The Wicker Tree (6 page)

'All I care about,' he said on the telephone to the ACC, who secretly feared Lachlan and his political connections, 'is that we can all sleep safely in our beds at night. There is simply no substitute for the cop on the beat. The policeman who knows everyone and everything about them is the best guarantee against crime. I know you agree. Any sensible man would. So why successive governments of all parties have allowed the bean counters and the pen pushers to decree that the police be huddled in cheap-to-manage centres, well away from where most crime now occurs – well, I simply cannot conceive.'

'I wish you'd tell them, Lachlan,' said the ACC.

'Me?' Lachlan was incredulous. 'I'm just another business man in a country where we are an endangered species.'

Orlando was pleased enough with his posting. A city dweller all his life, he regarded the whole of Scotland, beyond the densely inhabited belt stretching from Edinburgh to Glasgow, as almost terra incognita. In these out of city areas the indigenous inhabitants of Scotland were still to be found – Scots his father rather disrespectfully referred to as the natives. With their many tribal costumes: kilts and Highland regalia for gala occasions; the elaborate tweedy uniforms of the shooters of game; the pink coats of the hunters with dogs; this to him was a postcard Scotland, picturesque but not to be taken too seriously.

In a way, he regarded his new assignment as an opportunity to indulge in his hobby. It was only a little later that he fell in love, putting hobbies entirely out of his mind. He had been a keen body-builder at college. But senior beer-bellied colleagues in the force tended to mock that sort of thing. Now there was an opportunity to catch up on his training and work on his pecs. So he'd packed all his sports gear ready to take with him to Tressock. He really looked forward to the next few weeks. It seemed inconceivable it would take much longer than that to learn all there was to know about Tressock, its deepest secrets and all. If it harboured some cult, he was sure to discover it.

Orlando's only slight regret was leaving Woman Police Constable Morag McDevitt behind in Glasgow. He had met her first at Police College when her hair was the raven's wing black that goes with pale skin and china blue eyes, a combination you sometimes find among the Scots and the Irish. Just before her graduation, however, she had gone Madonna blonde. Orlando, who had agreed with his fellow cadets in finding her almost threateningly beautiful but curiously un-sexy, now suddenly thought her – well, desirable. Where WPC McDevitt had seen admiration, without lust, in her male colleagues' eyes, she now saw what any woman would have recognised as that sly biological urge. Being a sensible girl she decided, almost at once, to choose one out of the pursuing male pack and send the rest off in search of other game.

She chose Orlando because he was unquestionably the best-looking police cadet on the course. Coming from the Gorbals, a neighbourhood now moving up towards gentrification from appalling poverty, she liked the fact that he had some extra money in his pocket, didn't get vomiting drunk, shared her enthusiasm for the movies, and appeared to have the conservative approach to sex that she knew she preferred. If she had been completely honest with herself then, as she became later, she could easily have done without the sex. But it was expected of a girl by her steady boyfriend. Her girl-friends would have thought it a bit freakish of her if she had said what she thought: 'He pounds away, pants like an exhausted cocker spaniel and when he comes, that noise of his, that gurgling moan, as if he was drowning, well it just makes me want to laugh.' But she remained silent on this. She liked his company, felt his trophy value at parties and down the pub. Mercifully, love had never been mentioned. However, she might not have been so pleased to know what Orlando really thought of her.

While he liked her Madonna blondeness – it was acceptably flash and other blokes stared – he worried about the fact that she seemed a complete stranger to what he vaguely imagined as romance. Having decided one night after seeing
When Harry Met Sally
together at the Arts Theatre re-run cinema, that sexual prevarication was both crazy and a terrible waste of time, Morag took Orlando home to bed, a first for them.

'You're no the first man I've opened my legs for,' she told him. 'And don't think you'll be the last,' she added, as without further preliminaries she laid herself out on the bed as naked as a piece of hake on a fishmonger's slab. Her undressing seemed to have taken five seconds during her visit to the bathroom. One minute she was a formally dressed police person. The next she seemed to expect to be an object of torrid desire.

