A Small Death in the Great Glen (54 page)

“Mum, who lives in number sixty-four?”

Rob stood in the kitchen doorway, still in his damp ski jacket, watching as his mother made tea.

“That's the Youngs' house. Of course Michael Young died in the war, his wife died when she was only forty or so, and they only had the one child, Deirdre, so the house went to her. But she died five years ago. Never had any children, such a tragedy, I know she so wanted to be a mother. Now of course it belongs to her husband, widower I should say. …”

“Yes, Mum. And who is her widower?”

“I thought you knew, they've lived there long enough—”

“Mum!”

“Inspector Tompson, of course. What? What did I say?”

The next thing she heard was a motorbike roaring down the street.

“Everyone thinks I'm mental accusing a priest—but a policeman?”

The pain was a throbbing pulse in his jaw and a tight band around the forehead. He shouldn't have gone out last night. Nor drank on an empty stomach. McAllister felt worn down and weary and defeated and past caring.

“I hear you, Rob, but really. Tompson? I don't see it. You will need a cast-iron case and you yourself said the girl won't talk. Even if
you
credit her story, Joanne says her daughter has a wild imagination. The same child who swore it was a hoodie crow, then she let us think it was the priest who took the boy, and now she's accusing Inspector Tompson? No. Beyond belief.”

“It was her wee sister who kept changing her story, seeing a hoodie crow everywhere. Annie, the eldest, only said they saw a hoodie crow to scare her sister so they wouldn't get into trouble for ringing doorbells. Look, I know children, I'm nearer to Annie in age than I am to you. … The girl blames herself for what happed to Jamie. … She is terrified of her father but she
did
see a man, in a big coat, a greatcoat, pick Jamie up, on the doorstep of number sixty-four.” Rob started to pace. “I know that house, it's round a bend in the road and about a hundred yards away from ours, it's very like the house next door, rhododendron bushes, stained-glass doors, and the light would be behind him, making a silhouette. Maybe it wasn't Tompson, but it was his house.” He was shouting now. “I believe her even if you don't.”

“Aye, that's as may be. But with your known antipathy to Tompson, who do you think will listen to you?” Defeat overwhelmed McAllister. “We'll never get Morrison, he's gone. There's no proof of anything other than some distasteful pictures. Nothing more.”

Rob couldn't take any more.

“Will you stop being so maudlin, for heaven's sake? I saw those pictures. They are not nothing. They made me feel sick, dirty, unclean. Those boys were used. Those photos were worn, the edges curled, they had been pawed over by some very weird persons. Look, McAllister, I know I haven't seen the things you saw in the war but I
know
this sort of thing can ruin lives.

“And also, there's something going on in that house next door. I went in there, I was in the hallway and someone came to the front door, they had a key, and no, I've no idea who it was, but I bet they were not meant to be there.

“So go on, sit there, tell yourself you were right, that thon bee in your bunnet about it being the priest is the only possibility. But puzzle this out.

“Why was a greatcoat burning in the Reaburn when Morrison was long gone? Here's a button off it to show you I'm not imagining things.” Rob ferreted in the depths of his inside pocket, found it, and with it found the key.

“I found this too, it fell out of the remains of the coat.”

He laid both on the table and left in despair, realizing that McAllister, his hero, was only human after all.

Barely five minutes had passed when the doorbell rang again. McAllister didn't move. It rang once more. A minute went by, then the visitor came down the hallway.

“The door was open, so …”

“Jimmy.” McAllister gestured to a chair.

“I came to bring the bottle from Ma. She sez to say, ‘Aa the best,'” Jimmy explained, “but you're no well so I'd best be going.”

“For God's sake, sit down and open that bottle, that's one of the best single-malts I'll see in a long time.”

They sat, nursing their glasses until dusk began to add to the gloom of the atmosphere.

“Jimmy, you didn't come all the way from Ross-shire just to ask after my health. Spit it out, man.” McAllister was as direct as a heart attack.

“It was thon photo you showed me,” Jimmy began. “I recognized one of those boys, and I started to remember more about those days—and I wish to Christ I hadn't.”

Silence.

“I know this boy, a man now, he's stopping hereabouts.” He took a sip. “He knew a lot more about the goings-on with your friend Father Morrison—Father Bain as we knew him. He, my friend, was one of the boys from that home I mentioned. And when he was a wee lad, there was an older boy who died there, but it was all hushed up.”

