North Sea Requiem (41 page)

They remained in the kitchen. Five minutes into the conversation, Charlie Bell joined them, though not in his dressing gown. Angus McLean shook hands, then continued. “As I was saying, your marriage certificate makes a great deal of difference. And no one can dispute that Malcolm Forbes is not the child's father.”

“I also brought my birth certificate to show Bobby was my brother,” Charlie said.

“I don't think we'll need it. The point is, no one knows what to do with the boy now his mother is dead, and the husband will be in gaol a long time. There is an inclination to grant you temporary custody of the child, and to allow your application for adoption to proceed.”

“What are my chances, Mr. McLean?” All Mae Bell wanted was to have the son of Bobby Bell live with her and his uncle Charlie.

“In light of his mental difficulties and the circumstances, I believe the chances are good.” He did not say that a child like Charlie had a minimal chance of being adopted otherwise. “No one wants the scandal; the welfare authorities did not follow up on Nurse Urquhart's report of a child being neglected, so . . .”

“How soon can we have him with us?”

“I believe immediately, if somewhere can be found for you to live around here for a few weeks.”

“You can all live here.” Mrs. Ross spoke as though it was her house, but she knew it was right.

“I have to return to Paris in two days; can wee Charlie come join us before then?” Charlie asked, using the Scottish word he had learned, and delighted in, from Elsie, his new best friend.

“Unlikely, but I'll do my best.” Angus McLean would do more than his best; he would shame and blackmail the department to allow the child out.

“When we, I, adopt him, can I have his name changed to Charles?” Mae shuddered every time she thought of the name on the boy's birth certificate—Malcolm.

“Of course. I can help you there.”

When he left, Mae said, “Mental difficulties! The way he was treated of course he has problems. Yes, he's strange”—she smiled at Charlie—“but he has perfect pitch. I'll make a singer of him.”

“And I'll teach him the sax.”

When McAllister came home that evening, having gone straight to the hospital from work, Mae told him wee Charlie would be coming to stay next day. “If that's okay with you?”

“More than okay; I'm delighted. Hopefully Joanne will be out of hospital soon. She'll be delighted too. And the girls.” He paused, still absorbing his news. Then he grinned, not his usual intimidating grin, more like a shy schoolboy who has won the prize grin. “Joanne and I are to be married.”

Charlie and Mae Bell called out their congratulations. He and Charlie toasted the good news with his best single malt, Mae with tea.

“And Paris for the honeymoon,” Mae decided.

“Where else?” McAllister smiled. “But don't tell Joanne; I want to surprise her.”

T
he
Highland Gazette
limped along short-staffed, but advertising was still steady, thanks to the charms of Frankie Urquhart and the organizational skills of Fiona. Don McLean could tell from his writing that Rob was in shock; there was none of the usual vim, none of the usual superlatives Don was renowned for putting his wee red pencil through. He missed them. McAllister was spending half his time at the hospital, so his work was also suffering. Above all, in Don's opinion, with no Joanne to cover the small articles, the minutiae that made up a local newspaper, the
Gazette
was losing its character.

“The McLean residence.” Margaret was trying out the accent and tone of a ladies' maid. A brochure from the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama had come in the morning's post, reminding her of her youthful dreams to go on the stage, impossible for a young woman of her birth.

“How would you like the job of temporary junior reporter on the
Gazette
?” Don asked. He knew she could write. He knew she knew everyone. And he believed in the power of middle-aged women.

“When do I start?” Margaret did not have to think; the offer tied in with her scheme. Plus she was bored.

“Let's see, it's Friday, how about we meet tomorrow and you start on Monday?”

“I'll see you in the morning.”

When she told her husband, he was amused; Rob, less so. “I'm not sure how I feel about working with my mother.”

“Ah, I want to talk to you about that.”

She gave him the brochure. She explained her plan. She knew only a small number of students were enrolled per year, and older students were encouraged to apply. She told him he would of course be accepted. She said his audition was four weeks away. “So I've arranged some coaching from Mrs. Ward, the elocution teacher. All you have to do is learn your lines.”

“I'm not sure I want to be an actor.” Rob was staring at the audition guidelines.

“Studying drama is an opening into television,” Margaret explained. “You are now a qualified journalist. Next you study acting. Most of all, you will be there, in a big city with a marvelous theater and television studios, and training to be an actor—think of the contacts you'll make.”

You won't be continuously thinking about what happened here, remembering every time you pass that street, which is on your way home, that you killed a woman.
Margaret McLean also knew that in a small town like theirs, Rob McLean would forever be the person who killed Moira Forbes with a spade, almost severing her head. The gossip was such that some people had Rob beheading Moira Forbes, à la Mary Queen o' Scots.

Rob took the brochure up to his room and studied it as he listened to late-night Radio Luxembourg. He liked the idea, saw the sense in it. And, like his mother, he was confident he would be accepted.

•   •   •

Frankie Urquhart was enjoying his new job. He liked talking to people. He liked the news meeting, surprising himself by how much he had to contribute.

“We might have to make you a reporter instead of advertising,”
Don said when Frankie suggested two stories at the Monday morning news meeting.

“Thank you, Mr. McLeod,” was all Frankie said, delighted at the compliment.

That Wednesday, wanting to learn all he could, he stayed on with Rob and Don McLeod to watch the edition being printed. The smell, the noise, the concentrated busyness, the thrill of the first of the newspapers coming off the press and knowing he had contributed to it, made Frankie feel all the more that here, in a newspaper, was where he wanted to be.

