

“My dear Robbie. Tell me about it.”

Shaken, embarrassed, a wee boy again, he told her.