A Small Death in the Great Glen (38 page)

“Tut, tut, lads. He's no told the wife.” Jimmy Gordon made great play of looking shocked. “An' they say there's no meant to be ony secrets between husband and wife. Whit's the world coming to?”

Joanne had had enough.

“Mr. Gordon, tell me what this is about, then leave. It's late and I'm tired.”

He told her. All one thousand pounds of it. It sent her head reeling.

“So I just wanted to let you to know that my brothers'll be the ones to collect. I have to go back to see to business in Glasgow. They'll be keeping an eye on things for me, making sure the payments are on time. Since you'll be seeing quite a bit of them it's good we've been introduced. Right?”

“Right.” Anything to get rid of them. “I'll see you out.” She opened the front door. “I'll make sure Bill gets the message.”

Brother number one turned, his grin up to full wattage.

“I'm sure you'll make sure he gets the message.” He looked around. “Nice wee house you've got here. Sorry I was too late to meet the lassies. Annie and Jean, isn't it?”

He shooed his brothers out into the night, gave a cheeky tip to his hat and followed them to the car.

Joanne slammed the door, locked it, ran to the back door, locked that too. Standing in the kitchen, caught between rage and terror, she started to shake. Finding themselves beholden to Glasgow gangsters was one thing; them coming to her house, mentioning the girls, was quite another.

“Dear heavens above! You idiot man! What have you gone and done this time?”

Huddled at the top of the stairs, listening in to every word, Annie was wondering the same thing.

Ben Wyvis loomed white in the pauses between weathers. Snow had settled on the tops of the lower hills. The town stood granite-still before the horizontal sheets of rain coming straight from the North Sea. Cyclists were the main victims, malevolent gusts trapping them on the bridges, intent on whisking bike and rider up into the cloudscape and suspend them in a painting conjured up by Chagall's Scottish cousin. Joanne had pedaled hard through all that the heavens could fling at her, trying to forget the picture of the malevolent gleam in the eyes of the eldest Gordon brother. No use. Neither wind nor rain nor cold could shake it loose.

Sitting at the reporters' table alone, she worried. Too much was happening, her foundations were shifting and the nocturnal visit from the Glaswegian brothers had shown her a circumstance and set of characters encountered previously only at the pictures.

McAllister sat in his office nursing his gloom. With a theatrical sigh, he unfolded himself from the chair and took himself to the reporters' table, looking for something, someone to distract him. Joanne looked up through a wing of hair. Both hesitated; the easy familiarity had not yet returned. She was about to tell him of her strange encounter when Rob charged in. Exhilarated by his brilliant idea, he strutted over and perched himself on the edge of the desk.

On wakening, he had called asking for an interview, he told them both.

“Hello. Oh, it's yourself. Really? Aye. No, nine's not too early. Friday morning it is then. Grand,” was the reply.

Father Morrison then asked after Rob's father and his mother before signing off with a cheery “Bye-bye.”

“So I've set up an interview with Father Morrison.” Rob was well pleased with himself.

“You're daft.”

“Thanks for your confidence, Mrs. Ross.” Rob turned to McAllister. “It'll be fine. He's known me a long time. He thinks of me as a boy. Who better to do an interview?”

The editor nodded. “Aye. Who better?”

“Besides, he'd never talk to an old man such as yourself.”

“Oh dear, I'm kicking myself for not thinking of such a brilliant idea. Satisfied? But no mention of anything about—”

“Hoodie crows. I'm not that daft. Then you can buy me a drink after.”

“You're too young to drink.”

Atmosphere lightened, Rob grinned cheerfully. He couldn't abide gloom.

“I'll do it as a good-luck-and-farewell piece.”

“What?” McAllister stared.

“Didn't you hear? He's been given a promotion. He's off to take charge of a school in Lanarkshire.”

“Why the hell didn't you tell me?”

“I've only just found out. And besides, you're not exactly approachable these days.”

“Right, lads and lasses.” Don walked in. “When you've all finished righting the wrongs of the world …”

McAllister turned to leave, but Don, rolling his eyes in exasperation, shoved a pile of copy paper into his hands, telling
him to have it done by the end of the day. “Then you can be off chasing shadows and crows. In case you've all forgotten—we've a paper to turn out.”

“Yes, Mr. McLeod,” chorused Joanne and Rob.

They all settled down to grapple with the controlled panic of another deadline.

It wasn't until late in the morning, alone with Don, that Joanne decided he was her only hope. She had first thought of Chiara—but she had enough worries of her own. She thought of Rob—but he was too young to take it seriously; he would probably get excited at the thought of meeting real live gangsters. She thought of McAllister—but she was still wary of getting close to him; he was her boss, after all. And Don? He knew life. He wouldn't pity her. Or judge her. And he could keep a secret. So Don it was.

“Don, if you wanted to borrow money in a hurry, where would you go?”

