A Small Death in the Great Glen (7 page)

On the Monday, Joanne took the bus to work, too sore to cycle. Her hip ached and she prayed she wouldn't cough; the bruising around her ribs and solar plexus made even breathing painful enough.

“Good night on Saturday?” McAllister smiled across at her as she joined the others for the news meeting.

“Great, thanks. Yourself?”

“Bored out of my mind.” He sensed her deflation. “Apart from the dance with you, of course.” The attempt at gallantry failed.
Sitting hunched in the chair, she seemed somehow diminished. He tried putting it down to Monday morning, but the echo of that cry, the flicker of stills from the night street scene had flooded his long Sunday.

Mrs. Smart, the
Gazette
secretary, sat poised, ready to take notes; Rob fiddled with his notebook; Don waved a fistful of copy paper to start the meeting, summarizing the next issue's content: road widening for the main A9 south, ferry changes for the crossing to Skye, prices fetched for this year's potato harvest, petty theft from a council house building site, golden wedding celebrations, plans to convert the Victorian poorhouse to an old folks' home, all the usual.

“The fatal accident inquiry on the child's death—”

“Aye,
accident,
” Don muttered.

“—will report back after the usual inquiries, but a postmortem has been ordered, just to be certain.” McAllister glared at Don. “Anything else, anyone?” Silence. He asked again. “Is there nothing new for this week or shall we just change the date and run last year's pages?”

“I doubt anyone would notice the difference,” Rob said cheerfully.

“You're employed here to make a difference, laddie.”

The editor's ferocious tone made Rob jump. He quickly explained his search for the “Slippery Pole,” as he had dubbed the missing sailor.

“Why didn't you ask me?” Don grumbled. “I'd have got you an in wi' the tinkers.”

“Thanks, I might take you up on that. A foreign tribe down there. I know they know something. But no one gets past those bairns—nor the dogs.”

“If you ask me, it's a job for the police to find him, not for some boy who fancies himself as a Scottish version of Scoop to
chase after.” Don glared at McAllister as he lit a new cigarette from the previous one.

“Joanne, how about a wee piece on the Highland Ball?”

“You were there”—Joanne didn't even look at McAllister as she spoke—“you do it. I'm only the typist, I've not got an
in
with anyone.”

Everyone stared. This was not the Joanne they knew.

“The committee secretary will send notes as usual.” Don made a peace offering.

“That's what I'm trying to get away from.” McAllister, still digesting the sharp reply, reminded them of the new policy. “We'll get who made a speech, who made a toast, who sucked up to whom, a list of the prominent guests. Riveting stuff. Something fresh and lively, a bit of gossip, that's what we need. It's right up your street, Joanne.”

“Depends on who the gossip is about,” she muttered.

“Like that, eh?” Don gallantly intervened. “I can just imagine it. You turn up looking smashing, the belle o' the ball, you get dumped at a table of council wives wrapped up in their superiority and their fox furs wi' claws still attached; you've been given orders to suck up to them whilst your man goes off drinking wi' the big boys to also suck up to them, then, when you step out onto the dance floor—”

“With me as her Prince Charming,” McAllister contributed.

“—you show them a thing or two. I bet every man there was wishing you were his wife instead of the battle-axe he came with. Grace Kelly of the Highlands, you are.”

“But you weren't there.”

“Aye, but I know what it's like.”

“I'm in agreement with Don, for once—belle of the Highland Ball.” They applauded. Joanne turned crimson. The atmosphere went back to normal.

“Why don't you give it a try.” McAllister spoke through a shroud of cigarette smoke. “Don't forget revenge is one of the perks of a journalist's job. Get a dig in, but keep it legal. Don'll sub it and if it's too close to the bone I'll take the blame—as usual.”

Somewhat flustered, decidedly more cheerful, she nodded. “I'll give it a try.”

Peter Kowalski had asked Mr. Silverstein to have the tray of wedding rings ready. He enjoyed talking to the old man from one of the few Jewish families in the Highlands.

“Don't worry. Only the best quality, like we agreed.”

“The matching ring for me?”

“My workmen will think you're a big girl, having a ring made.” He laughed, knowing this would make one more story around the town about the weird ways of foreigners. The jeweler's shop was in the Victorian covered market where many small family businesses congregated in long arcades. A large covered produce section had fruit and vegetable stalls, fishmongers and butchers, and at the northern side was the furniture auction room.

Chiara was meeting Peter at the jeweler's. Pleased, relieved, at last she had her explanation for all the whispering and secrecy between her fiancé and her father.

The bell on the door pinged, and in bounced a flushed and happy Chiara, her aunt Lita trotting behind. They exchanged greetings in a mixture of languages before settling down to the serious business of choosing the rings.