Orlando, who had been suitably moved by her undeniably lissom, generously breasted body, was transfixed by her bush. It reminded him, he couldn't get the image out of his mind, of Adolf Hitler's moustache. An oblong black tuft of hair, as smooth as a cat's pelt. It was so totally unexpected, halfway down to her toes from her luscious Madonna blonde curls, that he had to think hard of Mai Ping at the Thai massage parlour before he was able to do what was so evidently expected of him. He learned, only later, that turning the female bush into a form of topiary was a lucrative new service provided by the hair salons of Glasgow. Popular shapes included four leaf clovers (Celtic supporters), St Andrew's Crosses (for international away games) and something called 'the landing strip', which was what Morag had selected, unaware of its likeness to Hitler's moustache.

So it wasn't that he expected to miss the ritual encounters in bed with her, when she lay like a relatively soft log and he toiled away, wondering why people thought this such a wonderful way to spend their time. 'Very nice,' she would say afterward, like an amiable aunt congratulating her little nephew on his finger-painting. He could very easily do without sex with beautiful WPC Morag McDevitt. It was the thought that, as soon as he was gone, someone else would almost certainly move in on his trophy that disturbed him. He already worried that she found him inadequate. After all, if he found her wanting, surely she must feel the same about him. He reflected, as many men in his position do, how fortunate it is that women represent half the human race. Where he was going, in the rustic borderlands, women who would be dazzled by his looks, his Glaswegian sophistication and his uniform would surely abound. Mai Ping, at the Thai massage parlour, had stroked his tender ego. There was nothing to worry about. She had, she assured him, rarely met a man as well endowed, as energetic, as strong as he. As a pollster of these matters, Orlando reflected, considerably re-assured, Mai Ping had more credibility than most.

Before leaving Glasgow, he took Morag to an informal dinner the police rugby team had organised to see him on his way. It was a raucous evening and Orlando was among the first to leave, explaining that he still had packing to do. Morag was deep in conversation with the only other woman at the party, Inspector Jill Meander, a jolly, older woman built on generous, Junoesque lines with close-cropped, carroty-coloured hair and twinkling brown eyes.

Morag looked up at Orlando as he came to say goodbye to her, gave him her most winning smile and offered her cheek for him to peck.

'Don't forget to e-mail as soon as you're settled in,' she said. 'And take care,' she added kindly.

'Yes, you take care, Orlando,' laughed Inspector Jill Meander. 'They hunt laddies like you down on the Borders, they really do.'

DELIA SAW THEM arrive. It could only be them because the boy was wearing a cowboy hat and the girl had the kind of brave glow that Delia had observed before in some artists when they were approaching a performance. It was not totally unlike the aura of fear, tempered by defiance, she had witnessed years before when she had accompanied the earlier soldier-husband to watch an execution in Aden, in the last days of colonial rule. The American girl's lack of any artifice surprised Delia. Nothing to label her 'pop star'. No make-up. A plain navyblue turtle-neck jersey and black trousers clothed a good, understated figure. No jewellery, not even earrings, but a pretty belt decorated with small silver and turquoise medallions. A country girl, thought Delia, so confident that she needs no props. One indication of what had made this girl a star.

As the bud of almost any flower or blossom first leaves the carapace of enclosing green, the texture and colour it shows the world is of a delicacy and freshness that is lost almost at once as the bloom develops. The female human face goes through this phase for a very short time and, while it varies immensely from person to person, one can occasionally glimpse it in its most sublime form. Too soon, and it can be spots and oily skin. Too late and the beautician's art may be needed. But Beth possessed, at this very moment in her life, the loveliness that only youth can confer and it made men and women alike stop and stare. Delia had recognised it across the crowded nave of the cathedral. Knowing she had once possessed it herself and what an incomparable gift it had been, she felt slight pangs of regret and envy.

Delia and Lachlan had just been greeted by the Reverend Byng McLeod, the most fashionable and clubbable divine in the Church of Scotland, beloved of television talk-show hosts and his congregation alike. He wore his prematurely snow white hair as Oscar Wilde once had, long and carelessly wavy, as if he judged it his crowning glory. Behind him, musical sounds from an assorted collection of instrumentalists came from the specially erected stage in front of the sanctuary, where all was in place to receive the full orchestra. From both his tone and his manner the Reverend McLeod exuded the self confidence that confirmed that in this cathedral, on this occasion, when presenting this musical programme, there was no impresario, no authority higher than he.