“Just ask, I'll always help out.”

“No, but thanks anyway. I mean, if a person in the town was in real trouble, and needed a lot of money in a hurry, is there a moneylender or something like that you could go to, apart from the pawnbroker in the market, that is?”

“Maybe. But you'd be a fool.”

“How so?”

“Interest, lass. Compound interest, starting at twenty percent, more if you're desperate.”

“You're kidding!”

“What's this about? Yer man?”

“It's a long story.”

“Right you are. It's nearly one, we've time for a pint and a chat—on me.”

Arm-in-arm down the slick-wet cobbles of Castle Wynde,
off they slithered to one of Don's favorites. It was a long narrow place, nearly all streetfront, in a lane opposite the station. High smoked-glass windows, cut-glass mirrors, like the inside of a Gypsy wagon except for a bar, with brass railings and spittoons, running the length of the room. This was definitely a “men only” public house. Joanne didn't care anymore. She was a journalist.

They sat in a corner. She told Don. He whistled.

“The three Gordons.” Don was taken aback by the whole story. “Poaching on McPhee territory. What a nerve.” He was dumbfounded by the amount of money. “That much?” He was furious when she told him that they knew the girls' names. “This is serious, lass.”

“I know. Bill has big problems with the terms of the contract; he can't wriggle out. Councilor Grieg's has somehow got a hold on him. But going to these men, that's not a solution. I wish I could do something.” She stopped. She thought it over for five seconds. May as well, was her decision.

“Maybe I
can
do something. I have an idea to help Bill. A not-very-honorable idea, but …”

By now Don was thoroughly intrigued.

“You're talking to the right person then.”

“It's very, very hush-hush.”

“That requires another pint.”

He came back.

“Right, tell me all. I'm the keeper of the secrets of this town, going back centuries. Besides, you should always have a sneaky unscrupulous person in your corner.”

“And that sneaky unscrupulous person is yourself.” She pretended to hit him, made him swear that he would never tell, then she let him have the whole story.

“My God. The bastard. How old was she when she had the baby?”

“Sixteen.”

“Then she was fifteen when he had her.”

“She was the housekeeper. First job, straight out of school.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Blackmail him.”

“I like the sound o' that.”

“I'm going to blackmail him into doing something completely legal, something completely within his power, something that any decent person would have done already.”

“That's ma girl.”

“One thing though, Don.” She stared at him. “If I can fix it, I don't want Bill to ever hear of my part in any of this.”

“Aye, I can see that. Bill couldn't take any more of your being better than him.”

“What?”

“It's no your fault.” He saw that he had offended her. “And I'm not saying you do it deliberately … all I'm saying is, he must feel inadequate around you. I mean, look at you, you're bright, a daughter of the manse, and let's face it, you'd never have married him if you hadn't had a bun in the oven.” She went bright pink at that. “I know everything, remember?” He nudged her with his elbow. “No, what I'm saying is, he's not the kind of man who takes kindly to interfering women.”

“You don't pull your punches, do you? And I'm not interfering, just helping. It's my family too.”

“I know, but that's not how he sees it. He's the man, breadwinner, the boss, and he has his pride.” Don shook his head. “You're too good for that man, Joanne, and he knows it and resents it.”

“Aye, so I've been told, and he's been told the same often enough. That's the trouble. But that's not how
I
feel.”

Felt, she realized with a jolt, that is not how I felt, past tense. And now? That, she hadn't yet worked out. She had been
feeling that her anchor was slipping for quite some time now. Even though it was a poor excuse for a marriage, she was tied to it, it was what she had chosen. Over the past few weeks, though, it felt like the wind had changed, that a new direction maybe, perhaps, might just be possible—a life on her own. How to do it, that was still problematic. She felt Don watching her. She smiled, shrugged a what-the-heck, then told him, “Back to the office, Mr. McLeod, I've an appointment to make before I lose courage and change my mind.”

“Come in, sit down. Would you like some tea?”

Joanne sat in front of his desk, knees pressed tight together to stop her shaking. She wouldn't be here if Don hadn't said he'd do it himself if she backed down. Grieg filled his executive chair. He needed it; born big, he was now gone-to-fat big. He smiled ingratiatingly at Joanne but was unable to disguise his dislike. Over the years, they had met at one function or another. She had never bothered to hide her contempt at his pawing and his passes.

Bill Ross made a bad match there, he thought. Look at her. For all her posh ways of speaking and her airs an' graces, look at her in a tweed skirt, lace-up shoes and for goodness' sakes, a knitted tammy.

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? Naturally, I'm always happy to help the ladies and gentlemen of the press.”

She smiled politely at the condescension, picked up her prop, her notebook, and began at the beginning, not stopping nor pausing at any of his snorts of protest. Finished, she closed the blank notebook and sat back, quietly waiting for the response.