Beneath the Abbey Wall (2 page)

He knew it wasn't, and he knew he would be ashamed of this lapse of memory for the remainder of his life. He turned away. He wanted to remember her differently—alive, clearheaded, calm, an anchor in the newsroom, an older woman, once pretty, who had grown into a handsome understated elegance. He wanted his vision of her, hair in a chignon, never a stray strand, no makeup and the only touch of vanity a perfume that Joanne had assured him was called Joy, to remain intact, not sullied by the sight of her in death. And he needed to breathe, to affirm he was alive.

“I need air,” he said. He didn't add that the mortuary was thick with the presence of death, and he could only breathe through his mouth, and he needed a cigarette, and he needed a whisky, and he wanted to talk to someone but he was too old to talk to his mother, and he was once again regretting his aloofness, his self-isolation, facets of his character he never saw as a fault, until lately.

Mrs. Smart is dead.

DI Dunne walked with McAllister along the corridors, out into the fresh air, saying nothing. The detective was a good man. And sensitive. He knew when to say nothing.

McAllister refused the offer of a lift home. He wished DI Dunne a good night, knowing it would never be that. WPC McPherson had left.
Probably off to break the news to the husband
.
That seems the lot of a woman police officer.

McAllister took the Infirmary footbridge across the river, the quickest way home. Halfway across he thought,
Her husband—all I know is that he is a retired military man.
Again he tasted the bitter tang of guilt.
I know so little about that splendid woman, and now it is too late.

A church bell was striking one o'clock as he opened his front door. He went to the kitchen, put on the kettle. Remembering his mother's recipe for shock, he added sugar to his tea. Taking his mug to the sitting room, he added a slug of whisky—his recipe for shock. He threw a log on the embers of the fire, settled down to search for the name. Still the answer eluded him.

She was a private woman. I've worked with her since I came to the north from Glasgow, I liked her, I respected her, but I could never say I knew her. She was always Mrs. Smart to everyone—even to Don, but I should know her first name.

A calm efficient woman, he had inherited her and his deputy, Don McLeod, when he was brought in as the editor of the
Highland Gazette.
It took only one day for him to recognize that he did not need to tell them their jobs, and that they could run the place without him.

McAllister was there for a different reason—to bring the newspaper out of the nineteenth century and into the nineteen
fifties. It had taken more than a year, but 1957 was the rebirth of a newspaper unchanged for more than a century.

Why in Heaven's name would anyone want to murder her? It must be a mistake.

He had always thought her name appropriate—Mrs. Smart—the model of an efficient office manager; quiet, well-mannered, capable, able to grasp his new ideas for the
Gazette
and implement them without fuss. She was fine-looking in an elderly, middle-class way. She seldom offered an opinion until asked, did not gossip, and kept her private life private.

Wasn't her husband a war hero from somewhere in the Far East? Don will know. They've worked together since before the war. Should I tell him? Is one o'clock in the morning too late? Who would want to murder her? Why was she in town at nine thirty on a Sunday night? How are we going to get the paper out without her?

And in the maelstrom of thoughts he kept returning to the question that bothered him most—what was her first name?

*  *  *  

McAllister had had little sleep, but he wanted to be early; he felt it his responsibility to break the news to the others on the
Gazette
. He walked down St. Steven's Brae, brain not quite in the land of the living, the homing instinct guiding him to the office. The incoming tide of Academy pupils on their way to school in their blue blazers, chattering like a flock of starlings, in groups or dragging bicycles, in solitary despair because they were not part of a popular group, in panic over homework not done, dragging their Monday-morning feet up the steepness, parted around and oblivious to the gaunt man.

He continued down Eastgate in the suitably Monday-morning
dreich. To a passerby who knew him slightly and who was ignored when he lifted his hat to McAllister, the man seemed to be searching for something or someone. Which he was; he was searching for an answer.

He reached the ornate eighteenth-century town house that loomed over the end of the High Street and paused to light a cigarette. He would need all the nicotine his body could absorb to get through this morning.

