The Low Road (32 page)

“I'd really like a cup of tea.”

He took her hand. “A cure for almost everything, a good cup of tea.”

She wished he meant it; whisky was not her favorite form of comfort.
One drunken husband was enough
, she thought.

The kitchen was empty. And the garden. He had no idea where all the women had gone. But he was grateful they'd left him alone with Joanne.

After the tea, and after the shortbread had taken away the medicinal aftertaste, Joanne began, “That man in the newspaper, he and his brothers threatened me. And my girls . . .”

“Forget them. You're safe now.”

“Don't patronize me. I might not be fully well, but I'm not stupid.”

The sharpness in her voice, the flash in her eyes, startled him. “I'm sorry, I—”

“McAllister, we need to talk.”

If it were anyone other than Joanne who had said this, he would shut down. He hated the phrase
we need to talk.
It made him think of endings—end of a love affair, a friendship, a job.
We need to talk
rang as clearly as the tolling of a funeral bell.

“It takes time to recover from an operation on the brain,” she began.

He was listening and watching, and her opening remark forced him to see that underneath the pallor, the dull hair, the thin body, Joanne, the Joanne he loved, was still there, mostly intact.

“My optic nerve was damaged but hopefully will mend. I need rest. I need to eat more. Worry is the bad for me, but trying not to worry when you don't fully comprehend what is going on is impossible.” She said nothing about the headaches so incapacitating that she could not see, or stand. The hallucinations she put down to the tranquilizers she hated but depended on.

He was nodding, waiting for her to say what she needed to say.

“At the time, we—Don and I—had no idea what to do. Bill couldn't pay. He said they wanted to take over his business, and he would never let that happen.”
He'd put me and my girls in danger rather than let go of his precious business
. “So we asked Jimmy to help. And he
did. After they left, I tried to deny it, but there was always a possibility they would return. It's an awful lot of money.” She stopped. This was the most she had spoken in a continuous stream since the operation, and she was exhausted.

McAllister nodded. “This is not just about the money. I've been thinking about it and I'm sure there is more.”

“Meaning they want revenge on Jimmy?” When McAllister said nothing, she answered her own question. “Maybe this will only end when they kill Jimmy. Or he . . . She couldn't complete the thought it so horrified her. “I met that man. He came to my house. He is pure evil.”

They were quieted by that thought. Then the tick of the carriage clock and the groan of the oak tree across the street as the night wind rose and the faintly nautical sound of an old house, the sounds of minutely shifting windows and floorboards and roof slates and ill-fitting doors, surrounded them, unheard yet there, comforting them.

“Would you like more tea?” he asked eventually.

“I'd love some,” she replied.

When he returned she asked, “What now?”

“Sandy Marshall has Mary Ballantyne and a colleague at the
Herald
searching for details of Councilor James Gordon's businesses. They think he's involved in corruption with council contracts.” He knew he had to be honest. “But no word of Jimmy.”

“You need to find him.” She saw him about to protest. “No. Listen to me. If I could, I'd be in Glasgow searching for him myself. You need to do this for Jimmy. For his mother. And for me.”

“I can't risk leaving you alone.”

“I won't be here. Don't worry”—she was smiling at his reaction—“we loved our few days camping so much, Margaret
suggested we take a cottage in Portmahomack for a week or so—the girls don't go back to school until mid-August, and your mother can come with us.”

“You've thought this through.” He didn't ask about their wedding scheduled for the thirty-first of July, three weeks away. He knew nothing about the preparations, or lack of preparations—that was women's business. He knew he would be there. Knew he could not, would not, let Joanne down.

“I have. No one will know where we are, so we'll be safe. And the girls will love it.”

He could see it was settled and he was relieved. But the thought of Glasgow was no longer enticing: His mother's flat, he needed to clear out; Jimmy, he needed to find; Councilor Gordon, that was a
Herald
investigation; and Mary Ballantyne, he was embarrassed to face. But he had no choice. He was now even more obligated to help Jimmy McPhee, whether Jimmy wanted his help or not.

“Find Jimmy,” Joanne said.

“I'll try.” He did not say what they were both thinking—
alive or dead.

“Start with your old pal Gerry.” She saw his wonderfully expressive eyebrows shoot heavenwards—something that usually made her laugh. Not this time. “I know he's a criminal, but there is a history between you. Your mother told me about the holiday in Millport when you were boys, your fathers working together, so start with him. Then come home when it's over.”

He would never know how terrified she was that he wouldn't return. Never know how clearly she saw his doubts, his ambivalence about marriage, this town, this life. She knew he loved her, so she was prepared to wait. Fight for him if necessary.

“When this is over, we will talk about our future. In the meantime, all I want is for my hair to grow back over my scars.”
She was proud of her thick nut-brown hair. “And I do not want to wear glasses.” She stood, came over and kissed him lightly on his head, saying, “I really need to eat. My tummy is grumbling something rotten.”

Her kiss was a benediction, a release, a kiss of thanks. And trust. He felt unworthy.

When she left the room, he stood, looked around the room, thought about this house, a house he owned. And he made a decision; when he went back to Glasgow to make one last effort to find Jimmy, he would repay the debt. He was not a rich man, but without quite knowing how, he had money. Over the years, when he had only himself to support, his salary had accumulated, and his flat in Glasgow had sold for much more than he'd paid for it. It would almost empty his bank account, but it was not in his nature to resent the loss of cash, not if it protected Joanne. And assuaged his conscience.

