The Low Road (35 page)

“If Sheena should ever need anything, tell her to contact me at the
Herald
. Or the
Gazette,
the newspaper I edit in the Highlands. And Gerry, tell your father. He's old and alone. Knowing about Wee Sheena would make his life worth living.”

“And make up for having a son like me,” Gerry added.

The conversation was over. Gerry held out his hand. They shook. Gerry left. McAllister left a minute later. He knew he should go to the
Herald
and tell Mary and Sandy Marshall what had passed between him and Gerry and the brothers Gordon. But he couldn't.

He walked back to the
Herald
, collected his car, drove to his boardinghouse. Parked. Was surprised it was not yet nine o'clock. Time to catch the late showing at the Curzon art cinema on the steep brae off Sauchiehall Street that led up to Garnethill.

It was a French film,
Et Dieu . . . créa la femme.
He had no need of the subtitles. And the film, starring Brigitte Bardot, was not to
his taste. It was the language he wanted hear, to remind him of another country, other times. The audience of students and the bohemian set of Glasgow were appreciative and respectful to the film, but not to the national anthem played at the end.

As he and they strolled out into a balmy night, some discussing the film, some discussing where might be open for a late night drink, stars and planets and a half-moon lit the dim backstreets with a beauty that should have been a salve to his fear.

Reaching the damp room in the dank boardinghouse, which even a long warm summer had been unable to make charming, he realized he had seen little of the film, little of the supposed charms of BB, and had no idea of the plot, if there had been one. All he could feel was a dread that the whisky he'd brought in his overnight bag could do nothing to dissolve. And fear.

Remembering the talk of their childhood, his mother's insistence on manners, on their washing hands and brushing teeth, her inspection of their necks and behind their ears, checking they had done it all properly, he remembered her insistence on bedtime prayers.

He could almost feel the hard floorboards; himself and Gerry in the attic bedroom in the boardinghouse in Millport, kneeling side by side, his mother standing in the doorway saying the lines, and he and Gerry repeating them. And the intimacy of that summer, of two boys, closer than brothers could ever be, that he would never forget.

Not being a religious man, having no faith in a God he couldn't bring himself to believe in, nevertheless the prayer ran around his brain, and he couldn't dismiss it. “Now I lay me down to sleep. Pray the Lord my—our—souls to keep . . .”

M
cAllister needed to return to the Highlands. He needed to know if Jimmy McPhee was alive. He needed his mother safe. And he needed a friend. He was a walking bag of needs.

He was in reception in the
Herald
building and phoned upstairs to ask Sandy Marshall, “Have you time for a pint anytime soon?”

“I'll have the newspaper shout us lunch. We deserve it.”

They met at Guy's restaurant in Hope Street. It was busy, but the power of the
Herald
name secured them a table in a quiet corner.

Sandy told the waiter to hold off on the menu but ordered a bottle of wine. Glasses filled, he listened to McAllister say his mother was fine, Joanne was fine, everything was fine. So, being McAllister's friend, his conclusion was,
Everything is definitely not fine.

McAllister told him of last evening's encounter with the Gordon brothers, his fears for Gerry Dochery's safety—this surprised Sandy, but he made no comment. McAllister told him there were no hospital admissions that might have been Jimmy, no unidentified bodies in the mortuary, and no sightings from the river police.

“So looks like there's nothing else to do but return to the Highlands having achieved nothing.”

After a sip of white wine, which hadn't been chilled enough in the first place and was now warm, Sandy said, “Seems to me your life is a catalogue of misery.”

McAllister flushed in anger, and for a second Sandy thought
he would fling down the overlarge linen napkin and stalk out in high dudgeon. He quickly raised his glass and said, “So, let's hope it's onwards and upwards from here.”

McAllister had the good grace to laugh. “Aye, here's hoping.”

They ordered. The food was good. This was one of the few restaurants in the city up to London standards. They finished with coffee and cigarettes. Then Sandy said his piece.

“I can't help you with Jimmy McPhee. He turns up or he doesn't. Gerry Dochery, he's chosen his life and it can be a short one in his game. Your mother is tough; you can't protect her forever. And she has friends—she's a ‘guidwife' if ever there was one.”

McAllister snorted at this description of his mother; it was a righteous Scottish word, and it summed up the indomitable women of the city, women who kept going under the yoke of poverty and too many children and not enough of anything, except friends and the pride of being Glaswegian.

“On your personal life I have only this to say: you are bloody lucky.”

McAllister nodded an
I know.

“From what Mary told me, your Joanne Ross is not only a good woman, she is beautiful and smart and a real catch. Don't lose her.” Sandy said the last words slowly, carefully, his eyes fixed on McAllister's face.

They were good enough friends he could say this, but still, McAllister felt a momentary surge of anger. But he knew Sandy was right. His neglect of Joanne was a mystery even to him. “I can't give up, not yet,” he said. “Gordon and his brothers, they won't give up. If they don't get Jimmy, they'll go for Joanne.”

“Threatening Joanne is Gordon's way of finding Jimmy. But face it, man, McPhee may no longer be alive.” Sandy wasn't being cruel, just realistic. “If your family need protection, go to the police—and no, don't give me that look. Apart from DI Willkie and
a few like him, there are many decent policemen around. Go home, McAllister. Tell your local police. You must have friends there.”

McAllister immediately thought of DI Dunne. “I do.”

“Mary's in Edinburgh. She says she's found documents in Company House that might shed light on Councilor Gordon's business activities.” Sandy was rubbing the back of his head as he spoke.

A sure sign he's uncomfortable
.

