A Small Death in the Great Glen (43 page)

“Have you seen Jimmy McPhee? Any chance he's in the kitchen?”

“He's around.”

“He owes us five quid,” they chorused. “Apiece.” They grinned at each other, toothless grin from one, his dentures having been removed to facilitate easier drinking.

The party had mellowed. Tired but happy bunches of guests sat around, catching their breath for the next round. Rob found Joanne sitting with Ann, watching the crowd clearly enjoying themselves.

“We're up soon,” he told them. “Pity McAllister won't see us.”

“Really? Have you scared him off without a chord being played?” Joanne teased.

“It's not that.” Rob blithely told them the story.

Ann stared at him incredulously.

“And you've told the police about this, have you?” Her tone was icy.

Rob squirmed. Joanne looked away.

“Well, McAllister seemed sure … and I thought …”

“You both thought you'd play the dashing heroes,” Ann finished.

“It's not that, Ann. It's your inspector; he's not interested. He made that clear yesterday. A priest can do no wrong.”

“I know, I know, and I'm sorry. But this DCI Westland, he's different.”

“Really?”

“And, for your information, I'm certain the detective chief inspector is interested in Father Morrison and is trying to find some concrete evidence. But don't tell anyone I told you.” She waggled a finger at Rob. “I must find a phone. I've got to report this.”

“There's a box up the road,” Joanne remembered.

“Come on,” Ann asked, “give me your pennies.”

“What about my turn?” protested Rob as he searched his pockets.

“I'm sure I'll get to watch you another time. I have to report this.”

Joanne and Rob handed over coins and Ann ran out into the snow.

“Do you think McAllister will be all right?” Joanne asked, “This weather is awful.”

“I know. I hope he takes care of my bike.”

Chiara came up behind Joanne. “Isn't this fun?”

“Great! Where's your fiancé? I saw all that dancing cheek-to-cheek stuff. Very saucy.”

“He and the other lads are setting up.” Chiara pointed to the stage. “Peter says his violin teacher would be rolling in his grave if he heard him playing guitar and playing this—I don't know what you call it—this music. But they're really good.”

“Really?”

“I think so. But I've only heard one number so far,” Chiara confessed.

The two friends grabbed some lemonade and went to the front. The MC came on to announce the band to a small crowd of diehards and drunks, happy with whatever music was provided to prolong the drinking and the dancing.

“Is everybody having a grand time?” The MC was barely standing. “Right ye are. So, friends, let's hear it for the new, the extraordinary, the previously unheard and probably never to be heard again, I give you … the Meltdown Boys.”

The hall lights went out; a solitary spotlight came on. Rob was center stage with guitar and microphone. The drummer counted them in and off they went with their version of Little Richard's “Tutti-Frutti.” The crowd stood momentarily—no one knew how to dance to this music—and then clapping and swaying, everyone under twenty finding their own style, going wild, their elders transfixed by the bacchanalia before them.

The song came to an abrupt end. Cheers, whistles and shouts of “more, more” followed the final chord. Then they were off again into the same song, twice more.

Rob leaned into the mike, sweating, thrilled at the reception and thrilled that no one seemed to notice he knew only three chords. Peter with his musical training had carried most of the band, and his tall good looks were attracting almost as much adulation among the lassies as Rob himself was.

“And for our next number, straight from the U. S. of A, we'd like to do a tune by a new band, Bill Haley and the Comets. It's called ‘Rock Around the Clock.'”

No one knew what to expect. Very few had actually heard, they'd only read about, the music from America that was shaking the country awake.

Rob slung his guitar to one side, grabbed the mike and, with Peter striking the chords behind Rob's half-shouting, half-singing, they launched into:

“One two three o'clock, four o'clock rock” (crash of chord with cymbals).

“Five six seven o'clock, eight o'clock rock” (next crash, one chord up the scale).

All the band now joined in and off they went, fast and furious. Chaos ensued. Everyone was up. Jumping, dancing, birling, swirling and skirling, some swinging their partners around as in Strip the Willow, others trying the crazy dance steps they'd seen on the television. And the band played and played and played until everyone, the audience, the players, the onlookers, had to stop, completely exhausted.

“More, more,” came the cries. But the band packed up. They were on strict orders to end before midnight. The hall license ran out “on the dot of twelve.”

“Besides,” as Rob confessed on the journey home, “we only know two numbers.”

The drive through the glen was treacherous. Doubly so on a motorbike. Black ice had already formed in the deep bends of the road, which was a mere extension of the riverbank. The tunnel of rowan and birch was claustrophobically dark, heavy snow-bearing clouds shutting out the starlight. McAllister heaved the bike through the twists and turns, praying that no one else was coming the opposite way.

Past the distillery, he shot out onto the main road, terrifying himself. Though wider, the way was still tortuous. With McAllister frozen to the handlebars, the Triumph flew through the night, following the shoreline of the firth he could barely see but definitely smell. The gaps between the flurries of fat snowflakes
decreased. Black ice, hairpin bends, short flat straights, corkscrew bends, an abrupt blind corner under the railway bridge, then over the final humpbacked bridge, he shot into the still night of the town. Now the snow was falling straight and steady, thick and lying.