“This is the same home where some of the boys from the boxing club were living?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Will he tell you what he knows?”

“Aye, maybe, he hates them that much. He knows what went on. He knows Father Bain, Morrison, and he knew the other bastards, the ones who got away with it. Of course no one will ever listen to him, 'specially not now.” He paused. “See, there's a wee bit o' a problem—I can't get to speak with him.”

McAllister looked the question—why?

“My record means I'm no allowed in. This manny, he's in the gaol. But you can get in, you're respectable.”

After Jimmy had left him alone with the bottle of malt, McAllister knew he should phone for Westland. It was only six thirty, the landlady would pass on the message. He was certain he wouldn't be calling the police station. He was uncertain whether he would be calling any policeman, even DCI Westland. And the phone was in the hall, and the hall was cold, and his face hurt, and he was bone weary. Tomorrow, I'll think on it tomorrow he told himself. So he dragged himself off to bed, taking the bottle with him.

With the midwinter solstice a week away, a red-streaked far-north twilight hovered before turning from positive to negative. In those slow moments, every bush, every tree, the buildings, the horizons, shimmered in static. Some nights, when the electricity was so noticeable that the hairs on the back of the neck tingled, when contact with metal gave off static shock, and when the dogs became restless, a splendid light show from the aurora borealis was certain.

Rob wheeled his bike into the garage and as he shut the door, the antics of the rooks in the trees next door melted his frustration, restored his natural state of grace. Cawing, squabbling, scrambling for space on the bare branches of one especially
large sycamore that, drooping from the weight of the rookery, looked like a dispirited mother bowed down from the constant squabbling of an overlarge, querulous family. What did you call them—a parliament of rooks? Was that what McAllister had said? McAllister; Rob still couldn't believe he wouldn't listen.

Opening the door to the porch, about to shed the layers of motorbike gear, a smell, in a downdraft of acrid smoke, drifted over the lawn, then was gone. He sniffed. It was that same smell. Rob crept along the lawn, hugging the edge, hidden by rhododendron bushes. The Big House seemed its usual dark and empty self, but Rob sensed that whoever had relit the fire had not left. He looked upward toward the main bedroom, the one Morrison had made his studio. Later he could not recall what had made him certain someone was in there; there was no car around, there were no lights on, no noise, nothing.

It's not that I'm a coward, he told himself as he sneaked back to his own house, I'm not in the least scared. His mother and father were out for dinner, he was just being cautious, being a good citizen, remembering his promise to keep an eye on the house next door, that's what he told himself as he picked up the phone.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. McPherson, can I speak to Ann?”

She arrived fifteen minutes later on her bicycle.

“I hope this isn't one of your stunts to get me out on a Sunday night—” He held his finger to his lips. “It's just that my hair's still damp,” she whispered as they huddled by his back door.

A car passed along the road, stopping a few doors further up.

“That'll be Chief Inspector Westland.” She spoke softly; the noise of the rooks had settled but there was still the occasional scuffle and indignant caws as a fight for space on the branch broke out. Rob went out to meet him.

“Sorry to get you out, sir. It may be nothing, but I think
there's someone in there”—Rob pointed to the house—“and I'm sure I smelt smoke.” He didn't mention the previous time he had smelled a fire.

“Can we get in?” Westland asked.

“Ann and I can get in by the coal hole but you're too fat … big,” Rob amended. “We can open the front door for you. But go through our garden. There's gravel all round the house, so the burglar might hear you. Come on, I'll show you.”

Westland had his police torch, Ann too. She also had her truncheon. Rob was most impressed.

They met up in the hallway and stood at the foot of the stairs, the smell of burning now distinct; the sound of someone moving, opening cupboards, shifting furniture, echoed down the stairway.

“Is the electric still on?” Westland wondered.

“Aye, I think so,” Rob murmured.

“Where's the switch?” And in one movement Westland switched on the hall lights, yelled, “Police!” and charged up the stairs followed by Ann McPherson, truncheon at the ready.

It was like a war cry from the clans at Culloden, Rob said later when he and Ann relived the whole episode, but the effect wasn't quite as dramatic as it should have been as there was only one dusty forty-watt bulb for the whole of the hallway and stairs.

Westland burst into the bedroom, Ann following, Rob not far behind.

“Inspector Tompson!” Westland panted. “What the hell are you doing?”

Tompson was shaken but in an instant remembered himself.