Sandy Marshall didn't know if there was anything between McAllister and Mary Ballantyne, but suspected there was something. “I'm not counting chickens, and you know fine well that whatever we publish needs checking and double-checking and vetting by the lawyers. But maybe, just maybe, we might have something on the councilor. From what you told me about his house in Milngavie, he didn't get that from a wee three-brother building business.”

He signaled for the bill. “Go home, McAllister. Get married. Me and the family are looking forward to the wedding—I've dusted off ma kilt, and the wife's new hat cost a fortune, plus I've promised the bairns a holiday in Nairn, so . . .”

McAllister wanted to say,
Don't count on there being a wedding
, but he knew it was too late to back out. He wanted Joanne. But marriage? He was not at all sure he could be a husband. “I hope Joanne will be well enough . . .” he started, but Sandy cut him off.

“There you go again, incurable pessimist.” He was remembering his own wedding, how terrified he'd been. Not of the marriage, but of the relatives, the well-wishers, the pressure to settle down when he, like McAllister, had considered himself above all the conventional rot. They were young journalists going places, not potential husbands and fathers and property owners with enormous bank loans.

If Sandy Marshall could have run away to Gretna Green he
would have. He'd offered but his fiancée had laughed. “Elope?” she'd said. “Then my dad would have to come after you wi' a shotgun.” They had laughed so much, and he loved her so much, he'd willingly walked down the aisle, McAllister his best man, with his inoffensive five-foot-four of a father-in-law bursting with pride.

And now
, Sandy thought,
we are middle-aged men.
“Life is a compromise, McAllister. Cliché I know, but that's how it is. And from where I'm sitting you don't look much of a catch . . .” It was true, his friend was disheveled, needed a haircut, and his fingers were so stained with nicotine they were the color of a kipper. “Middle-aged, obstinate, with a weird taste in music, be grateful someone is willing to have you.”

McAllister had the grace to laugh.

Five minutes later, they parted outside the restaurant and McAllister walked down Hope Street wondering whether to go back to his mother's flat or drive to Govan to see Gerry Dochery senior. He did neither. It was past 2 p.m., public house closing time. He went to the Station Hotel. As he wasn't a guest, he flashed his press card, which persuaded the barman to serve him. “Double Glenlivet and a pint of bitter.”

McAllister took his drinks to the saloon bar. He thought over his conversation with Sandy. Between the steps of the restaurant and the steps of the hotel, the good cheer he had felt in the editor's company had vanished. He'd told Sandy most of what was bothering him, just not the extent of his fears. And guilt. He'd said nothing about Gerry Dochery's girlfriend, Sheena. Nothing about his absolute certainty that there would be, or had been, a confrontation between Gerry and one or all of the Gordon brothers.

And he'd lost Jimmy and failed Jenny McPhee and was waiting for a body, or bodies, to turn up.

What he didn't know was how lost he himself was.

• • •

A body turned up.

It was early, only a few minutes past eight o'clock, but the boardinghouse breakfast was so dire, watery porridge and plastic hard eggs, that McAllister bought fresh hot rolls and drove to his mother's for a real fry-up. He was also hoping to persuade her to return to the Highlands with him.

“A note was delivered not half an hour ago from the
Herald
,” his mother said as soon as she saw him. “I couldn't mind the name o' the place you were staying, so I told them to leave it here.” Her bottom lip was twitching in anxiety; telegrams, messages delivered by courier, were never good news.

He ripped open the envelope, read the note, pushed it back into the envelope and into his pocket. “No, it's fine, Mother, just Sandy asking me to drop by.” He looked around. Although the flat was sparsely furnished, and clean, the tea service was in use, the frying pan at the ready, and there were some sweet peas in a jam jar filling the air with summer.

The flowers reminded him of Joanne. His throat tightened. It was hard to swallow. He missed her.

“Mother, I'm driving back up north tomorrow. I'd like you to come back with me.”

“I'll take the train up maybe the day before the wedding. I hope you don't mind, but I've asked Mrs. Crawford to come with me. Not that I asked her to the wedding, mind, I would never be that forward . . .”

“I'd be delighted if Mrs. Crawford came to the wedding,” he said, thinking,
Another old woman in the house? I'd better book a B&B.
“The more the merrier.” And he meant it. Just not in his house.

He went straight to the editor's office. Sandy was with Mary and the chief sub-editor. He waved McAllister to the visitor's chair. “Two minutes,” he said.

McAllister listened as they argued over a story. He heard the
name Gordon repeatedly. He caught the gist of the dilemma: was the story watertight? Mary thought so. Her colleagues didn't.

Mary was furious. “There is enough there to damn the man, look.” She pointed to a document. “The company had four shareholders—four Gordon brothers. Here is a list of the council contracts they were awarded . . .”

“None were directly awarded to Gordon & Sons, Ltd.,” Sandy repeated. “Gordon & Sons were the subcontractors twice removed.”

“Aye, but with Councilor James Gordon being on the planning committee . . .”

“Mary, Councilor Gordon signed over his shares to two of his brothers after he was elected to the council . . .”

“What does Derrick Keith say?” the sub-editor asked. McAllister had worked with the man and knew him to be one of the best in the country and the reason the
Herald'
s legal bills were so small.

“Derrick Keith?” Mary asked. “Mr. Useless? I knew he was sleazy, now I know he's useless with it.”

“You mean you haven't consulted him?” Sandy said. “I told you to work together. So now, you and him, together, go over all the documents again. If you find corroborating evidence that Gordon was influencing the bidding process, and it's watertight, and passes the legal boys, then and only then might I publish.”