McAllister careened into the station square, skidding past the silver stone
Highlander
from a long-forgotten desert war, indifferent to the snow and the drama unfolding beneath his plinth. Three minutes to go. The train would wait for no one. McAllister stumbled off the bike, landing at the feet of the doorman, in full braided uniform, on the red carpet of the Station Hotel steps. Before he could even tip his hat, a ten-shilling note was thrust into the man's hand.

“Look after this, will you?”

The final whistle sounded. The engine jolted and spat. The coupled carriages, after an initial groan of protest, slowly started down the long platform. McAllister stumbled over the closed ticket barricade, lurching like Frankenstein's monster up the platform, limbs and muscles frozen. He began running, running for life itself, now running parallel to the tail of the train. He grabbed the cold metal bar of the guard's carriage door but didn't have the strength to swing himself up. Any second, he would run out of platform. The carriage door opened, a hand grabbed his jacket from above and someone else shoved him from behind. In he tumbled, landing on all fours. The train gathered momentum, echoing through the railyards, a puffing dragon of light heading for the mountains.

Frozen, exhausted, exhilarated, he looked gratefully up at his rescuer. The train guard, who recognized him, grinned at McAllister.

“We can't be having the editor missing the train, can we now?”

He was shown a seat, the lack of a ticket brushed off as a
mere formality. Then a wee silver bottle of spirits, handed to him by a bemused fellow passenger, revived him somewhat.

“Never again,” declared McAllister in gratitude, “never again will I complain about being a public figure.” The kudos of the newspaper worked wonders in an emergency.

“I have to find someone … a friend.” He attempted to get to his feet again.

“Wait on a wee whiley. You're drookit and they are no going anywhere.” The guard fussed. “Give me yer jacket. We'll dry her on the firebox. Breeks too. I'll fetch you a blanket to cover your dignity.”

“I have to find him in case he's gone. Maybe he was never on the train in the first place. He could've flown already.”

“Here, have another dram.” The stranger opposite passed back the flask. “You look and sound like you're in sore need of it.”

N
INETEEN
 
 

Joanne dutifully came into the office, even though she had had only a few hours' sleep. No one else was there. It being a Saturday morning, the girls were with their grandparents. She fiddled with some typing; she returned a couple of phone calls; she made tea; twice, she considered phoning Mhairi on the west coast to leave a message for Bill, ask how he was doing, but didn't. He would assume she had a guilty conscience about something or other. She had; she could feel herself stretching, growing, singing inside herself, and not for one moment did she miss him. Her legs ached from dancing, her cheeks ached from laughing; the only thing she needed to know was that McAllister was safe.

When Don walked in looking as though his horse had come in at fifty to one on the nose, she blurted out, “Where's McAllister?”

“Holed up in some hotel bar way out in the wilds, probably. The tracks are snowbound so no train is getting through. They've probably taken the passengers to Aviemore or Carrbridge.” He saw through her. “Don't worry about him.”

“I'm not.”

“He'll be fine. I do know though that he definitely caught the train.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“No, lass, but thanks for asking; I need a hair of the dog and we've to meet Jimmy McPhee.”

He looked out the dirty window to a whitescape of rooftops contrasted by a black pearl sky. He had sniffed the air to see if
more snow was to come but could only catch last night's whisky and decades of tobacco.

“Come on, we'll shut up shop and adjourn to the meeting room. Jimmy wants a word.”

He printed
CLOSED
—
SNOW
in his red checking pencil and turned to Joanne. “Pin that up outside and we'll be off.”

“I can't keep going into public houses,” she started. “If my mother-in-law finds out …”

He winked. “But this is an order and Mrs. Ross senior dare not cross me. I mind the time—well before she married … no, I'll keep that story for emergencies.”

Laughing, they stepped out into the hush of snow, he tucked her arm under his and they lurched down icy pavements to the alternative
Gazette
office.

They made an incongruous couple. He was shorter than her by a head. He had on the proverbial trilby that looked as though there should be a betting slip tucked into the band. Her Fair Isle tammy was set at an angle that was jaunty, just short of saucy. He had on the polished brogues that had lasted fifteen years and would last a good many more. Joanne's zippered sheepskin boots stopped short of her skirt, revealing International Brigade Red socks. His tweed jacket had leather elbow patches—with a Masonic badge that he wore for all the wrong reasons. She had on an olive green belted raincoat that was ten years out of date and made her look like an extra in a louche French film where people made love to people they were not married to. Neither carried an umbrella. Umbrellas are not favored by Scottish people, despite the precipitous weather. And if you chanced to see these two walk by, and were asked to guess who they were, what they did, where they worked, you would guess newspapers.

They settled in, in Don's corner table. Joanne looked around. Multiple customers, reflected in the multiple mirrors, gave quite
the fairground atmosphere to the drinking haven. The swing doors opened and closed with a one-o'clock-Saturday, half-day-at-work frequency.

“Don't look now,” Joanne murmured, “but those men that have just come in, that's the Gordon brothers.”

Don looked. The eldest brother, spotting Joanne, waved.