T
his time he drove to Glasgow. His mother was with him. Nothing he'd said could dissuade her.

“I need to see my home,” she said. “It'll need a good clean.”

More than that
, he thought. “I can see to it,” he protested.

She'd rolled her eyes at that suggestion. It was not so much her son she distrusted; in her way of thinking, no man knew how to properly scrub a floor.

“Mother, it's a mess, it's . . .”
Heartbreaking
was the word he wanted to use, but daren't.

“I know. Mrs. Crawford told me. Besides, I'm coming with you to talk to Mr. Dochery—and I've an idea where to find Wee Gerry.”

As the road south unwound, he was glad his mother was with him. She revealed the familiar landscape anew, pointing out landmarks that in his anxiety at returning he would have driven past without noticing. And with his mother in the front seat, he daren't speed.

Along the Great Glen; past Loch Ness, Loch Lochie, and Loch Oich; under Ben Wyvis; through and over the Pass of Glencoe, as they waited for Ballahulish ferry, finally reaching Ben Lomond and the “bonnie, bonnie banks.” Along the loch, familiar territory for Glaswegian day-trippers, she had commented, “It's right bonnie” so many times, he had stopped responding. For it was, this sparsely populated Highland landscape, this Scotland
of history, of clans, and battles, and clearances, of mountain, river, loch, and glen, it was indeed bonnie.

They arrived in the outskirts of the city in the early evening.

“You can't stay in the flat until it's cleared,” he said. “So we'll stay in a wee hotel near St. Enoch's Station.”

“You do that, Son. I'm staying wi' Mrs. Crawford. Then her and me, we're going to make an early start on the cleaning.” He had seen the letters arrive, but had no idea the old friends had everything planned. “She was biding wi' her sister but couldn't stand it, so now she's home.”

Since his mother's visit to the Highlands, and the time spent with Joanne and the girls, he had commented on how much more outgoing she had become.

“It's the children,” Joanne explained.

And adversity,
he thought.
My mother knows how to deal with adversity
.
It's only afterwards she falls apart.

McAllister took the first boardinghouse he could find. It was near Kelvingrove Park, deliberately away from Blythswood Square. Next morning he was at the
Herald
early—nine in the morning—hoping Mary would not be there. He knew he would have to meet her sometime,
but not yet,
he told himself as he walked in the big doors and past reception.

An older woman whom he'd known from his time on the newspaper smiled and said, “Mr. McAllister, there's a message for you,” and handed him a folded piece of lined paper.

For a moment his heart raced as he thought,
Jimmy
. Then he saw another scrawl, another uneducated hand.
Stop being such a snob
, he told himself as he read the bad grammar with little punctuation.

Its nothing to do with me. So call off the Mary woman or it will get bad for you and him A frend

He was engrossed in the note. It was from Gerry Dochery, of that he was certain. The
its nothing to do with me
he took to be a denial.
Of what, though? Call off Mary
 . . . that was clear. But how? If anyone knew Mary they would know it was impossible.
For you and him
? Did that mean Jimmy was alive?

“Hello, stranger.” Mary had come up behind him.

He jumped. Then quickly put the note in his pocket. She was grinning. He smiled back. But a faint sweat broke out on his lower back.

“How's Joanne?” she asked.

So that's how it's going to be,
he thought, and was immensely grateful to Mary Ballantyne.

“She's well. She and the girls are going on holiday with Rob McLean's mother, Margaret.”

“I know, Don McLeod told me.” She turned and they went upstairs to the end of the reporters' floor. “Come on, McAllister, our esteemed editor can't wait to hear all about Councilor James Gordon and his shady deeds in the Highlands.”

Her good sense touched him. What had happened between them was an episode of that moment, that night of terror, and never to be repeated. Or spoken of.

“Can't get rid of you,” Sandy Marshall said when they came into his office. They settled down to thrash out what they knew, and what they could print.

“I now know the background, and it may explain everything,” McAllister told them.

Both journalists noted the “may.”

“Don McLeod told me the gist of Councilor Gordon's visit to the Highlands,” Mary said. “So I've been trawling through the company records of the building business in Whiteinch. Not that I've found much, as yet. But Gordon's trying to take over a Highland building company is interesting.”

“Everything about Councilor Gordon was hearsay until your deputy tipped Mary off,” Sandy Marshall added.

“I've been researching company records, building tenders, contracts, building suppliers, employment contracts, everything and everywhere there might be a paper trail,” Mary continued. “The trouble is, it's mostly cash in the building trade, and the union officials I've spoken to know very little about this company. The father registered it under the name
Gordon Brothers
thirty years ago. Now another Gordon is director with two brothers, but Councilor James Gordon's name is
not
registered with Company House . . . What? What are you two grinning at?”

“Do you ever come up for air?” Sandy asked her. “You've spoken all that in one breath.”

“Eff off.” Mary shook her head at him. “However, I do have some other leads—”

“I'm only joking,” Sandy said. “This is one of the news stories of the decade . . . if we can prove it.”

“That's what I'm trying to do. Only Mr. Sleazy, who is too busy filling in his football pools, is worse than useless, and accounts are after me as my taxi fares are astronomical. I need help. So, McAllister?”

“I'm here to find Jimmy and bring him home.” That stopped the flow of words.

“McAllister, everyone's concerned about Jimmy McPhee, but . . .” Sandy couldn't bring himself to say what he believed.