Does Your Mother Know? (15 page)

I was embarrassed. “Sorry. I wasn’t going behind your back. It’s just that there I was on the spot, and it seemed natural to follow up.”

He grunted, not totally buying that explanation. “What else?”

“Neither of them could really swear that the two women were drinking heavily. In fact, only two drinks were substantiated.”

“Mairi told me Sarah was staggering, and the other woman, whom we’re presuming was Joan, had to help her.”

“There are lots of reasons people stagger. A stone on the ground, broken heels, emotions.”

“Aye, that’s true. But Sarah, at least, must have had a lot more to drink after she left the hotel. According to the post-mortem report, she was way over the legal blood-alcohol limit.”

“Surely that confirms what Lisa said about Tormod’s whisky being low in the bottle?”

“It does. It could be that Mrs. MacDonald took your mother out to see Tormod to celebrate her real-estate deal.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. A new pal. Come and see my client and have a drink.”

“Maybe.”

“So they had too many drinks, left, and crashed the car. Tormod died that night — from a predictable hemorrhage. There’s nothing sinister in that scenario.”

Seeing his expression, I suddenly felt deflated. “For sure the case isn’t nice and tidy so far, but that’s real life, isn’t it? It’s only on television shows that everything is sewn up quickly in time for the final commercial.”

He grinned at me. “We don’t get those shows over here.”

At the crossroads we turned left, as we had done before. We passed the crash site, but I resisted the impulse to ask Gillies to stop the car so we could get out and study it again. There was nothing to be gained from doing that, except more frustration.

The Callanish Standing Stones were about fifteen minutes further driving. Once again, the weather cooperated by dropping the sunshine, and grey clouds filled the sky, which was the perfect backdrop for viewing the ancient stones.

When I was in my second year of university, I’d done a tour of southern England, and had gone to see Stonehenge. By then there were barriers around the area to protect the ancient stones from the ravages of visitor wear and, worse, vandalism. However, not even the fences, nor the crowds of people with cameras, could detract from the magnificence of the site. I was expecting something similar from Callanish.

We parked the car and walked up a path clotted with sheep manure, which wound up to the top of the hill. On the slopes, ewes chewed the grass, their lambs at their side, and eyed us placidly as we went by. The stones themselves were situated at the plateau and I must admit that, on first viewing, like Colin MacLeod, I couldn’t see what the fuss was all about. There were two dozen or so ash-grey stones, well-spaced from each other, and
the height seemed to vary from chest level to double my height. Most of them were rough, elongated pillars, but some were wedges, like giant grave markers.

We stood for a moment at the edge of the field. The neat grey-brown Lewishan houses were behind us, keeping the stones in the realm of the homey and unglamorous.

“They’re arranged roughly in the shape of a cross,” said Gillies. “Nothing to do with Christianity, of course. They predate Christ by three thousand years. One of the theories is that they were used for some kind of astrological divination.”

I noticed an elderly couple were standing in the centre, and the woman had placed her palm flat against the flank of one of the stones. I wondered if she was trying to soak up the ancient energy.

After a brief-but-intense attachment to the Catholic church, I had abandoned all religious institutions — one of the few areas of life where Joan and I had shared a similar point of view. She was firm in her convictions that the churches were man-made and had little to do with true spirituality. “Imagine killing somebody because they elevated a little piece of dry bread in the air.” Surprising to me was how much she knew of religious history, and in our good moments together she would tell me stories of how the churches began and what they did to each other in the name of truth. Not for me, Winnie-the-Pooh or Spiderman. On a regular basis, she read passages from the Bible. “Only because this is your heritage and you should know these stories.” She was right about that, and they stood me in good stead when I took an English degree at university. Later on, long after I’d run off and dived into my own life, she’d abandoned even that tie to traditional Christianity and embraced what I thought was whacky New Age stuff. A few years ago, she announced she was a “follower of the Wiccan way” — more popularly known as witchcraft — although I don’t think she kept it up.

I still wondered if she’d come to Lewis to visit these ancient stones, met up with Sarah MacDonald, gone with her to visit her client, had an accident... all very innocent.

Frankly, I couldn’t tell if the ancient stones were helping me put things in perspective or encouraging a state of denial.

