Naming the Bones (23 page)

The professor was realistic. He knew the limitations of individuals against the weight of literature and history. He thought back to James’s overstuffed, abortively feminine room and groaned. The old man’s health might be failing, but at least he had space to think and write. Murray lay back on the bed, put the professor’s interview over his face and closed his eyes.

He was woken by the landlady’s sharpening voice at the door.

‘Mr Watson, your dinner’s waiting.’

Murray sat up, like Dracula risen from the dead.

He would phone James and ask if he knew Bobby Robb, and perhaps while he was answering that question, the questions unasked would also slip into place.

There was no phone signal to be had in his room, or at the melamine dining table where his dinner waited, a slight skin forming over the brown stuff he supposed was gravy. It was a temptation to take his mobile straight out into the evening, but manners prevailed and he managed to work his way through a once-frozen chicken pie, tinned carrots and potatoes followed by half a tin of peaches topped with cream from a can. It was the best meal he’d had in a while, and he said so to Mrs Dunn, before pulling on his new waterproof jacket and stepping out into the bluster of the fading day.

Murray turned his back on the cottage and continued along the road that had brought him there. The bars on his phone remained stubbornly absent. He saw a sign marked
Broch
, and took the right turn its arrow instructed, into a stony road less finished than the last. It felt good to have a destination, even though he wasn’t sure what a broch was.

Professor James had known Lunan the man and the poet. He had been there at the birth of his sole collection, and though he’d not been present when the poet died, he had been close enough to go to the wake. If Christie insisted on keeping her silence, James might turn out to be the closest approximation of an eye witness available.

A small house appeared on his right, a square of scrubby grass in front of it, fenced off against the sheep. A toy tractor lay abandoned on its side beside the gate. Murray supposed that if you could stand the weather, this might not be such a bad place to raise a family. He’d assumed Archie and Christie were after a new centre for poetry and debauch, but perhaps they’d been hoping to put all that behind them, chasing ‘the good life’ on some hippy self-sufficiency kick. After all, for Lunan it had been some kind of a coming home.

The light was beginning to fade. He glanced at his phone. If he didn’t get a signal soon he would walk back to the car, drive down to the pier and try there.

Years ago, when he was working on his PhD, he’d gone out with a girl who studied archaeology. Angela. He’d fallen for her pale skin and red hair, would have been happy to spend all their free time together in bed, but their main recreation had been hill-walking to ancient sites. Angela had wanted to get engaged. He’d considered it, spent hours working out the pros and cons, and then, when the cons had won, broken up with her. He’d not seen Angela for years, hadn’t thought about her in a while. She was one of the crossroads in his life, a path he might have taken.

There was some sort of structure up on the rise beyond, or was it an outcrop of rocks? It was hard to be sure. He left the road and began to climb. The wind was mounting now, the ground soft beneath his feet.

As he got closer he could see that the structure was the remnants of a circular drystane dyke. Some sheep sheltering in its lea startled at his approach and rushed away with unwise haste, fat ladies running downhill in high heels. He halted and let them pass, the wind tearing at his face, feared that if he moved on he’d inadvertently round them over some unseen cliff.

Angela had probably told him what a broch was at some point. A fort, he supposed, or maybe a large tomb. He walked to where the wall had collapsed and peered into its centre, half-expecting to see the usual detritus that clogged lonely shelters: drained half-bottles of spirits, used condoms and dented beer cans. The interior dropped gently down into a slow dip, like a giant cauldron. Nothing except sheep shit sullied it.

Murray could feel the sense of being observed that had always infected him on his walks with Angela. ‘City-dwellers’ paranoia,’ she’d called it. But at least in the city someone would hear you scream. The sight of a few discarded johnnies would have been reassuring, a sign of life.

He looked back the way he had come. Now that he was at the top of the hill, he could see the day had reached the far side of dusk. The light was still with him, but he wasn’t sure how long it would last. It might be wiser to turn back while visibility was good, rather than risk a twisted ankle on the way down. Murray took his mobile from his pocket and was rewarded by three bars. He hunkered down in the shelter left by the sheep and found Professor James’s number.

He’d expected the phone to ring for a long time, but James answered on the second peal.

‘Ah, yes, I meant to ask if you would remember to pick up a packet of those fig biscuits, please, Helen. Iris likes them with her tea and I suspect the ones in the cupboard might be a little soft.’

Murray coughed, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Professor James . . .’

‘Who is this?’

‘Murray. Dr Watson.’

He felt like an unsuspecting caller stumbling on a conversation on the party line, but the professor seemed unfazed.

‘I wondered when you would phone. Are you on your way round?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘I thought you were my daughter Helen.’

The old man sounder frailer than he had appeared the week before and a vague note that might have been confusion had entered his voice.

‘Would you like me to ring back later?’

‘No, best to get me while I’m still here.’

Murray knew better than to ask where the professor was going.

‘A name has come up. I wondered if it meant anything to you. Bobby Robb. He had a distinctive scar . . .’

‘Yes, I knew him.’ James’s tone became firmer, as if he were on safe ground now the conversation had shifted to the past. ‘He wasn’t a regular, and when he did attend his work was derivative and confused.’

The professor’s manner was dismissive, as if Robb wasn’t worth discussing.

‘One of Archie Lunan’s friends said he blamed Robb for Archie’s premature death.’

‘I’m afraid that would be beyond my realm of knowledge.’

The statement was like a full-stop at the end of a sentence.

‘Was he close to Archie?’

‘His work wasn’t even in the same stratosphere.’

‘I meant emotionally.’

‘Dr Watson, are you in the habit of monitoring your students’ emotional entanglements?’

‘No.’

‘Then why might you think I would be?’

‘Professor James, I got the impression that you expected me to call at some point. Who did you think I was going to ask you about?’