'Sir Lachlan, Lady Morrison, welcome indeed!' He spoke with a diction so musically cadenced, so successful in using the softer felicities of Scottish English, that one half expected him to burst into song.

'We are absolutely thrilled, Lachlan, that you are giving us that solo of yours again this year. I saw your Glee Club rehearsing a little earlier, but I fancy they are now wetting their whistles around the corner at the Silver Thistle. Singing is such thirsty work. Don't worry. I've got the lovely Adelaide looking after them and she'll have them back just now I have not the slightest doubt…'

Looking confidently around, the Reverend McLeod saw Beth and Steve advancing a little hesitantly up the nave. Delia, who had been watching the couple, thought she heard a little neigh of excitement as he tossed his locks from one of his eyes and led her and Lachlan to meet the Americans.

Beth, who had already met with the Reverend, braced herself for the wave of Scottish or British (what was the difference?) effusiveness that she knew was now coming.

'Now Delia, Lachlan, I want you to meet our American star Beth Boothby. If you were sixteen, Delia, you'd already be swooning, I assure you. She is the wonderful new soloist with the Redeemers Choir. And a successful recording artist. Gold and platinum platters, eh Beth? I expect you'll remember the Redeemers from last year? Beth, meet Sir Lachlan and Lady Morrison. He will be singing with you in the Oratorio.' Steve hung back while Beth's hand was shaken but Delia was sizing him up.

'And who is this?' she asked. Steve, still wearing his hat, seemed ill at ease.

'This is Steve Thomson,' said Beth. 'I guess you'd call him my fiancé. Right Steve? We've made like a commitment.'

'To help fund a mission? Is that right?' the Reverend McLeod was clearly unsure.

'No sir,' said Steve. 'Our commitment is – well, we've promised to save it for marriage. We call it our Silver Ring Thing.' They both smilingly held up their hands to show their rings, looking at the slightly surprised faces around them. 'Tough huh? But we're both Redeemers you know. Like the Choir. Only when they go home, we're staying behind to like spread the Word.'

The conductor had now appeared on the stage and was signalling to the Reverend McLeod that he was ready for Beth. Glad to be at last able to regain her own medium, she smiled her farewells to the Morrisons and the Reverend, planted a light kiss on Steve's cheek and hurried across to the stage.

The Reverend excused himself to Lachlan and Delia and, taking Steve by the arm, led him to a chair in the nave where he would have a good view of the rehearsal. On the way, he gently removed Steve's hat from his head and handed it to him.

This left Lachlan gazing admiringly after Beth's retreating form. The organist was floating chords out into the enormous nave while small rehearsals or meetings of musicians were going on in various parts of the cathedral.

'What a very beautiful girl,' said Lachlan. 'Another Redeemer you see. What a little star. If she can really sing.'

'A country girl, I'd bet,' said Delia. 'Yes, she is beautiful in a cornfed, apple-cheeked way. I bet she smells of the dairy. A musky bush, milky tits and just a hint of warm cow's dung behind the ears.'

'Does that mean you approve of her?' asked Lachlan, amused.

Delia was laughing now. 'And that poor Steve, waiting till his wedding day. It's another world over there in America, isn't it? Oh look, they're fixing up a microphone for Beth. None of these pop people can really sing.'

But even as the orchestra warmed up and the conductor conferred with Beth she was quietly indicating that the microphone should be removed. The Glee Club were drifting back from the pub, being chivvied along by a tall lady with wiry, iron-grey hair and an imperial bosom, 'the lovely Adelaide'.

Lachlan had drifted off to gather his Glee Club for their preperformance pep talk. Delia remained standing in the middle of the aisle watching Beth, almost willing her to be less than was clearly expected by the Reverend McLeod and hyped by the media. Now Beth had stepped forward. The conductor, his baton raised, glanced from Beth to the leader of the orchestra and back to Beth. His hands gave the signal. Delia saw the huge breath she took. Now came the voice:

'I know that my Redeemer liveth…'

The sound was literally enormous. The purity of the voice. The richness of tone. The absolute mastery of the long drawn-out phrase. There could be, Delia knew, no corner of that great building that had not heard with absolute clarity the exquisitely conveyed message:
Beth is certain her Redeemer is alive.