The other couple left, and Gillies and I were alone. He didn’t speak, giving me room to absorb the surroundings, which were actually impressing me more and more. Fields of closely cropped grass, sprinkled with dandelions, rolled away on all sides to gently rounded misty mountains in the distance. The clouds hung grey and sombre. The quiet of the place began to settle me down.

“Why don’t you walk around a bit?” said Gillies. “If you go to the far side of the field, you can see clearly what is a sort of avenue to the centre. You can imagine a procession moving through the stones. It’s my favourite view.”

I did as he suggested, then walked slowly to the high, thinner stone at the centre, trying to tune in those ancient people. So many lives come and gone, a blink when measured against the age of the stones. I was beginning to feel decidedly insignificant, and I was most happy to be distracted by the sudden appearance of a border collie, who dashed towards me as if we were old friends. He had a stick in his mouth that he dropped peremptorily at my feet and demanded I throw for him. So much for profundity. I chucked the stick, and the dog chased it, got it, and brought it back, all at top speed.

Gillies came over. “He’ll have you doing that all day.”

“So I see.”

I threw the stick yet again, but the dog stopped, stared into the distance, listening. Then, obeying some sound or command I couldn’t hear, he dashed off as suddenly as he had appeared.

I was grabbed by a sudden vivid memory of arguing with Joan about whether or not we could get a dog. I wanted one so badly — a dog, any dog — but she was adamant, citing the smallness of the apartment, time, and so on. Then she said, “Besides, the only kind of dog worth having is a border collie, and we certainly don’t have the proper place for one of those.”

“What are you thinking?” Gillies asked. I had gone into a reverie.

“Just that I feel as if I have put a negative in the developing tray and, ever so slowly, the picture is emerging.”

“That sounds intriguing. Do you want to stay a while longer
or would you like to have a coffee? You can tell me what’s on your mind.”

I opted for the coffee, and we went back down the hill to the parking lot where there was a restaurant and attached gift shop. This waitress also knew Gillies, and I was beginning to think he must eat out a lot. Once again, he introduced me as being from Canada. I received a smile and another
Failte
, which sounded like ‘Fellcha,’ and I now knew was the word for
welcome.
She didn’t have any relatives in Canada.

We had coffee and scones, but the conversation was stilted, so I soon suggested we take a look at the gift shop. I bought a hand-crafted silver pendant for Paula and a cuddly lamb for my god-daughter, Chelsea, from the gift shop. I had one brief stab of memory, of a tiny skeletal child who’d never had a toy in her life.

Gillies was looking through the CD section, and he took down the disc of
Mamma Mia.

“My eldest loves this show. I’ll get it for her. Have you seen it?’

“Four times. It’s wonderful.”

We made our purchases and walked out to the car. I’m not sure if it was still the influence of the Callanish Stones, or just that I was feeling more comfortable with him than I remembered being with a man for a long time, but as we drove off, I found myself wanting to talk to him,
really
talk to him, I mean. “As you’ve probably noticed, Gill, my mother and I aren’t what you would call ‘close.’ But it’s funny that you should pick up that particular disc, because that is associated with one of my most pleasant memories of her... ”

I stopped, suddenly unsure of myself, but he nodded encouragement. “I was in university, and I hadn’t heard a word from her for several months. No letters, no calls. She said she’d been in a treatment centre. Did I mention she has been an alcoholic? Anyway, she called and invited me to see her new apartment and have dinner. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was pretty churlish, not complimenting her on the new place, which looked nice, or her new slim look. You know how omissions can be so ungenerous?”

“I know.”

“I was about to leave, as I recall, when she asked if I’d like to hear the latest ABBA song. I didn’t really, but I said I did. The song was “Does Your Mother Know?”

“That’s my daughter’s favourite. I think she identified with the words.”

“Didn’t we all? Anyway, Joan got to her feet and started into disco gyrations, which were all the rage at that time. She knew all the knee dips and hand rolls.” I sang “
you’re so young, and your feelings are driving you wild,
” and threw in a few hand gestures. Gillies laughed.

“I remember those.”

“Keep driving, I’ll do them for you. So we danced, my mother and I. When we stopped we were flushed and laughing, and I saw us both reflected in a mirror she’d hung by the window. Mother and daughter, same dark hair, same alive lively blue eyes.”

