North Sea Requiem (2 page)

“I am so,” Rob protested. “Plus I played shinty at school, so I know the rules.”

“This is front page plus page three, so both of you are on it.” McAllister scribbled a note on his running sheet. “Rob, do a lead story and a background filler on the Shinty—interteam rivalries, who would want to sabotage the team, and all that. Joanne, you interview Mrs. Urquhart.”

“I can get some great headlines on this.” Don was pleased. He started to scribble.

“Next?” McAllister asked.

“I have something that might be interesting . . .” Joanne began, when Mal Forbes, the new advertising manager, walked in.

“Sorry I'm late, chasing up an account,” Mal said before taking a chair at the far end of the table. He was too new in the job for friendship, but all agreed he was efficient and hardworking, and after only two months had the advertising rolling in. He was polite to the others, but secretly considered Rob McLean frivolous, Don McLeod too old, and Joanne to be a grace-and-favor appointment on the
Gazette,
her being the “very good friend” of McAllister. Hector he totally ignored except when he needed him to take a picture to help sweet-talk a customer into taking a bigger advertisement.

Joanne thought Mr. Malcolm Forbes resembled a weasel; his shiny black slicked-back hair oozing Brylcreem, his shiny three-piece suit bought from a national chain of cut-price tailors, and his ridiculous briefcase, more suited to a high court judge than an advertising manager, irritated her. But it was his condescending manner to all things female that vexed her. She could say nothing; condescending males were ten a penny and Mal was no worse than most.

Stop being so unreasonable,
she told herself.
Most men think women should stay in the kitchen.

“I've a double page booked for this week,” Mal announced, “and what with all the rest of the ads, we'll need four more pages.”

“No . . .” McAllister groaned, “I mean—good for you, Mal. But what we'll fill the pages with heaven only knows.” He turned to Joanne. Since McAllister and Joanne started courting, he was careful to not show favoritism in the office. To her this came across as distant; to Mal Forbes, she was still McAllister's fancy woman. The others hadn't noticed much change in their relationship.

“It's this notice in our classified section . . .” She hesitated, no longer confident it was interesting.

“I've a good-size ad for flour booked to run for four weeks opposite the Women's Page,” Mal interrupted, looking straight at her. “Maybe Mrs. Ross could do some recipes. The advertisers really like your page. My wife does, too.” He saw the flush spread across her cheekbones and assumed she was pleased at the compliment. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've clients to call on.” He was off his chair and out the door and running down the stone staircase without waiting for an answer, leaving Joanne struggling, wishing she could come up with a witty retort.

Recipes!
she thought.
And the worst is, none of the others see anything wrong with his suggestion
. She well knew very few, women included, would see anything wrong in a woman being told to pursue recipes rather than a severed leg in a shinty sock.

“Sorry, Joanne,” McAllister apologized, “but we need something to fill those pages.”

“I'll ask my mother-in-law for her recipe for plum duff, shall I?”

This was meant sarcastically, but Don said, “You make one to test the recipe, then I can have a piece. I love a good plum duff.” He nudged her with his elbow. She laughed. Good humor was restored all round.

“Right,” McAllister said, “let's find out all we can about this leg. It's looks like a story that could . . .”

“Run.” Don, old sub editor that he was, couldn't resist.

•   •   •

Rob decided it was best to speak to Sergeant Patience in person. “He's upstairs wi' Detective Inspector Dunne,” the constable on the desk said.

“I'll wait.” Rob settled down with a copy of yesterday's
Sunday Post,
but didn't have time to finish the comic section, as the galumphing steps of the police sergeant could be heard coming down the stairs from the detectives' room.

The desk constable gestured with his head towards Rob, and the sergeant looked at the reporter. He too gestured with his head and mouthed,
outside
.

“DI Dunne will go too far one day,” the sergeant complained. “He's banned smoking in the office.”

Rob, being a nonsmoker and knowing how small the detectives' offices were, sympathized with the detective inspector.

“We have pictures of the leg in the team sock and boot.” Rob knew there was no point in denying Hector's intrusion into the crime scene.

“One day, I'll get that little twerp Hector Bain.”

“Aye . . .” Rob was about to say “the bane of your life,” but he needed the sergeant's good grace.

“The leg was at least three days dead before it was cut off,” Sergeant Patience said. “DI Dunne is going to call McAllister and ask for your help 'cos so far, none o' the hospitals has lost a leg.”

“You want us to publish an appeal asking if anyone has lost a leg?”

“Aye.” The sergeant smiled, for once seeing the humor in the situation. “Mind, it's probably some eejit's idea o' a joke.”

“Or a threat.”

The sergeant looked at Rob. “Do you know something I should know?”

“No. That was a guess. I mean, it is shinty. You know how seriously the teams take the Camanachd Cup. But the Highlands isn't Glasgow, it's not Celtic versus Rangers.”

Rob and the sergeant were amused by the story: they knew shinty rivalries. They knew the players—in the main, young men from scattered communities of the Highlands and Islands; they knew the games were a chance to blow off steam, to travel, to have an after-game drink or seven, but sabotage, threats, and physical damage were always confined to the field. So this leg business was most unusual.

“Are the police going to make a statement?”

Sergeant Patience considered this. “Naw. It's no' as though it was a fresh leg. As I said, it's probably just some o' the lads up to mischief an' taking the joke too far.”

“Not much of a laugh if it was your leg. I mean, you'd be very attached to your leg . . . if you were alive when you lost it.”

“Aye, there is that.” They grinned; the case had to be investigated, but both appreciated the joke.

