A Small Death in the Great Glen (41 page)

“There was a pile of them. Negatives, contact sheets, and lots of photos. Photos of boys. I stood like a stookie staring at the pictures. That was when Father Morrison called out he'd finished. I barely had time to put everything back.”

Rob stopped. He sniffed. He looked out the window, then continued.

“I made a big palaver of looking at the time, told him I was late for work, grabbed the photo of him by the corner, it was still wet, and said I had to go. I made for the door, blethering nonsense, and had to stop myself running down the drive, straight home.”

“Did you take any of those other pictures with you?” McAllister asked.

“I couldn't. I knew he'd be on to me if I did.” Rob was miserable.

“But you have the photo of Father Morrison?”

“I gave it to Don.”

“We must take this to the police.” McAllister could feel the man slipping away again.

“How? There was nothing in the pictures really. They were just”—Rob searched for the words—“not nice. They were pictures of boys at the boxing and group shots and photos taken on excursions and stuff … but there were lots of pictures of boys in a big bath … you know … it was just that … the way they were posed, it made me feel … well, dirty.” Rob was staring at the carpet. “And I searched his drawers; that's illegal. My dad would go spare if he found out.”

“Morrison would first have to make a complaint,” McAllister pointed out.

“I didn't steal anything, but if we tell Inspector Tompson, he's just as likely to arrest me. Attempted burglary or some such.”

“The chief inspector from Aberdeen, Westland's his name, he's in charge and he's a dammed sight more on the ball than Inspector Plod. At least I hope he is.”

McAllister, looking out of the casement windows through rain that was now turning to sleet, remembering other photos, photos sitting on the mantelpiece shrine, his mother's pride and joy, knew that there was too little, in fact none at all of the solid evidence needed to connect the priest to any crime. But that was not his job; he was a reporter, reporting the facts. He thought about his brother, his mother, Jamie, all the young lads who had been tainted and tarnished by men like Morrison, and he knew he couldn't ignore what he suspected.

“I'll get to the heart of this. No matter how long it takes me.”

And Rob, at the same time, in his own way, was making the same promise.

McAllister and Rob walked the very short walk to the police station. At the front desk, the editor asked for Detective Chief Inspector Westland. The desk sergeant told them he was out but would be back soon and invited them to go on up and wait.

A tall narrow window giving out onto the Castle Wynd dimly lighted the detectives' lair, which lay off an equally narrow winding stairway. Handy for the courts, which were in the castle proper, but cramped with three desks, the door to the room was left permanently open to all the comings and goings on the stairs.

“Tompson will let Morrison know what I did. They're in the same church,” Rob whispered. He was desperate to get out of this meeting.

“Wheesht. Leave it to me.”

Inspector Tompson appeared. He didn't even greet them, just glared.

“What now?”

“We're waiting for Westland.” McAllister was determined to ignore the inspector.

“Detective Chief Inspector Westland to you.” Tompson then poked a finger at Rob. “His time is too valuable to waste on speculation and innuendo from the press. Not to mention libel.”

McAllister, using his height and his formidable voice, stated, loud enough for everyone in the police station to hear, “I shall be letting the chief constable know that his officers are not interested in receiving information from the public. And furthermore, no more help will be forthcoming from the
Gazette,
not whilst I'm the editor.”

Halfway down the stairs, McAllister's furious progress was halted as he ran into DCI Westland. Rob, at his heels, almost fell on top of the editor.

“I heard that.” The policeman held out his hand. “Would you care to come upstairs again and give
me
your information? In private?”

So they did, leaving nothing out.

Joanne had not seen Chiara for nearly a week. They arranged to meet during Joanne's lunchtime break and have a sandwich at the coffee bar.

Gino waved as she came in, beamed at her, shouting a hello above the roar of the coffee machine, and pointed to where Chiara was waiting. The friends had this part of the café to themselves. No one mentioned it, but custom was still slow. There were some in the town who would always believe there was a link between the Italian family and the stranger awaiting trial for killing the child.

Stands to reason, some said, they're all foreigners. Aye, others said, and I heard the Italian girl is engaged to that Polish man who is protecting thon murdering bastard.

And so it went.

“Long time no see.” Chiara smiled.

“There's been so much happening.” Joanne smiled back.

“You look different.” Chiara examined her friend. “It's not the hair. No new clothes—you're still in that disgraceful old tweed jacket you love. So … your husband is away … is that it? Nope. A man? Ah hah! A hint of a blush. Tell me all.”

Joanne was laughing by this time. “You know, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you've grown up.”

“Thanks a bunch.”

“No, I mean that as a compliment.”

Their sandwiches and coffees arrived. Chiara thanked the waitress and when she was gone, they started the real conversation. Anyone watching would have seen two heads leaning close, one with raven black hair, the other bright brown. They would have noted an occasional touch to the arm, a hand placed on a friend's hand. Anyone listening would have heard a constant murmur coming from one, and exclamations of “Never!” or “Get away!” or “Oh my goodness!” and muffled bursts of laughter and moments of quiet and a final “You never!” coming from the black-haired woman before they hugged, then ate their sandwiches and drank their cold coffee.

“Look at the time.” Joanne was up and grabbing her scarf and hat.

“Please say you'll come.” Chiara, pleased again.

“I don't see how I could manage it.”

“Ask McAllister for a lift. He'd never refuse you.”

Joanne gave Chiara a mock punch and tried to get out the door before her friend could see the light in her eyes.

“Friday night then?” Chiara called after her. “And if you don't ask him, I will.”

Joanne sat in the visitor's chair in McAllister's office. Then stood up. She offered to make tea. He refused. She looked at him. He stared back. She started, her tone formal sounding.

“I don't know how to say this. I don't know where to begin. McAllister, I'm determined to make something of my life. I know, I know, hard for a woman, especially in this place, in these times, but I will.” She took a deep breath. “Can I have a full-time job?”

He looked surprised. Then nodded.

“Can I have a raise?” Again he nodded.

“Thank you. I suppose you want an explanation?”

He shrugged.

“Thank you so much,” was all she could manage to say. She stood.

“One thing more …” She hesitated. “Would you take me to a dance in Strathpeffer on Friday night?”

It had come out all wrong, she realized that, but before she could clarify the request, McAllister smiled at her and asked, “Are you asking me for a date, Mrs. Ross?”

“No, never, I mean, no.” Chiara had
that
wrong, she thought, I can't be grown-up if I keep blushing all the time. “No, what I meant was … Rob has got this band—”

“So I heard.”

“And Peter Kowalski plays guitar and there's a drummer and someone else and they're playing at a party to celebrate Keith McPhee marrying Shona Stuart. So Chiara wants us to go. To support Peter.” She dared a look and he seemed interested. “So I thought maybe you could give me a lift and we could all have some fun, because it's all been so serious lately.”

“I think that's a fine idea. I'll be happy to take you.”

“You will? Great.”

And he watched as she fairly skipped out of the room.

“I hear we're going to a party.”

“Aye.” McAllister continued to work without looking up.

“For heaven's sake! Make an effort, man!” Don stalked back to the reporters' table.

McAllister was there ten seconds later.

“Sorry. I'll explain, but not now. How about supper, my place, tonight?”

“I'll bring a bottle.”

McAllister was gratified when Don asked for seconds. The cock-a-leekie soup was his culinary magnum opus. And the tattie scones were not bad either. But he'd cheated and bought those at the bakery.

“So,” Don said as they stretched out either side of the fireplace, feet on the brass fender. “Might as well tell me because otherwise I'll have to find a way to get rid of you.” He waggled his glass at the editor. “You're no much company at all these days.”