“Choose for me too,” Peter said. “Mr. Silverstein will make them up for us.”

Chiara took a long time, trying on this style and that, most of which looked identical to Peter, then after a debate in Italian with
her aunt, who was more impressed by weight than design, she said, “This one. Matching rings, please.”

“A good choice.” Peter squeezed Chiara's hand.

A handshake for Peter, a kiss on the hand for Chiara, a bow to her aunt, a promise to find suitable gifts for the bridesmaids, and Mr. Silverstein saw them to the door.

Chiara and Aunt Lita lingered in front of the gleaming window display, discussing gifts for the bridesmaids. Peter peered over their shoulders. Then his world fell apart.

In the soft full lights, nestled in blood-red velvet, amongst antique rings and brooches, was his mother's diamond and ruby crucifix. That it was his mother's he had no doubt. His grandmother had worn it before her, and her mother before that. It was a family tradition that the cross was passed down to the first daughter of each generation. His mother had never been without it. In spite of its value, she had worn it every day concealed under her clothing.

Peter felt faint. “A moment, my love.” He went back inside and hurriedly asked Mr. Silverstein to put the cross aside for him.

“You all right, my boy?”

“Maybe a touch of fever or something.”

The old man accepted the lie.

Peter walked the short distance from the jeweler's to the Station Hotel in a complete daze. Chiara, holding his arm, chattered away like an excited sparrow. Business acquaintances and friends smiled as the couple made their way through to the dining room.

“Almost a ritual, this, eh? We seem to see you every week.”

“It is,” Peter replied. His engineering company relied on contacts and, more important, council contracts. The man speaking to him, Mr. Grieg from the town council, was just such a
person to cultivate. Peter had to swallow his dislike of Grieg's self-important, hail-fellow-well-met handshake.

“Did you receive the wedding invitation, Mr. Grieg?” Chiara too knew the game.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

They were shown to a table. Peter dropped into the chair, trying to maintain his composure. He glanced at the menu, knew he couldn't eat, the very thought of food . . . He put it down to delayed shock.

“I think my stomach has had too much haggis.”

“You never eat haggis,” Chiara replied. She saw that he was even paler than his usual white-blond-hair, pale-blue-eyes paleness.

“Oh, right. Are you catching something? Do you want to go home?”

Gino was in the kitchen when they returned. “What's wrong?”

“His stomach, Papa.”

“Italians, we never get upset stomachs.” Gino smiled. Then, looking again at his future son-in-law, seeing his carefully disguised distress, he fetched some water.

“Thank you. And perhaps a walk?” Peter asked the older man. “Fresh air is good for me.”

On their way to the jeweler's, Peter explained.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain. I revered that necklace as a child. I know every stone in it. I remember the stories—the diamond that is not as good as the others because when it fell out and was lost, my father couldn't afford another of the same quality.”

He told Gino that when his father could afford to replace it with a better diamond his mother had refused, saying that it would remind them of harder times, now long gone. “My mother told me the history of the heirloom, showed me the pictures of her mother and also her grandmother wearing it. It came in
turn to the eldest daughter of each generation, from mother to daughter.”

Saturday being a half day, the shop was shuttered, and as they waited for an answer to the bell, Gino was still struggling to make sense of the story. How on earth could this Polish family necklace have ended up here, out of all the places in a still shattered Europe, here in this small Highland town where Peter had made his home? Mr. Silverstein had the same problem.

“This crucifix is my mother's.” Peter was adamant.

“I believe you. Please, your word is enough for me.” Mr. Silverstein had to sit down. “You know, when he came into my shop, I was suspicious. He said it was his mother's, but now he had no family. He said he needed the money to start his new life and couldn't get a good price in Tallinn. I believed him.” Mr. Silverstein was deeply embarrassed. “So now we must find this sailor, find out how he got your mother's jewelry. I will help all I can.”

Peter felt betrayed. He had done everything he could to help the missing sailor, even putting himself at risk with the police. His compatriot must have known, must somehow have taken the necklace from his mother, must have known of his mother's fate. And he had not uttered a word to Peter.

Mr. Silverstein turned to Gino.

“I never trusted a Russian before, now look where it gets me. Receiving stolen goods; I could lose my reputation, my business.”

“Russian?” Peter was puzzled. “The missing sailor is Polish.”

“Never. I am Russian, I know.”

“Describe him.”

“A bear of a man. Big beard. Dark. Dangerous. He wore a captain's uniform and spoke Russian with a northern accent. Murmansk, I am thinking.”

“That's not the missing sailor. He's Polish and fair but darker fair, not like me.”

The three men were at a loss to explain the what or the how or the why of the mystery. As Gino and Mr. Silverstein discussed one theory after another, Peter sat staring at the necklace, lost in thought, memories jostling for position like restless horses at the start of a race.