North Sea Requiem (42 page)

“I never. I never threw the acid.”

“Yes, you did. I know you did.” Frankie pulled out the gun.
It was black, heavy, and uncomfortable in the hand; Frankie had never used a gun. He had touched it once, when his father had shown him his souvenir from the war.

“German it is,” Coach Frank Urquhart had told his son. Why he kept bullets for it Frankie never knew, but when he looked for it in the trunk under the bed in the spare bedroom, he was pleased to find a full box.

“I never hurt your mother.” Alan Fordyce's voice was high and shaky.

“I know you did,” Frankie said again, and held out the other hand. In it was a watch, a distinctive watch, on a pin, with a ribbon. On the reverse was Nurse Urquhart's full name, her RN registration; it was the upside-down watch she had always worn, the watch that fascinated Frankie. As a child he couldn't work out how his mother could read it until she pinned it to his jumper to show him.

“I found this in your locker at work.”

“You'd no right . . .” Alan started. Then stopped. Why he had taken the watch he couldn't say, even to himself. It was there, bright and shiny; the nurse was wriggling, screaming out in pain. Someone could have come. He could have been caught. It didn't matter. He wanted it the way a jackdaw wants a shiny object. He took it. He kept it. He examined it often, remembering her screams that quickly faded to a choking as she scratched at her throat, trying to tear the acid from her clothes, her skin.

Frankie was now holding the gun out, pointing it at Alan, saying, nicely, “Tell me what happened. Then I'll let you go.”

“I never meant her to die.” Now Alan was crying. “I only meant to burn her a wee bit.” He was on his knees. “You've got to believe me.”

“Why?”

“It was her got me kicked off the team. Everyone knows your dad is
no' the real coach. Everyone knows what Nurse Urquhart says goes.”

“But acid? That's a terrible thing to do to a person.” Frankie had not once raised his voice, not let emotion show. In these moments, he had none.

“I never meant to hurt her, I only wanted her watch; she always wore it, but she wouldn't give it to me.” That was his justification. He asked her for the watch, some strange compensation for her getting him kicked off the team.

She'd laughed at him. “Don't be silly,” she'd said. “I need it for ma work.”

So he had no choice but to throw the acid.

Frankie remembered his mother wore her watch even when she wasn't in uniform. “Never know when I might need to take someone's pulse,” she always said. It was not that—she was proud of the watch—as proud of it as any soldier with a medal.

Frankie had not lowered the gun. It was still pointed at Alan Fordyce, square in the chest.

“I only wanted to get her for kicking me off of the team,” Alan whined. “I didn't mean for her to die.”

“You killed my mother because you were kicked off the team,” Frankie said again. “But everyone knows you were kicked off the team because you're useless. Letting in two goals today? Even though you're injured, you're still useless.”

“Can I go now?” Alan was huddled on the ground, his face smeared with mud and tears and snot. Frankie still had the gun pointed at him.

“Frankie, let him go.” It was Rob. “I heard it all, I'll be a witness.”

“Rob, what are you doing here?”

“A man walking his dog said he thought there was someone here with a gun.” The man wasn't sure, thought it must be a game. But Rob believed him. “Put down the gun, Frankie.”

“Naw. I let him go; they'll only charge him with manslaughter; he'll be out in a few years.”

“Put the gun down, Frankie. He's not worth it.”

“Get your notebook ready, Rob, this'll be the headline of the year.”

Frankie pulled the trigger. There was a click. Nothing happened. Frankie tried again. Nothing. He turned and looked at Rob.

Rob stepped forwards, took the gun, and linked his arm through Frankie's. “Let's go.”

Frankie let himself be led towards the river. They were unsteady; Frankie walked as though falling, and Rob did his best to hold him up. To a bystander it would look as though Rob was holding up a drunk.

Alan Fordyce they left in a puddle of pee and tears. Rob didn't care. Alan would be dealt with soon enough.

Rob led them across the road to the riverbank. He let go of Frankie and, holding the gun as high as he could, swung his arm back and threw the gun far out into the current. Seeing the distant splash, Rob said, as though discussing next week's football fixtures, “You forget about the safety catch.”

“The safety catch?” Frankie was holding his elbows in his crossed arms, rocking himself as though chanting Orthodox prayers to the fast water. “It has a safety catch?”

“Aye. And I doubt it would fire anyhow, it's that old.” This he was not certain of, only saying it to reassure himself.

“A safety catch,” Frankie uncrossed his arms. He started to laugh. “A fucking safety catch.”

Rob couldn't help it. He laughed. They stopped, looking where the gun went in. They looked at each other. Relief, release, hysteria made them laugh again.

They heard the shrill of police cars. They didn't look round—they were watching the river flow.

Five minutes passed.

“C'mon, Frankie,” Rob said, “It's over. Let's go home.”

Highland Gazette

17 May 1958

Missing Flight Clue Found

Norwegian ship captain Magnus Johanssen handed over to local police a life jacket he found three years ago on a Norwegian beach. The harbourmaster, Mr. John Douglass, advised the captain it may have come from the aircraft missing from RAF Kinloss airbase since 1952.

“It is not unusual for debris from shipping or from Britain to end up on Norwegian shores,” said Captain Johanssen, 53, from Bergen in Norway. “I found the life jacket three years ago whilst walking my dog on the shore outside of town and kept it aboard my vessel. It can still be used in an emergency.”

When asked why he took so long to inform authorities of the find, the Captain told the Gazette reporter, “I was in the Harbourside Cafe reading the newspaper to improve my English when I saw the story of Robert Bell, the missing airman. I told the harbourmaster I had an old RAF lifejacket. He checked it and called the police.”

Detective Sergeant McPherson from the local constabulary confirmed that the life jacket came from the missing aircraft: “RAF personal have identified the jacket as belonging to the flight that disappeared with five airmen on board, including Robert John Bell.”

The widow of Robert Bell, Mrs. Mae Bell, who recently spent ten weeks in the Highlands looking for information on her husband's disappearance, was unavailable for comment. Charles Bell, brother of the missing, now presumed deceased, airman spoke to the Gazette via telephone from Paris.

“I guess finding the life jacket proves the plane ditched in the North Sea, but it doesn't clear up the mystery of what happened on that flight.”

According to the American Air Force authorities the case remains open. The police say their case is closed. “The whereabouts of the aircraft may never be solved,” said Detective Sergeant Ann McPherson.

T
o all the lovely people who looked after me in the United States: Will and Carol Jennings, Alex Marshall, Sam Miller, Janet McKinley, Jon Hendry, Katy and Clive Hopwood, and the many kind strangers who cheered me on as I sojourned in a strange land.

To all the bookshop people and readers, thank you for the feedback and encouragement and for having me in your stores as a guest.

To Sophie Mae Young, thank you for that first spark.

To Martin and Helen McNiven, my first and most encouraging readers.

To Catherine McKinley, thank you for reading a very rough draft and giving such perceptive feedback.

To Jennifer Smart for support and feedback and laughs.

To Jan Cornall for cracking the whip.

To everyone at Atria: thank you for your support, your dedication—it was so good to meet you in the real world.

To all the usual suspects; Sheila, Peter, Sarah, Judith.

And Hugh.

•   •   •

Note. My foremost inspiration for this book is Annie Ross, jazz singer and actor extraordinaire. However, none of the events in this novel are in any way connected to her. As far as I know she never lived in Paris, never married an airman, never visited the Highlands. She and her music are a source of inspiration, nothing more, nothing less.