A Small Death in the Great Glen (61 page)

Ask for help, Rob had suggested. But she couldn't. Not wouldn't, couldn't. Silly I know she told herself, often, recognizing in herself that trait that seemed to one of mothers and women in general, that catchall phrase used when help was offered—I can manage. Yes she could manage, but only by being first in, last out.

“Blast.” Joanne spoke out loud. “Five minutes more, that's all I need.” The phone kept ringing. “ Double blast.” It wasn't going to stop.
“Highland Gazette.”
She sighed.

“Just the girl I'm after.”

“Patricia.”

“What a coincidence. The girls and I were talking about you just this morning.”

“It's all that water from the Fairy Well I've been downing—makes me physic,” laughed her friend.

“I can't tell you how much we're looking forward to this Easter holiday. It is so good of you to ask us to stay. The girls are driving me crazy with questions and Annie is going on and on about the ponies. Are you sure you are still up for this invasion? More to the point, are your parents prepared for the onslaught?”

Patricia laughed again.

“Of course. Anyway, the house is big. We can avoid them as much as possible.”

Joanne didn't like to say outright that she wholeheartedly agreed with her friend. As much space as possible between her, her children, and Patricia's mother would be a very good idea.

“Anyway,” Patricia continued, “I've called to ask you a favor. It's very important to me. Can you come early? The eight o'clock ferry? I've something special planned.”

“Eight? A bit of a rush. The girls are still at their grandparents the morning after deadline night. I'll have had a late night as when we've finished, everyone at the
Gazette
usually goes out together to …”

“Please? I'll pick you up and we'll go straight there.”

“Go where?” Joanne was intrigued by now.

“A surprise. I've some really good news.”

“So have I. We're launching the new look
Gazette
and I've been given the front page, my first big story. It's really exciting, it's about a fire and …”

“Could wear your glad rags tomorrow?” Patricia interrupted. “We need to dress up. Please.”

“Now you've got me really curious.” She caved in. “Fine then. Eight o'clock ferry.”

Joanne hung up the telephone, feeling slightly put out. Thanks for listening Patricia she almost said, thanks for being interested. Although they had met when they were seven, had been at school together, there was something unknowable about her friend. Joanne was never sure if they were close. Perhaps their family circumstances made a difference. Patricia came from a wealthy landowning family, perhaps that was it. But no, Joanne acknowledged, they had more in common than not.

“Patricia Ord Mackenzie,” she muttered, “what are you up to?” not knowing that that same morning, that very same question, had puzzled someone else.

“I declare the Monday news conference open. Everyone aboard and correct and ready for D-day?” McAllister looked around the ensemble sitting at the reporters' table taking in the nods and grins and ayes and the shrug from Don. “ Fine. Mrs. Smart?”

“I'm pleased with the response from our advertisers, Mr. McAllister. Most have taken more space. There is also a full page from Benzies advertising the latest televisions.”

“Well done Mrs. Smart. Don?”

“Most importantly, the printers are ready.” He didn't mention the promised bonus of a couple of bottles of McKinley. “The expanded sports pages are looking good. Countryside column looks good. I like the wee line drawing showing a salmon leaping the falls in the header. The only problem with it is the length of Mr. Mortimer Beauchamp Carlyle's name. Maybe we should give him a pseudonym …”

“Five shillings for the best suggestion,” McAllister declared.

“Otherwise his copy is good …” Don ignored his editor, “he even knows his punctuation—unlike some.” This was said straight at Rob, who ignored him.

“On the subject of new columns,” McAllister informed them, “I'm instituting one, ‘For a' That' on the opinion page. It will be a good opportunity to stir things up a bit.”

“Only if it is checked by a legal eagle.” Don told him.

“Naturally. Rob?” McAllister asked.

“I'm finishing up the report on the plans of the new bridge across the river. I did a vox pop as you suggested. A surprising number of people are concerned that another bridge would fulfill the Brahan Seer's prophesy and bring disaster to the town. An old fellow pointed out that one of the prophesies was that when it became possible to cross the river dry-shod in five places, disaster would strike the world. Sure enough, when only five bridges stood, Hitler invaded Poland. ”

“Aye, I read your article. I like the idea of a threat to the town council from a seventeenth-century seer.” McAllister told him. “Joanne?”

“I've written up my notes on the fire itself. I've also covered the meeting with the fire chief. I think that's everything.”

“I see. Well, call the fire chief again for another update. The police as well. They may have more information on who threw the bomb. Call the procurator fiscal's office, ask what the likely charge will be, providing they find the culprit. The villagers in the Black Isle, what do they have to say about the loss of a boat—that will be a
big event for them. The west coast connection, what's that about? Have you any other leads on any or all of the above? Anything to add to turn this into a humdinger of a story? A front page to remember?”

McAllister hadn't noticed Joanne getting pinker and pinker and squirming on her stool as he counted off the many phone calls yet to be made, facts yet to be ascertained, opinions yet to be canvassed. But Don did.

“For heaven's sake, give the lassie time to draw breath.” He pointed his finger at Rob. “You, you talk to the police seeing as how you're so pally with WPC McPherson. You, McAllister, call your new pal Beauchamp in the Black Isle, see if he's heard any gossip from the fishing village. Me, I'll talk to my contact in the Fiscal's office and I'll call our man in the West Coast, and Joanne,” he turned to her, “call the fire chief, ask if he's finished his report and ask if you can have a sneak look at it. Use your charm. Then, let's say …” he glanced at the clock, “… eleven thirty, we'll get together and see where we're at.”

“Yes, Mr. McLeod.” Rob laughed.

“And you,” he pointed to his boss, “in your office now, I'd like a wee word.”

Don carefully shut the door of McAllister's office well aware that Rob and Joanne would be waiting to hear the explosion. But he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

McAllister sat down waiting for the bollocking. It didn't come.

“I agree with you, this is a big story.” Don was growling a low-toned menacing pre-bark growl all the more scary for that. “I am well aware that it's not every day we get a story involving a Molotov cocktail. I also acknowledge that this is the right time to launch the paper. We'll have a great front page. I'm with you all the way. But for heaven's sakes, just because you fancy the lassie, stop taking your frustration out on her. I'm having it. Right?”

Don turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him before McAllister could recover enough to think of a reply.

The meeting later in the morning to pull together the story of the fire bombing of the fishing boat was productive. The story had “legs” as McAllister put it.

“One, great picture.” He started.

“Don't tell Hec that or we'll never hear the end of it.” Rob was still smarting at Hec being made a full-time member of the team.

“Two, this is a good description of the fire Joanne; colorful but succinct.” McAllister went on. “I like the interview you did with the firemen, you got the balance between the facts and the human interest side just right.

“Three, the whole mystery as to why the boat was making it's way to the west coast rather than home, that's worth a follow-up. The quote from our contact in Fort William we'll run as a sidebar, then investigate further. Should give us something for the next edition.”

“And before you go on to four,” Rob interrupted, “I think the story will run for at least a couple of editions because the police are completely baffled as to why anyone would fire bomb a fishing boat, they have no suspects, no clues.”

“There we have it,” Don butted in. “‘Police Baffled'—a favorite headline of we hacks of the newspaper trade.”

McAllister rolled his eyes and held up his hand again, this time the thumb pointing heavenward. “Finally, Beech has heard rumors about a family feud involving the owner of the boat. So for next week, a background story on the Black Isle fishing community would be good, add a bit of color to the main story.”

“I like it.” Don agreed. “Family feuds—great copy.”

“All right, let's put all this together,” McAllister paused, “and Joanne, everyone, thanks, this is looking good.”