A Small Death in the Great Glen (42 page)

“You showed the photo to Jimmy?”

“Aye, you were right, it's the same man. That must make you feel vindicated.”

“No, I feel strangely flat. I thought I would feel triumphant—to be proved right on a matter that has haunted me for years—but, no. Until we know who killed the boy, I won't be celebrating the fact that I was right.”

“Taking smutty pictures doesn't make him a murderer. Even Jimmy doubts he would do that.” Don spoke slowly. “Then there's the matter of getting hold of some of the photos Rob saw, to support your theory. We're back to the same problem; who would listen to wee girls, or the lad or to Jimmy McPhee, against the word of a priest?”

He looked across at McAllister. McAllister sank in his chair, defeat showing in every part of his body.

“Killing the boy,” Don continued, “frankly, I don't see it, unless it was an accident. What does Jimmy say?”

“He doesn't believe Morrison, or Bain, as he knew him, would interfere with a child, far less kill him. He told me he was one of the better ones at that school he went to. There were others far worse is what he told me.”

“And DCI Westland?”

“I don't know. He listened. He'd already talked to Morrison. He couldn't find anything amiss. He noted what he called an innocuous collection of photos of junior boxing groups. He also told me that he is convinced Tompson arrested the right man. The case against the Pole is circumstantial, but his greatcoat being found on the banks of the canal clinches it for him. The procurator believes he can get a conviction.”

“I know you won't thank me for saying this,” Don went on, “but it's still all speculation on your part. And, as I said, it's only photos, lots worse has happened. You know that, you having been a war correspondent. But cheer up, he'll be out of our lives by Christmas.”

“Aye. And what havoc will he wreak on other boys' lives?”

“That's just the way it is, John, it's just the way it is.”

E
IGHTEEN
 
 

Cars, vans, motorbikes, bicycles and three large charabancs, as well as those on foot, filed along the narrow winding road that was shaped by the river. Their destination, the small spa town, was hidden in a fold in the glen. Although early, six o'clock, it was well past dark. Every star in the heavens was visible in the still cold air. Silver birches lived up to their name, the trunks marking them out in the forest like squads of soldiers in ghostly livery. There was no moon; starlight alone was enough to light the way.

The stream of guests meandering across the football field to the hall didn't give a thought to the venue, the commandeered Scout hut; the Spa Pump Room and Ballroom, where the gentry held their functions, was intimidating. This was a night for letting the hair down.

Fiddlers warming up sent their chords into the night, summoning the stragglers. Colored lights around the porch and windows made a rainbow beacon for those farther up the glen. New arrivals were enveloped in a thick warm mist of laughter and light as they stepped over the threshold.

Two shepherds from up Strathconnon way had been banished to the porch to suck their reeking pipes. Arguing amiably, their conversation occasionally faltered as one or another hawked, then spat into the grass with great relish.

“Tonight. Mark my words, tonight.”

“Naw. The morn. First thing, likely.”

Jimmy McPhee chipped in.

“And what are you two auld boys blethering about now?”

“The snow, laddie. The snow.”

Jimmy looked around.

“Don't be daft. It's a beautiful night. Look at thon stars and no a cloud in the sky neither.”

“Aye, I grant you. But smell. Can ye no get a hint o' it? That's snow in the offing for sure.”

“Well, five quid says no snow the night,” Jimmy said. “No snow on the lowlands afore December.”

Spit in the palm, a handshake, they accepted the bet. “You're on.”

The hall was overflowing. At one end, below the stage, a long table was set for the wedding party. Along the sides, trestle tables with borrowed tablecloths, posies of flowers and mounds of sandwiches and cakes were set for the guests. Tea urns operated out of the kitchen. This was the women's territory.

The male guests, with boys running through and around and under their heels, milled outside like cows awaiting the call to the milking shed. One or two would break off from their huddle, then re-form with another gathering. In their wedding and funeral best, faces shiny from a fresh wet shave, a dent around the skull from the ubiquitous flat cap, they gave off a whiff of Brylcreem and carbolic soap.

A table by the kitchen door was set up with ginger beer and Irn-Bru and sickly-sweet orange squash. Despite the hall's strict no-liquor policy, beer was handed out from underneath the table and the men added a sly splash of whisky from the hip-pocket half bottle. Some were already well away, but as yet quiet, slightly swaying, still coherent. Ritual greetings were exchanged.

“Archie.”

“Donald.”

“Aye”—said upward on the indrawn breath. “Aye.” The greeting returned downward on the outgoing breath. Silence followed.
Talk of the farm, of neighbors' farms, of distant rumors of farming in other counties, would come soon enough. Conversations needed oiling.

Inside, the women caught up on family news and eyed each other's outfits. All were in their bonnie best. The treadle sewing machines had been busy, new dresses specially run up for the rare outing. The eye-watering smell from home perms canceled out the tang of Pears soap and eau de cologne. Babies expected, babies born, news of offspring grown and gone, along with intimate details of real or imaginary medical complaints, were the topics for the isolated, gossip-starved women.

Mothers and grandmothers occasionally broke off to shout at the children skating and sliding across the wooden floor, liberally scattered with chalk dust to enhance the swing of the dancing.

“Mind yer good dress, Morag.”

“Watch yer best breeks, Hector.”

All spruced up, hair stuck down, the boys ignored the warnings and continued to pelt around the floor. The girls promenaded around the edges, preening themselves in their full frilly dresses and sugar-starched petticoats. But too soon they were sucked into the whirlpool of sliding and gliding and pulling and chasing.