Over the next days the gossip about the foot in the boot ran around the town, the glens, the islands. In the telling and retelling the story became so garbled, everyone was avid to read the full account in that week's
Gazette
. The edition sold out by midday. And although the newspaper account added to the mirth and speculation and puns and bad jokes, no one came forwards to claim the leg.

For Joanne, the most mortifying part of that week's edition came the day after publication.

McAllister congratulated the team, telling them the paper had sold out. “And there's a real controversy brewing in the letters to the editor.” He winked at Joanne as he said this.

Normally she would pretend she didn't notice, whilst loving the attention he paid her. This time she was wary;
something in his grin,
she thought.

“Aye,” he continued, “there's been some irate letters complaining that the ingredients in the plum duff recipe are no' the ‘real' plum duff.”

Joanne was furious. “It's my mother-in-law's recipe. You can't get more authentic than that.”

“First a potential war between shinty teams, now the battle of the bakers, I'm loving this.” Don McLeod was chortling.

“Aye, and my mother-in-law will be up in arms if you dare publish even one criticism of her recipe.” But Joanne had the grace to laugh. And the sense to know that Don McLeod and John McAllister's policy was “publish and be damned,” then sit back and enjoy the controversy.

J
oanne always hated February: cold, damp, miserable—in other words,
dreich
. To her dreich was the alternative name for February—the
r
rolling off the tongue, the
e
elongated, the
ch
said at the back of the throat as though there was a terminal illness lurking there—dreich. The only bright spots of the month were the first shoots of snowdrops pushing up through the frost and snow, the spring lambs cavorting in the fields on the lower farms, and the river that ran through the town, threatening to burst its banks with the volume of melted snow.

Joanne was discovering that that week's copy of the
Highland Gazette
—plum duff recipe and all—had caused quite a stir.

For the people of the Highlands, Skye and the smaller islands, Loch Ness, and the fault line of the Great Glen, the story of the leg was a major talking point and a major mystery, and the telephone at the
Gazette
barely stopped ringing all day.

In a quiet moment between phone calls—mostly asking about the recipe or the foot—an advertisement registered with her, principally because it was run in the Lost and Found section:

Seeking friends and colleagues of the late Robert John Bell, USAF, based at RAF Kinloss 1951 to 1952.

The notice had run twice without Joanne paying it much attention, even though she always read all the classified adverts, believing they gave a true sense of the state of a community. She loved the Goods for Sale ads. The notices. The Lost and Found. The sadness. The optimism. The crushed dreams.

FOR SALE Unwanted engagement ring.

LOST Dearly loved pet rabbit. Answers to the name of Fluffy.

FOUND Set of false teeth in drinking fountain at bus station.

NOTICES Lovat Scouts who served in the Faroe Islands—reunion dinner.

It was this that made a local newspaper. This that thrilled Joanne every time she opened a crisp fresh, sharp-smelling copy of the
Gazette.
After nearly two years, she would still nod to herself, smiling softly, as she saw her words, her writing, not quite believing her luck that she worked here as a reporter on the
Highland Gazette.

The notice: the
late
Robert Bell? When did he die? How did he die? Where? Here? Who was seeking information? His widow? His mother? Why search now, more than six years later?

Joanne hadn't told anyone her idea for the article, and with no story of substance for the next edition, she decided to investigate—anything was better than more recipes.

She went downstairs. “Who placed the notice about the American airman?” she asked Fiona, the
Gazette
receptionist.

“Mrs. Mae Bell,” Fiona replied. “She's American, the widow of the man mentioned in the notice. She's paid for it to run three times.”

Fiona paused, wondering if she had made a mistake; the notice was so unusual, she had not known where to place it. With Mrs. Bell's approval, it appeared in the Lost and Found section.

“There's been one reply. I left a message at her hotel. Mrs. Bell is coming in later today to collect it.”

Probably a waste of time,
Joanne thought,
but it might make a wee filler.

Late on Friday morning, knowing Joanne was alone, Fiona climbed the stairs and stood in the doorway of the newsroom. Fiona had always admired Mrs. Ross. She felt she could and should tell her about the note before Mrs. Bell arrived.

“Mrs. Ross, I found this.”

Fiona had found the letter on the reception desk with the other mail that morning. There was no postmark, no stamps on the envelope. She opened it. The writing was in neat capitals, in blue ink. It was almost a plea rather than a threat.

TELL THE AMERICAN WOMAN TO GO HOME.

NO GOOD WILL COME OF HER POKING AROUND.

When Joanne had read the letter, Fiona asked, “Should I tell the lady about this?” Being new in the job, she was anxious to do the right thing.

“Why did you open the envelope? Isn't this for Mrs. Bell?” Joanne was examining the paper, a lined sheet from a writing pad, probably bought in Woolie's.

“I didn't.” Fiona straightened her back; her cheeks went pink. “I don't open correspondence if it's private. There is a separate one for her, but this was addressed to the
Highland Gazette
.”

“Sorry, Fiona, I know you wouldn't do anything improper.”

“Anyhow, Mrs. Bell will be here later; why don't you talk to her yourself?”

“Call me when she arrives, and I'll come down.” Joanne smiled. “By the way, McAllister thinks you are really good at your job.” She'd made that up, but she had noticed how efficient Fiona was, especially for a sixteen-year-old.
I'll make sure McAllister tells her himself.

Joanne was still assigned to the shinty story, but aside from Nurse Urquhart, there were no women or children involved, and Rob was covering the search for the culprit, so once again she was relegated to what the others called the “Wimmin's Page.” It rankled. So she was more than ever determined to uncover a news story of her own. That she wanted to impress McAllister, she would admit only to herself, but another part of her wanted to be a real journalist, an investigative journalist, as McAllister called it.