Across the floor he saw Alan Fordyce, the compositor and former player on Frank Urquhart's shinty team. Alan looked up at Frankie, who nodded. Alan turned away.

Rob waved at Frankie and they went out to watch the vans and lorries being loaded.

“So that's it for the night,” Rob said. “The bundles are off to the train and the bus station and tomorrow . . .” Rob was remembering his forthcoming audition and trying a hard-bitten American newspaper reporter accent. “Hey presto, another edition of the
Highland Gazette
hits the streets.”

Frankie was used to Rob, so he ignored his gesture of magic wand and swirl of cloak and said, “I'm liking it on the
Gazette
.”

He refused a lift home, wanting to soak in the atmosphere of the newspaper a little longer. He lit a cigarette in the shelter of the close next to the loading dock. Alan Fordyce walked out, saw Frankie, stopped and stared at him, said nothing, then hurried off down the steps to the river.

Frankie thought nothing of it, but something made him decide to follow. He was certain Alan had been behind the foot in the shinty boot in the washing hamper.
Give him a bit o' scare,
Frankie thought.

He ran to the top of the steps. He hurried after the figure
halfway down the steps. They were steep, the flight long, hugging the wall to the left of the high ramparts around the castle. Below, the river was barely visible on a moonless night, and the rain intermittent.

Alan Fordyce paused. Looked up. He started to hurry. At the bottom he glanced again at the figure coming fast down towards him. He ran around the corner. By the time Frankie reached the street, Alan Fordyce had disappeared. Frankie smiled. He'd given his ex-teammate a fright.
Serves him right.

•   •   •

The following Monday's news conference was taken up with an argument over the reporting of the charges against Malcolm Forbes.

“Why can't I say Moira Forbes and/or her husband were involved in Nurse Urquhart's death . . . sorry, Frankie, are you okay with this?” Rob looked at Frankie, who was sitting next to him at Joanne's typewriter.

“I'm fine. I just want the bastard charged.”

“That's the point,” McAllister said. “There are no charges yet, as there is no direct proof.”

“You know we can't print speculation,” Don pointed out.

“And no one knows for sure either of them done it,” Hector said.

“What do you mean?” Frankie stared at Hector. He knew him well, from their being neighbors and at school together. Over the years, he found that Hector's often preposterous pronouncements were just as often uncannily accurate.

“Mal Forbes is denying all knowledge of the attack on your mum,” Rob explained, thinking he'd strangle Hector as soon as they were alone.

“I thought it was his wife who did it.” Frankie's voice was calm, but his face alert; he was now certain there was information,
or speculation, about the death of his mother that no one was sharing with him.

“Frankie,” McAllister said, “no charges have been issued over the attack on your mother.”

“Murder,” Frankie said. “Mr. McAllister, it was murder.”

“Yes, it was,” Margaret McLean said.

The silence in the room lingered until Frankie looked around and said, “Let's hope someone discovers something soon. In the meantime, you were saying . . .” He looked at the editor, and with a slight shrug, motioned that he was ready to move on.

Rob wrote the front-page update on the charges against Malcolm Forbes. McAllister reported on the recovery of Mrs. Joanne Ross. They both contributed to a backstory on Mae Bell and her recovery and imminent departure from the Highlands, which Margaret McLean wrote, with Don heavily subbing out superlatives.
A family trait,
he thought.

“I'm not sure I can write without adjectives,” Margaret had told him.

“Sure you can,” Don replied. “Besides, if I can train your son, I can train anyone.”

The fate of the boy—the very existence of the boy—was not mentioned outside their small circle, and news of the boy, and his parentage, never leaked out. That Angus McLean might have threatened the staff at the council department with a lawsuit for neglect, no one except those involved knew, not even his wife.

•   •   •

It took ten days before Frankie decided to confront Alan Fordyce after the shinty match, a home game at Bught Park. He had to know for certain Alan had not attacked his mother.

The other players and supporters were long gone. Frankie waved cheerio to his dad, calling out that he would see him
later. He told Rob they would meet up at the billiard saloon. He watched Hector leave with Rob, and soon everyone had gone. Alan was waiting in the stadium changing rooms, having agreed to talk to Frankie, albeit extremely reluctantly.

“If we've to work together,” Frankie had said, “let's get all thon business out in the open.”

Alan had agreed. He was nervous but didn't look particularly so.

It was light, it was clear. Frankie didn't care.

He was more worried by what their coach had said—shouted. He'd lied about his fitness. Weeks later, his foot was not fully healed and his team had lost by three goals to nil, two of which were his fault, even though he'd played only ten minutes before being substituted.

“I know it was you put the leg in the washing basket,” Frankie began.

“I'm really sorry,” Alan said. “I meant for your father to find it.” He was looking at the concrete floor, afraid of Frankie's anger.

“Aye. Well. It was ma mother that came across it. No' that it worried her that much, her being a nurse.”

“Look, I said I'm sorry.” He was now leaning against the wall, favoring his other foot. Even though he had healed remarkably well, he was hurting after all that running. “I must be getting back; the others are waiting.”

“They're drowning their sorrows in the pub. They can wait.”

They walked outside and were in the shadow of the stand, the short tier of seats rising up, empty of everyone including the ground staff and cleaner. Frankie had his right hand in the deep front pocket of his duffel coat.

“What I don't get,” Frankie said, as though trying to puzzle out a tactic in shinty training, “is why you threw the acid.”