I stopped talking. At this rate I was going to get all teary.

“That’s a good memory,” said Gill. “I’ve danced a Scottish reel at the school dance with my girls, but I don’t think it was so much fun. John Travolta, I’m not.”

I stared out of the window. Less than three months afterward, Joan had jumped off the wagon and crash-landed. She lost her job and the apartment and went back on welfare. I returned to university and spoke to her as infrequently as I could. But it was a good memory in my little box of treasures.

Gillies allowed me my thoughts for a while, then he said, “I’ll just ring the station and see if I have any messages.... Rosie? Gill here. Got anything for me?... Okay. Let me write it down.” He took out his notebook and juggled phone and book until I took the latter and indicated I’d be the scribe. “06732... Mrs. Waring... Thanks, Rosie.”

He hung up. “Why is that name familiar?”

“Mrs. Waring runs a B & B on Skye. She was the one who phoned me about my mother.”

“She wants me to ring her.”

He keyed in the number immediately. My anxiety came flooding back.

“Mrs. Waring? This is Sergeant Gillies here from Stornoway.” He waited while the person on the other end of the line poured something out. He looked at me, frowning, and made an “I-don’t-know-what-this-is” gesture. “No, I haven’t yet been in contact with Mrs. Morris.... No, that wasn’t me, Mrs. Waring.... You’re sure he said Gillies?... Did he show you any identification?... I see, yes. Quite understandable.... He took the suitcase?... No, really, you haven’t done anything wrong.... Can you tell me what the officer looked like?”

Gillies made motions to me to write down what he said. “Late middle-age, greying hair, tall, wearing a yellow mackintosh. And what time did he come?... About ten o’clock this morning. Did he come in a marked police car?... No? Could you tell me what kind of car he was driving then?... No, don’t worry about it Mrs. Waring, there wasn’t any reason for you to notice.... Green, not too new? Good that’s something. Was he alone?... He was. You’re sure of that?... No, please don’t worry.... No, I’m sure it’s just a miscommunication over here. We’ll get to the bottom of this right away.... Yes, I will ring you back. Cheerie.”

“What the hell was that all about?”

“She says a man came to collect Mrs. Morris’s suitcase. He gave his name as Sergeant Gillies. He didn’t offer any identification, but she was expecting somebody to come because you had warned her, so she didn’t think twice about it. He said Mrs. Morris was fine and the matter had been cleared up. The only reason she called was to tell me she’d found one of your mother’s earrings and wondered where should she send it on to.”

“I assume there’s no possibility that somebody from the station was sent over and she got the names confused?”

“Not a chance. Jock’s left the case entirely in my hands.”

“So who was it? How many middle-aged, greying, tall men with yellow raincoats do you know?”

“The description would fit a lot of men. Well, the good news is she must be alive.”

“One would assume so. I mean, he could have found the address in her pocket as she lay dead and figured out there was
loot to be had. Or, on the other hand, she could have told him all this with her dying breath and she could still be dead. However, the most likely scenario is that she’s got some poor sucker to do her bidding.”

The savagery of my words made him blink. He caught hold of my hand.

“There are several possibilities and we can go over each of them carefully and logically. Get in the car and we’ll drive back to Stornoway. I’ll have to report this to Jock anyway.”

I realized I was shivering, although the car was quite warm.

“I’m going to operate on the assumption that this man is from Lewis. Do you agree with that?”

“He knew your name and rank, which would suggest a degree of familiarity, at the very least, with the police roster. He had Mrs. Waring’s address and knew what to ask for, so he has obviously had some contact with my mother. What I’ve suspected all along is that she’s met up with somebody. He’s an accomplice. There’s no reason to lie to Mrs. Waring otherwise.”

“All right then, let’s say he is from Lewis. One good thing about being on an island is that the entry and exit points aren’t that hard to control. It sounds as if this man was driving his own car, which means he would have to take the ferry over to Skye. There are only two departure places. From Tarbert, which is down in Harris, or from Uist, even further south on the island. It’s more logical that, if he’s from here, he’d use the Tarbert ferry. Have a look in the glove compartment. There should be a schedule in there.”