North Sea Requiem (24 page)

Mae could see the hotel receptionist, listening, not missing one word, including
the
and
letter
.

“Say, why don't we discuss this someplace else?”

Mae Bell steered them towards the Carlton's cocktail bar, a short walk away. Rob was worried he wouldn't have enough money to pay for a martini, as he was severely broke. As usual, most of his wages went on buying records.

“The anonymous letter was more of the same,” she began to explain. “So I'm choosing to ignore the unpleasant.” She smiled and looked up at the chandelier, blowing smoke towards the glistening crystal drops. He noticed the darkness under her eyes. He observed how the smoking was now constant. He saw her nail
polish was chipped. He felt for her and was all the more determined to find the letter writer.

“What did the letter say exactly?” Rob was persistent. He wanted a story, if not to publish, then to share with Don.

Mae pursed her lips, gave a tiny shake of her head. “It was unpleasant. Definitely the same writer and”—she leaned forwards, her eyes meeting Rob's with an intensity that made him look away—“I will not be frightened off by some cowardly rat of a . . .” She was about to say
bitch,
but stopped. That was crude, and might give too much away. There had been much speculation that the writer was a woman—
No need to confirm it,
she told herself.

Rob stayed for one glass of wine, then said he had some work to do.

Mae said she too had to leave.

When the bill came, Mae said, “My treat.”

“Thank you. And Mrs. Bell, Mae, I want you to know I am doing everything I can to find out who is sending these horrible letters.”

“Don't.” She put a hand on his arm. “It's not important. Please leave it.”

She was gone, off down the street, before he could reply.

On the drive home, Rob was not thinking about the letters but about Mae's request.
Why shouldn't I look for the letter writer? Why is she warning me off?

He wheeled the bike through the garden gate and into the garage, taking care not to scratch his father's car. It puzzled him but eventually he put it down to an older woman concerned for a young man's safety;
Mae worries about me, the same as my mother.
Just how wrong he was he would never know.

•   •   •

That night Mae Bell resumed her watch.

Four times now she had checked out the house and the garden and come to the conclusion it was the shed that mattered. She had
seen the woman, and occasionally the man, unlock the door, stay for only a few minutes, then lock the largish, concrete, tin-roofed, obviously home-built structure with, from what she could deduce, at least two padlocks. The small window, facing a garden wall that was at least six feet high, she could only see from a narrow angle.

“So late for here,” she muttered, a half-smile stretching her lips, for once without the deep red lipstick, “but about the time I usually go onstage.”

Sure enough, a church bell started chiming. She counted eleven. As the last bell sounded, she thought she heard a cry. Or crying. Then it died.

“Very soon now,” she whispered to the night. “Back in Paris very soon now.”

F
iona was young. She was bright. She qualified top of her year at school. She could have gone to the academy but chose the technical high school because she was good at sports, and they had much the better facilities.

Besides,
she told her mother,
I want to learn shorthand and typing, not Latin.
Her mother was slightly put out—she'd have loved to impress the neighbors with her lass in an academy uniform. But her husband disagreed.

“Academy brats,” was what he called the few pupils in their royal blue blazers who came from their council estate.

Fiona never regretted the decision.
I have a great job here. I'm saving money. I'm seventeen in three weeks. I don't go out with the wild bunch. Why can't I have a boyfriend?

She had rehearsed her lines over and over, was now word-perfect and ready to tell her mother—but not her father.

“Hiya.” Hector had come in to reception without her noticing.

He knows what I'm thinking
 . . . she was frantic for a safe topic of conversation, anything to banish her dreams of a white wedding dress and a piper in full dress kilt playing the music as she entered the church.

“Hiya.” They had picked up the greeting from Rob. It was hard to have a conversation in the office; Fiona was terrified her father would hear and make her leave the
Gazette
. It was not that
her father had an opinion on Hector, but he certainly had an opinion on his granny. “Witch” was one of the kinder things he said when describing Granny Bain.

Hec wanted to tell everyone, especially Rob, and Hector was incapable of hiding anything; even an untruth would make him blush “beetroot,” as Fiona put it.

“I'm taking photos in Kiltarlity on Saturday afternoon. Do you want to come?”

“The shinty?” she asked.

“Aye.”

Mal Forbes came in. “Shinty is for teuchtars.” He winked at her as he said it, then leaned over the desk, rifling through the mail. Finding nothing of interest, he asked, “Where's McAllister?”

Hector answered. “He's gone to Elgin.”

Mal Forbes went as still as the proverbial statue, back rigid. “And his bidie-in, is she here? Or with him?”

Hector took a step backwards.
Bidie-in,
the colloquial term for a woman living in sin, shocked him. He knew McAllister and Joanne Ross were friendly; it was the first time he had considered they were more than that.

“We know nothing of Mr. McAllister's personal life.” Fiona, suddenly ten years older, glared at Mal Forbes.

“Aye. I'm sorry. That was right rude o' me.”

The phone rang. “
Gazette,
how may I help you?” She started writing. “That'll be fine. Bring it in this afternoon and it will make the next edition. Thank you.” When she hung up, Mal Forbes was gone, but not Hector.

“Jings, you stood up to him—an' he's your boss an' all.” His eyes were shiny, his grin megawatt.

“Mrs. Ross is great. She's always kind to me. Maybe we can have a double wedding with them . . .” It was out before she knew it. Her hand over her mouth, she was furious with herself.

“Joanne is already married.”

“Oh, Hector.” She was giggling. “Hector.”

