A Small Death in the Great Glen (9 page)

Detective Inspector Tompson terrified children. Dogs hated him too. His immaculate uniform, his dour expression and his dead-cod-cold-on-the-fishmonger's-slab eyes elicited silence, not answers. Woman Police Constable Ann McPherson longed to take over the questioning. Inspector Tompson was having none of it. She was but a woman. He was in charge. But the previous three girls had told them nothing of any use and had left the room in tears. Joanne sat to one side watching the interview in despair. The policeman was intimidating the child.

“Tell me again about that afternoon, Annie. You were walking home from school. You were with your friends, your sister and Jamie.”

“I don't remember.”

“For heaven's sake! The other girls said you were all together!”

“I forgot. Sometimes Jamie's no at school. He's sick a lot.” The policeman's impatience brought out Annie's stubborn streak. “And he doesn't always walk home with us.”

“You were playing a game.”

The child focused on the floor. “No.”

“You were ringing doorbells and running away.”

“No.”

“You saw a stranger.”

“I never saw nothing.”

“You must have seen something. You were with him.”

“We went home.”

“You're testing my patience.” He tried again. “Tell the truth. You've done this before—ringing doorbells and running away.”

“No.”

“Not what I heard.” The inspector's harsh voice was loud in the headmaster's small office.

Joanne was looking down at her hands, clenched in her lap. Frustrated, trying not to intervene, she knew the policeman would get nowhere with her daughter. Heaven knows, I've tried often enough myself and never succeeded, she thought.

“You know what happens to liars, don't you? Your mother and father will punish you. No doubt the headmaster will deal with you too. Six of the best with the belt, that's what you need.”

He nodded toward the headmaster, who was sitting in a corner, Inspector Tompson having commandeered his desk, and he too was trying hard not to intervene.

Again silence. Joanne knew that nothing now would make her daughter talk.

“Annie.” WPC McPherson spoke softly.

The child would not look up.

“Did you see where Jamie went? See any strangers? Anything unusual?”

Silence.

“Your wee sister said she saw a bogeyman.”

“She's only six. She makes things up.”

Joanne looked sharply at her eldest daughter. If anyone made things up it was this one.

The inspector suddenly stood. “I've had enough of this nonsense.” He marched out in a fury, WPC McPherson shrugging an apology as she followed, leaving behind a vacuum of silence.

“This is a very distressing situation for everyone,” Mr. Clark, the headmaster, said with a sigh as he closed the door. “Tell you what, school finishes in fifteen minutes, why don't you collect Jean, leave early, and you could all have a talk on the way home. And if I can be of any help, Mrs. Ross …”

Joanne, walking home, holding hands with a subdued Annie and Jean each side of her, realized that they were retracing Jamie's final journey.

“That's where Uncle Rob lives.” Joanne, trying to change the atmosphere, pointed to a bright 1930s bungalow standing in what had once been part of the estate of the big house.

“Uncle Rob lives there?” Jean was surprised. “Is he no frightened of the hoodie crow?”

Joanne stared at her then and cautiously, conversationally, tried to make sense of the child's blethers. “The hoodie crow?”

“Aye, the hoodie crow that stole Jamie.”

Joanne stopped. Turned to both children and told them, “You can't make up things like that. This is serious.”

Neither child would look at her.

“If you know anything, tell me. I promise, cross my heart, you won't get into trouble if you tell the truth.”

“No one ever believes us 'cos we're children.”

Annie was scuffing her school shoes on the pavement. Joanne had to stop herself from shouting at her, shaking her. She took a deep breath.

“I'll believe you if you tell me what you know. And we'll not say anything about ringing doorbells. This time.”

Annie was about to deny it, admit nothing, but something in her mother's voice stopped her. Hiding the truth was giving her nightmares. Maybe her mother would believe them.

“We just want to know why he didn't go home. It's not your fault, what happened to him. Do you understand?”

They nodded.

Both were in complete agreement, they were adamant, they told their mother, over and over; a hoodie crow had taken Jamie and that was the last they saw of him.

The next morning's meeting was “housekeeping,” in McAllister parlance. They worked through the many small tasks, discussed what to run, what to discard, they brought each other up-to-date on their articles and reports and worked steadily through the morning to the heavy rhythm of typewriter keys and the ping of the return bell.