Climbing the spiral stone staircase to his office, he heard the clatter of what sounded like a bucket. Through the half-open door of his office he saw a cleaner mopping the floor. He knew the
Gazette
employed a cleaner, he had seen the payments in the budget, but he had never been in early enough to meet her.

“I'll no' be a minute,” she said without looking up.

“Fine.” He walked the five steps across the landing to the reporters' room, where the floor was still wet. He took a tall chair at the end of the long High Table, as Don McLeod, his deputy, referred to it. He lit another cigarette and waited.

As he stared out of the solitary window at the dark grey cloud cover, he started to mentally compose the obituary.
A nice woman, with an impressive bosom; can't put that in an obituary
. He half smiled, his first since seeing the chrysalis of her body, covered by the sheet, her hair still tight in that immaculate French roll she had worn as long as he had known her.

A good woman—no, that doesn't do her justice.

“Goodness, you gave me a fright.” Joanne Ross stood in the doorway. “Never expected to see you in so early.”

McAllister busied himself stubbing out a cigarette in the metal ashtray with “Souvenir from Ayr” stamped around the edge.

She stared at him for a moment, seeing the darkness around and in his deep, almost navy blue, eyes. “What's wrong?”

“Let's wait for the others.”

She knew that was all she would hear until Don McLeod, deputy editor; Rob McLean, her fellow reporter; and Mrs. Smart, the business manager, turned up. She took off her Fair Isle beret; finger combed her heavy chestnut hair, hung up her scarf and coat, stuffing her gloves into the pockets. It might be mid-September, but cycling across the river, the North Sea wind could penetrate right to the bone.

“Tea?” she asked.

“No thanks.”

Joanne and McAllister were awkward alone with each other. The sound of Rob running up the stairs was welcome. Following him came the wheeze of Don's breathing, clearly audible from a half-flight of stairs above.

Sitting at the reporter's table that filled up most of the narrow room, facing the Underwood typewriter that she thought of as ancient and unforgiving and imbued with the spirit of John Knox, Joanne grinned at Rob as he came in.

Rob grinned back, shook the wind out of his overlong straw hair, threw his motorbike jacket at the hatrack, which wobbled but stayed upright, and holding his hands in the air, declared, “Goal!”

Don McLeod had to climb into the tall chair beside McAllister. They always made an incongruous pair—he short and barrel shaped, the editor long and pole shaped. He sat for a moment to get his breath back—the climb up the stairs on Monday always seemed steeper than on other days. His glance at the railway station clock registered the editor's early attendance, he winked at Hector Bain,
Gazette
photographer and serial nuisance who had crept in, taking the chair next to Joanne, knowing she at least would not shout at him, he muttered
Good morning, lass,
to Joanne, ignored Rob—it being too early for a
twenty-two-year-old's version of wit—and began the search of his numerous pockets for his little red pencil, the one that kept the
Gazette
reporters up to the mark. He found it and put it behind his right ear. Now he was ready to start the week.

McAllister stubbed out yet another cigarette. “I have some news . . . ” he started.

“Well, we are a newspaper,” Rob pointed out.

Joanne threw a scrunched-up ball of paper at him. He ducked. She missed. They grinned at each other like small children misbehaving behind the teacher's back. Don McLeod looked at them as though he were their teacher not editor. He started to waggle his finger at them, then realized what was wrong.

“Where's Mrs. Smart?” he asked, knowing that for the ritual Monday-morning news meeting she was always in before the others.

McAllister saw he had lost control of his hands. He put them under the table, holding on to the underledge.

“Mrs. Smart won't be coming in. She's . . . ” He couldn't continue.

It was Don who understood first.

“Has she had an accident?”

Before McAllister could reply, the sound of voices echoed up the stairwell.

“You can't go up without an appointment.”
Gazette
secretary Betsy Buchanan's voice, although shrill, was completely ineffective—the two sets of footsteps were already halfway up the stairs.