“What? What have I got wrong this time?”

•   •   •

Joanne knew of Elgin but had never visited it. An ancient cathedral town, with a hill reputed to be the realm of the faeries not far from the town center, it was a bonnie and prosperous place.

Joanne was interested in history, in ruins, and towns with character—some of the many reasons she was looking forwards to Elgin.

She had a book borrowed from the library. “It says here, Elgin has a rich and ancient history. The cathedral was built in 1224. It was burnt down later, then . . . hmmm . . . various battles and . . . this looks interesting, the Bishop's Palace, early thirteenth century as well . . .”

“I researched Elgin and Morayshire. More distilleries than you can poke a stick at.”

“Trust you!”

They parted in the town. McAllister left the car in the square, walking to his appointment with the newspaper editor.

Joanne went to the library, her point of reference in every town. There she found the notice board with all the parish happenings. One of the librarians also provided information on the best café, with toilets, for it had been a long journey. Walking around, she was struck by how prosperous the town seemed, then she remembered the air force base. And the distilleries.

The farmland they had driven through was prosperous too. Rolling, tree-studded hills, a castle or three, substantial stone steadings and farmhouses, dairy cattle, Aberdeen Angus beef herds, crops showing through in green shoots from dark earth, with frequent rivers and burns falling from a horizon of hills and the distant Monadhliath Mountains. The rivers Nairn and
Findhorn had sweet water with trout and salmon abundant and water that gave the whisky its distinct peaty color and flavor.

Findhorn Bay, at the mouth of the river, was a renowned beauty spot. Joanne remembered Don's teasing.
Roll in the dunes indeed;
she was smiling to herself when the waitress came up and asked if she would like more tea.

“I'd love some.”

When the tea arrived, Joanne went straight to the point.

“I don't live here, but I'm trying to help my American friend. Her husband was lost in that air crash in the North Sea a few years back . . .” She didn't need to say more. The woman was out of the starter's block faster than a greyhound.

“Thon was terrible. Nice young men like them, what a waste.”

“You knew them?”

“No, but you can't grow up hereabouts an' no' meet the airmen. They come to town to the dancing and the pubs, most o' them are right nice. Aye, we had some fun.”

“This is the notice my friend put in the newspaper.”

The woman took the notice Joanne had cut out, held it at some distance, and squinted. “Bell. Bell. I remember the name from the accident, but I didn't know him. Aggie!” she screeched. “Come away out here.”

The only other customer ignored the shriek.
Probably deaf,
Joanne thought.
A shepherd,
she guessed, seeing a crook leaning against the wall.
Maybe not, maybe he's part of the historic decorations—who walks around town with a crook
?

A younger, shorter, thinner, fairer version of the waitress appeared, shaking Joanne out of her dwam.

“This is Agnes, ma wee sister, and I'm Effie Forbes; it's ma teashop,” the older, chattier woman said.

“I know a man called Forbes from here, Malcolm Forbes.” Joanne saw the woman's cheery face turn wary.

“His daughter is in the same class at school as my daughter.” She didn't know why, but for once Joanne was not eager to say she worked on a newspaper.

“
She's
no blood relative,” Effie Forbes continued, “but Mal, he's good to his wife right enough.”

“Aye,” her sister agreed, shaking her head as though baffled by their cousin's choice of wife. “She's not from here you know; she's from the Highlands.” Aggie Forbes said this as though she shared the view of the English that Highlanders, although a mere seventy miles away in distance, were another race, an uncouth, unwashed, uneducable rabble.

“Anyhow, show Aggie your wee bit o' paper.” Effie Forbes wanted the subject dropped.

“Oh, him . . .” Aggie smiled. “He was a nice man, really tall. I didn't really know him, just to smile to . . .”

“Those Americans, they have nice manners,” her sister interrupted, and Aggie went quiet.

Joanne knew that lassies who went out with foreign airmen risked their reputations for “a bit of fun.” “My friend put the same ad in your local newspaper but didn't get a response; that's why I'm here,” she explained.

“Really? I never saw it an' I read the paper cover to cover,” Effie Forbes said.

“So do I,” Joanne said, “I even read all the classifieds . . .”

“Best bit,” Effie was now looking at the ad again. “I'd have seen this if it was in our paper, I'm sure o' it.” She handed the ad back to Joanne.” You can check in the library; they keep back copies.”

“I was there earlier. The lady recommended your café.”

“Aye, she's ma sister an' all.”

Joanne paid for the tea, told them their scones were delicious, which they were, and walked back to the library. It took an hour, but after searching through all the classifieds for a six-month period,
there was nothing. Even with the help of Jessie, the sister, there was nothing, no advertisement seeking information on Robert John Bell.

Maybe we have it wrong,
Joanne was thinking as she went towards the car,
maybe Mae Bell meant another newspaper
. She saw McAllister leaning on the bonnet, long legs stretched out to the pavement, hat on the back of his head and in profile; she saw what a good-looking, interesting man he was.

He's mine,
she wanted to say. Then told herself,
Don't
.
Not yet. Too soon. Wait a bit. Don't take risks. Don't get trapped again.

“Hello, lady.” He stood, taking her hand. “Come into my shiny car so I can have my wicked way with you.” He loved the way she would drift off into a dwam, her eyes unfocused, so obviously thinking over whatever it was she was thinking over.

“Let's go somewhere out of town, somewhere we can talk,” she said, smiling at him.

“Findhorn. I was told there's a small . . .”