Welcome to the Heady Heights

by David F. Ross

  ‘What is it, Mrs Hubbard? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, my dear God,’ she sobbed. ‘Annie … what’ve they done tae ye?’

  The old woman stepped back. Gail saw the lifeless cat, impaled on her doorframe by a foot-long serrated knife with a rusting blade. The cat’s blood had dripped down the wood and was starting to make a thick red puddle on the concrete outside her door. Gail had only been away for twenty minutes.

  ‘How could anybody dae this tae a poor wee thing?’ Mrs Hubbard sobbed. She sipped the brandy as Gail talked quietly to the young WPC.

  Gail’s reluctance to deal with the police on any matter had to be overlooked this time. It wasn’t fair on the old woman. She deserved to think that this horrible act was being properly investigated, even though Gail had no intention of telling WPC Sherman, or her uninterested male colleague, who she was convinced was behind it.

  Gail had been wrong when she assumed that the previous warning was the end of it; the only one Big Jamesie Campbell needed to administer. She was now rethinking her future. Bringing him down might be the only way to make all this cease for good.

  26

  October 1976

  ‘Tell that wee bastart ah’m no’ comin’ oot!’

  It wasn’t one of Dad’s better days.

  ‘He stole ma chocolate yesterday. Ma da got it wi’ the last ae his vouchers, tae.’ He started to cry. ‘He’s a wee bastart, so he is!’

  ‘Mr Blunt?’ Carol opened the door to the living room. Archie peeked over her shoulder. His dad was sat in the chair, thumping his fists on its arms. A plastic bib was wrapped around his neck; it was stained with soup from the bowl he was being fed from.

  ‘Mr Blunt, Archie’s here to see you.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s Archie? Ah’m dinnae know an Archie! Get him tae fuck!’

  ‘Da … it’s me,’ said Archie softly.

  ‘Fuck off, ya cunt!’ yelled Stanley Blunt. ‘If you try and take ma stuff again, ah’ll get ma big brother ontae ye!’

  ‘Let me lift this out the way for ye, eh?’ Carol carefully untied the bib and took the soup bowl through to the kitchen.

  Stanley lifted his leg sharply and kicked the fold-up tray over.

  ‘C’mon now, Da, yer aw’right.’ Archie was stunned at the deterioration. His dad had seemed fine just days earlier. Now, he was like an actor playing the part of someone else. He closely resembled the man Archie knew but behaved like someone Archie had never met.

  ‘Fuck off, you!’ Stanley turned away. He faced the wall; a petulant child angry at a circumstance that only he was aware of. Archie had rarely heard his dad swear. He always displayed an even temper, even when Archie had informed him of his Bet’s death. As a widower himself, Stanley’s strength and fortitude were the examples that took his son through the worst period of his life. Now Archie simply couldn’t process that the man upon whom he’d leaned so heavily was the agitated shell sitting in front of him.

  ‘My God,’ he said. Carol was washing the plates. Her calmness was of little comfort to him.

  ‘Sorry, Archie,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have a good night.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ said Archie. The tears that had been welling in his eyes were now bursting.

  ‘The warden caught him outside in the rain. He was in his pyjamas.’

  ‘Fuck!’ said Archie, before apologising. ‘What was he doin’?’

  ‘He thought he was goin’ to work. The trams.’

  It had been forty years since Stanley had last driven one. Archie’s frustration gave way to anger.

  ‘An’ naebody thought tae phone me an’ tell me?’

  ‘The warden tried this morning, but he couldn’t contact you. He said you had an answerphone thing an’ that he’d left a message.’ Archie’s head bowed. ‘When I came ’round your dad was still a bit disorientated.’

  Stanley’s distress was compounded by the conviction that he was being kept in the flat against his will; that it wasn’t his home he was being forcibly imprisoned in. Carol left this detail out. She’d tell Archie later, when he was better prepared to here it. This morning had been a massive shock to him. Archie wept. Carol cuddled him.

  ‘What ah’m ah gonnae dae, hen? He cannae stay here on his own, no’ after this! What if he leaves the cooker on, or somethin’?’

  Carol couldn’t make those decisions for them. She could only offer her opinion. Archie knew the time had come for his dad to go into full-time residential care, but the type that he deserved cost more than Archie had access to.

  ‘Da, ah’m gonnae go now. Ah’ll come back in a wee while. We’ll watch Rockford, eh?’