Detective Inspector Dunne hesitated in the doorway. The uniformed policeman behind him was visible only as a navy blue blur. But the detective, in a smart wool jacket, white shirt, regimental tie, raincoat open, hat respectfully removed, with
the face of an off-duty funeral director, made everyone instantly nervous.

“Mr. McAllister, can I have a word?” Detective Inspector Dunne asked.

“Where's Joyce?” Don stood, his body tensed, ready for a blow.

Joyce. Of course.
McAllister was furious with himself.

Rob had a flash that this was going to be bad. Joanne's face went pale, emphasizing her freckles. Hector looked as though he was about to cry. And DI Dunne realized that Mrs. Smart's colleagues had yet to learn the news.

“Say what you have to say to all of us,” McAllister told the inspector.

DI Dunne took a step into the room. He took a deep breath as though he was about to announce the next psalm, and, looking up at the high window, the one decreed by the original architect to let in light but not the stunning view of castle ramparts, said, “At approximately half past nine last night, the body of Mrs. Archibald Smart was found on the steps off Church Street leading to the Greig Street Bridge.”

Then, ever-vigilant police detective, he shifted his gaze downwards to take in the reaction of Mrs. Smart's colleagues.

There was a distinct moan, like a beast lowing in pain. It came from Don. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, head in hands, rocking backwards and forwards as though at prayer.

Joanne stared at Rob, who put his arm around her shoulder.

“How did she die?” Rob asked.

The police inspector paused for a moment to consider whether to tell, then answered, “She was stabbed. I've been told she died instantly.”

More as a puzzle than a question, Rob blurted out, “Why would anyone kill Mrs. Smart?”

“We don't know yet,” the detective answered.

“Late last night I was asked to identify the body and—” McAllister began.

“And you never told
me
?” Don turned on him with a ferocity that made Joanne shrink back in her chair.

“It was early morning when I got home.” The editor knew his mistake.

“We need to talk to all of you. I'll send someone back in an hour or so—give you all time to digest the news.” DI Dunne had barely finished the sentence when he felt himself being propelled to one side.

“Mr. McLeod. Sir.” The uniformed policeman called down the stairs. There was no response, only the echo of heavy footsteps.

“We'll need to speak to Mr. McLeod, as he worked with her the longest.” DI Dunne nodded at McAllister, giving him the responsibility for his deputy editor.

When the policemen left, the silence stretched, no one knowing what to say.

“Does this mean Mrs. Smart was murdered?” Hector was the first to speak.

“It would seem so,” McAllister answered.

The crack in McAllister's voice frightened Hec. “That's no' right,” he said to one in particular. He rubbed his hands through his sticking-up carrot-colored hair, and sniffed. “That canny be right. She was a really nice woman.”

“McAllister, how did it happen?” Rob looked at the editor, the man who knew almost everything—in Rob's eyes. “And why?”

“I don't know. All I know is I saw her body. That she was stabbed is news to me.”

McAllister looked at Joanne, who was sitting with her head in her hands saying nothing. Rob too looked lost, fiddling with
his pencil, staring at the table. Hector was sniffing, trying his best not to cry.

The shrill ring of the telephone made everyone jump.

“
Gazette
.”

“Rob. Beauchamp Carlyle here. May I speak with Mr. McAllister?”

Rob thought that Beech, as he was known, had no need to introduce himself. His voice alone—that educated upper-class born-to-rule drawl—would identify him. His guffaw that passed for a laugh and always made the listener join in even when they didn't get the joke endeared the man to all he met. Rob passed the receiver over.

“There's a disturbance at Mr. and Mrs. Smart's house,” Beech said. “I'm at my sister's—she lives next door. It seems Mr. McLeod is involved.”

“I'll be right over.” McAllister hesitated before asking, “Have you heard? No? Mrs. Smart died last night. Yes. Terrible news. I'll see you in five minutes.”

“I'm coming too.” Rob was off before McAllister could stop him.

“Joanne. Could you hold the fort?” McAllister asked. “Any calls about Mrs. Smart—just say nothing.”