The line went dead and for a moment Murray thought the professor was going to tell him to get back to him when he had completed his research. But then the old man sighed and said, ‘Your nemesis, of course. Professor Fergus Baine.’

‘My nemesis?’

‘I had a feeling you two were at odds.’

The wind blasted at Murray’s mobile phone. He wondered if Professor James could hear the sheep calling to each other in the background. They might be stupid, but at least they managed to live together in harmony.

‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

‘I must have misunderstood. Where are you? It sounds like you’re calling from inside the drum of a washing machine.’

‘I’m in Lismore. It’s a bit blowy, there’s not much cover.’

‘Have you seen Christie Graves?’

‘Not yet.’ The wind forced Murray to raise his voice. He already regretted walking up the hill instead of searching for a nice warm telephone box. ‘Why did you think I’d want to talk about Fergus?’

‘I thought your generation eschewed researchers, Dr Watson? Surely you don’t want me to do your job for you?’

Murray wondered if the old man was trying to provoke him away from the subject.

‘I’ve already spoken to Fergus about Lunan. He gave the impression they weren’t acquainted, though he did mention they’d met once, at a poetry reading. He said Archie was drunk.’

‘I’m afraid Professor Baine may have been rather economical with the truth. He and Lunan were well acquainted. They were both key parts of my little group.’

An ache nagged at his left leg. Murray shifted against the wall, unable to make sense of what James was telling him.

‘He never mentioned it.’

‘I’m surprised.’ James sounded anything but. ‘Maybe he chose to forget. Clever men are sometimes reluctant to remember fields in which they didn’t shine.’

‘Is there something you’re not telling me, professor?’

He could hear the old man’s smile gleaming across the miles that separated them.

‘Many things, Murray.’

It was the first time the professor had used his given name. Was it an invitation to press further, or simply a tease?

‘Something to do with Lunan?’

‘Why don’t you ask Baine? After all, you’re colleagues. It was a long time ago and what I heard may have been gossip.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘The front door, I think it must be Helen.’ There was a clunk as the receiver was dropped. Somewhere in the distance James said, ‘Did you get any of those biscuits that Iris is fond of?’ And more remote still came the indistinct tones of a female voice answering him.

Murray stood up and stretched. Day had slipped into night now and he would have to walk back in the dark. He held the mobile to his ear, hearing the faraway rattle of Professor James’s domestic life, distant as the sound of the sea heard through a shell. He was about to hang up when a woman’s voice said, ‘Hello? This is Helen Trend. With whom am I speaking?’

He hunkered down behind the shelter again, cupping his hand round the phone to protect his words from the wind.

‘Dr Murray Watson. I think Professor James may have forgotten he was talking to me.’

Professor James’s daughter was briskly cheerful.

‘In that case he’s been struck with sudden senility since yesterday. I’m afraid my father has just stepped out of the room. Nature calls rather frequently these days. You might be advised to ring back later, unless it’s anything I can help you with?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘So certain.’

Helen Trend’s voice assumed an unexpected flirtiness. Murray pictured a well-preserved fifty-year-old with buttery yellow hair. It amazed him that even here, on this inhospit­able hillside, his mind could conjure an image worth fucking.

‘We were discussing his poetry circle, more specifically Professor Fergus Baine.’

The voice on the other end lowered an octave.

‘That’s a name I haven’t heard in an age. Why on earth were you discussing that rogue?’

‘I’m writing a biography of the poet Archie Lunan. According to your father, he and Professor Baine were associates.’

The woman laughed.

‘I wouldn’t pay too much attention to anything my father has to say about Fergus Baine, I’m afraid his name is mud in this house.’

‘Do you mind my asking why?’

There was a pause on the line. The sheep had stopped calling to each other, but the hillside was alive with noise. A shrill cry sounded from somewhere in the settling dusk and Murray pulled up the collar of his jacket. He remembered reading of some plan to reintroduce wolves to the Scottish Highlands, wondered if it had ever gone ahead. No, surely the sheep farmers would never allow it.

Helen Trend asked, ‘What institution did you say you were associated with?’

They both knew he hadn’t associated himself with any institution, but Murray didn’t bother to argue the point.

‘The University of Glasgow.’

‘I see.’ Once again there was the slow pause as if she were considering what to say. ‘I’d heard Fergus was back teaching there.’

‘He’s currently head of department.’

‘Yes, so my sources tell me. And you and my father were discussing him in relation to a book you’re writing about Archie Lunan?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did my father tell you?’

He had never been much of a card sharp, but instinct told Murray to conceal the fact James had told him nothing.

‘I’m not sure that I’m at liberty to discuss that.’

‘No?’ The flirtiness was gone now. ‘Then let me phrase my question in another way. Was it anything that might be construed as libellous?’

Despite the cold and the dread of the downward journey, he was suddenly enjoying himself.

‘I’d have to consult a lawyer before I could answer that question.’

‘I could recommend the services of my husband or two of my sons, but there might be a clash of interests.’

In Murray’s mind the soft, buttery hair shifted into Margaret Thatcher’s lacquered helmet. The conversation seemed to be escalating beyond his control.

‘Mrs Trend, I get the feeling I’ve inadvertently offended you. I can only apologise, though I’m not quite sure what I’ve done.’

‘No?’ The laugh returned, sharp against the wailing wind. ‘Let me make it clear then. If you were to print anything my father told you about Fergus Baine that could even be considered libellous, and therefore detrimental by proxy to my father’s reputation, I would have no hesitation in instructing my lawyers to begin a case against you, and remember Dr Watson, I get my legal counsel for free.’

‘I’ve got the deepest respect for your father . . .’

His words were cut short by James’s voice on another extension.

‘This is a private telephone call, Helen, hang up, please. I’d prefer to talk with Dr Watson alone.’