Into this melee plunged McAllister. He was amazed that he had agreed to be here. Joanne rushed off to find Chiara, Ann McPherson went searching for Rob, and Don had just plain disappeared.

The drive over to the Strath had had McAllister holding his breath on every bend. The drive back would be worse. Don could never be persuaded that driving with a few beers and as many whiskies in him could possibly affect his judgment. I've been driving like this for forty-odd years and never had an accident was his reply. Why he had agreed to go with Don McLeod was another decision that puzzled him, but McAllister was in Don's car,
at Don's mercy, out of cowardice. An hour and a half, there
and
back, alone in the car with Joanne; he wouldn't have known what to say. He suspected she felt the same. He had been glad of the other passenger, WPC Ann Macpherson. The two women chatted in that way that women do, warm and comfortable in each other's company. He envied them. But he had to stop himself cross-questioning the policewoman, and he had to order himself not to ask Don to pull in at every roadside phone box so he could call DCI Westland to ask if he had made an arrest yet. Not that Don would have stopped.

A microphone whistled. The MC, his dinner jacket as shiny as his slicked-back hair, stepped to the front of the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, will ye take your partners and form yer sets for Strip the Willow.”

The stage was jam-packed with at least a dozen fiddlers, and the five accordions were marking time as the dancers frantically searched for a partner. The night had barely started, so most of the dancers were women chummed up with their best friends. A reluctant lad was dragged determinedly to the floor by a lass from a neighboring village who fancied her chances. A cheer from his friends got the blushing boy to his feet. In formation, a frantic dance began. Up and down and around and around they swung, changing partners, forming and re-forming into circles, arches, young girls with their fathers, women with women, lads and lasses gradually joined in, with the audience clapping and shouting encouragement.

The skirl of “whee-eech” came more and more frequently as the dancers twirled faster and faster. The couple in the middle of the ring almost flew to the rhythm of the snare drum. Then a final chorus, and the dancers collapsed in panting exhilaration. They were replaced by the next shift, readying themselves for the Dashing White Sergeant.

McAllister glimpsed Joanne going in and out of one of the sets through arches of upheld arms. Her laughing eyes were a sight he had not seen in a long time. He smiled, happy for her. The music finished. The bandleader and head fiddler, Archie Stuart the old ghillie, took the microphone.

“Can I have a bit o' hush now?” He drew a cat's wail across the strings of his fiddle. “Hold yer wheesht out there.” Slowly the noise subsided to a murmur.

“Whilst we all get our breath back and some of us avail ourselves of the light refreshments”—that got a good laugh—“I'd like to introduce a lady who needs no introduction. A big hand for the singer, Mrs. Jenny McPhee.”

Hearty applause and a whistle or two greeted Jenny as she took the stage. She stood in a single spotlight, her tiny frame in a Stuart tartan taffeta skirt and white blouse, her indomitable presence drawing the audience into her web, with no musical backup, no microphone, rock-carved form mountain-still, she started.

“I give you ‘The Berry Fields o' Blair.'”

A round of applause rose and faded to a respectful hush. The opening stanza filled the hall. Her clear true voice rang full and powerful. She sang out the verses, the gathered family, clansmen and friends joining in the refrain:

McAllister was enjoying himself immensely, joining in as heartily as his neighbors. From the corner of his eye he saw Rob making his way toward him.

“Later, Robbie, enjoy the song.”

Rob whispered back. “I have to speak to you. Now.”

McAllister followed. Every eye was on the stage but the crowd parted and regathered around them as naturally as a burn
diverting round a rock. McAllister, still entranced by the music and singing, hadn't yet caught Rob's anxiety.

“Dr. Matheson has driven over from Beauly with a message from my mother.”

“Is she all right?”

“Aye, she's fine. Look, it's probably nothing, just getting herself worked up, but she thought you should know.”

“What?”

“Mother saw Father Morrison leaving the house. He left in a taxi.”

“Where is he off to?” McAllister shouted, his voice drowning in the applause from inside the hall. He jiggled from foot to foot as he tried to think, the frost creeping through his thin soles and chilling his bones. Echoing out into the still cold night came the haunting refrain of Jenny's second song, “Aye Fond Kiss.” It was McAllister's favorite but it didn't register.

“My mother thinks he may be off on the night train south.”

“But why leave for the station so early?”

“Scared DCI Westland might be around to arrest him? I don't know.” Rob watched as McAllister peered at his watch in the light leaking out of the hall door.

“An hour and twenty minutes.” The editor had come to a decision. “I should just make it.”

“To the station? You're mad. Apart from black ice and the likelihood of snow, you hate driving a car.”

“Give me your bike keys.”

Rob obediently handed them over without thinking. In shock, he watched McAllister stride over to the bike and start the engine, well in control of the machine. Rob grabbed the handlebars.

“Here, have this.” He handed over his scarf. “Wait. My hat and jacket are inside, you'll freeze without them.”

“No time,” McAllister shouted, already on his way.

“Shall I call the police?” Rob yelled at his departing back.

“What for?” cried his editor over a shoulder.

“Aye, what for indeed?” Rob stared morosely at the taillight disappearing into the dark. “And mind my bike.”

Then the sound of the fiddlers, and accordions with the skirl of the pipes worked their magic, and Rob turned back to the serious business of having a ball.

Ten minutes or so later, the children burst into the dancing crowd, shrieking in excitement.

“It's snowing! It's snowing! Come and see!”

Some of the children regretted telling their parents; they were made to leave the party early. Families from outlying glens and those from the Black Isle had a way to go to reach their homes and were worried about the possibility of being stranded. The locals would have a trudge through the cold, but what did that matter when they were at the best gathering in years? And two old men were on the hunt.