“I know, it's a big place out there in the glens,” said the editor, chatting with Rob as they both leaned back, stretching tired arms, between articles, “and I don't need to tell you again, but if you find the Pole, talk to him before he's locked up, there'll be a wee story in it. Whichever way it unfolds it'll be interesting. And Don, that council story—I like it. I have a feeling about it. All these new housing and industrial developments are too much of a temptation for the unscrupulous. So fill it out, a bit more background. And check for legal problems. I don't trust Mr. High and Mighty Grieg or any other councilor not to sue us on this one.”

He left them to it. The clatter of typewriters, the regular ringing of the phone, Don up and down the stairs taking copy to the comps, Rob in and out to who knows where. Eleven thirty struck from the church clock. Joanne made tea but there was only Don and herself at the reporters' table.

“Thanks, lass.” He wrapped both hands around the mug and nodded to the half-sorted pile of copy paper. “I can see the renowned Scottish education system has failed miserably with the boy. Punctuation is where he pauses for breath.”

“That's Rob for you. He knows you'll fix it.”

Joanne was having problems of her own. One arm was still tender from the beating, making typing hard; sitting was also uncomfortable, but the main problem was that she had no idea how to even begin the report on the Highland Ball.

“Don, can you help me?”

The clocks across town struck a quarter to twelve.

“You've got one minute, no more.”

“I don't know how to put this. I know the
Gazette
usually publishes a list of who attended the ball and not much more.” She waved the clippings at him, caught the eyebrows raised in exasperation. “What?”

“It's easy. Who was sitting where. Who didn't attend. And throw in a wee description of the getup the posh damochs were wearing.”

Joanne looked puzzled.

“Who was sitting at the provost's table?”

“You know … the lord lieutenant, legal folk, a laird or two.”

“All as it should be,” Don informed her. “How about the town clerk's table?”

“Businesspeople and councilors and the wives. A man from some big concrete company in Aberdeen, a builder, an architect …”

“How do you know?”

“Bill and I were at that table.”

“Specify the host. List his guests by name and business.”

“Why?”

“Those in the know will quickly figure out who's in favor. Or who's begging for favors. Then there's your revenge. Give back thon fishwives as good as they gave. ‘Mrs. Uppity from Lower Auchnamuchty, also known as Mrs. Town Clerk Grieg, was resplendent in pink with a Princess Margaret décolletage and matching tiara.' Everyone knows she's fifty-seven if she's a day and shows off her wrinkly bosom any chance she gets. ‘Her husband was seen in close proximity to—' then name some young lassie … I'm joking, leave that bit out, even though everyone knows he's gey fond o' a sweet young thing. Then add that the Honorable Mary McCallum was unfortunately unable to attend. That'll get them all going 'cos she, the Honorable, is always a revered guest but she's had a huge bust-up with Mrs. Lady
Provost. So, rather than endure a seat at a second-tier table, the Honorable Mary comes down with a mysterious malady.”

“Don, you're a genius. I'm going to enjoy this.”

The sound of a cyclone rushing up the stairs brought Rob, still in his motorbike gear, flying into the room.

“They've arrested Peter Kowalski.”

“Peter? Arrested?” Joanne sat down. “What for, for heaven's sake?”

“You're sure?” Don was equally skeptical.

“Look at this.”

Rob waved a smudged paper, obviously the last of at least half a dozen carbon copies.

“Mr. Peter Kowalski has been detained, charged with aiding and abetting an illegal alien. Anyone with information on the matter of a missing Polish seaman, Karel Cie—szy—nski, no idea how to pronounce that, is asked to contact the police on Central 257.”

“Poor Chiara, I'll phone her right now.”

“No, wait.” Don marshaled his team. “Joanne, go over and talk to your friends the Corellis, see what's what. I'll let McAllister know—he's friends with Peter the Pole. Rob, you have a chat with your special friend. WPC Ann, is it? And don't look so glachit. Nothing passes by me.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“Forget the facetious bit, laddie. If Mr. Kowalski is any friend o' yours, you might want to put him in touch with your father. He'll be needing a good solicitor. The town prison is gey cold and grim. Better still, Joanne, you get hold of Chiara Corelli, tell her to call Mr. McLean. I'll tackle the inspector.” Don reached for his hat. “Arresting Peter the Pole—the usual overkill from Tompson.”

Rob was halfway out the door. “Oh, I nearly forgot. … Joanne, my mother wants to talk to you. Something about a bell, or bells. Hell's bells, maybe.”

F
OUR