  His dad was placid now; simply staring ahead. The fight had gone out of him.

  ‘Look da,’ said Archie. ‘’Member the time doon the water?’ Desperate for some sign, some slim acknowledgment, he lifted a photo frame from the mantel. Him and his dad, on the Waverley. Years ago but remaining a vivid memory for Archie. There was a glimmer; a slight smile of recognition.

  ‘Aye … that wis rerr.’

  Archie smiled warmly at his dad.

  ‘Me an’ Hughie,’ said Stanley. ‘Do you know Hughie? Will ye go an’ shout him for me? He’ll be oot there kickin’ a baw. Ma’s got a piece an’ jam made up for us. Ah’m eatin’ his tae if he disnae hurry up.’ Stanley tried to stand but he couldn’t.

  Archie stepped backwards. He was suffocating. He had to get out.

  ‘It’s OK, Archie,’ said Carol. But it wasn’t.

  Archie left heartbroken, ashamed that he had abandoned his father. He went to The Marquis, desperate to stop the haunting sound of his father yelling for Hughie, his only brother, who had died in 1918 in one of the last battles of the Great War.

  ‘Ah cannae dae it, mate. That’s me. Ah’m done.’

  Archie Blunt was broken. His eyes sunk into a skeletal face. He had barely eaten in the last two days. Geordie bought pie and chips for them, but it quickly became apparent that he’d be eating both.

  ‘Look, Archie…’ Geordie pulled his seat around the small table. He put an arm around his friend. ‘Ah’ll look in on yer da while yer away. Christ, ah’ll even move in if ye want.’

  ‘It’s no’ just that, though,’ said Archie. ‘This whole thing is completely fuckin’ mental. Ah mean, look at us … sittin’ here in The Marquis wi’ barely enough copper tae buy a pint an’ a mutton pie!’

  Geordie looked at the handful of change he’d piled on the table.

  ‘Goin’ right square up against one ae the richest cunts in Britain … tryin’ tae blackmail the bam wi’ a couple ae fuckin’ scud pictures?’

  ‘It’ll be aw’right…’

  ‘Aw’right?’ Archie was getting louder. He was unravelling. Fellow boozers were now watching. ‘Fuckin’ come ower here an’ listen tae yerself!’

  ‘Calm down, Arch.’

  ‘Aye … fine for you tae say. You dinnae have tae go doon an’ face the cunt off.’

  ‘Right, ya prick, that’s enough. Ah fuckin’ get it. Yer life’s pish … yer da’s fucked, an’ even if he wisnae, you’re gonnae be a jail anyway.’ Archie looked up. ‘That whit ye want tae hear, is it?’ said Geordie. He was leaning right in, his face almost touching Archie’s ear.

  The aggression shocked Archie into a silence. Geordie leaned back a bit and the interested onlookers returned to their conversations; the odds of a square go having diminished. The barmaid brought out their food.

  ‘Ach, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Aw, ah’m awfy sorry, love.’ The paper plate Archie’s pie was on folded under the weight of the beans. It slid off, landing on his left shoe. A perfectly framed metaphor.

  27

  October 1976

  ‘You shouldn’t be doin’ this, Sherman.’

  They hadn’t become friends; that would be a step too far. But Don Braithwaite admired his colleague’s tenacity with the missing persons cases. And he’d come to respect Barbara’s intelligence, her aptitude for understanding human nature; h
er ability to deal with the distraught old woman whose cat had been knifed. Don was used to dealing with the human victims of knives, not comforting elderly pet-owners. Empathy was a valuable skill for a police officer, regardless of gender. Privately, he thought she was being treated badly by the sergeant. He wouldn’t speak up about it on her behalf. But he would cover for her when it only involved the odd hour here and there. This, though … this was another level.

  ‘I’m just going home for the weekend,’ she replied, winking at him.

  ‘And what if this boy’s ma agrees tae speak tae ye? What then?’

  ‘What’s the problem, though?’ asked Barbara. ‘She filed a missing persons and I was asked to deal with it. Maybe if I had dealt with it properly at the time…’ She tailed off. ‘It seems only logical to speak to her in more detail.’

  Barbara and Don knew that by dealing with it, she was being asked to tidy up the filing, not reopen investigations that were, to all intents and purposes, officially dormant. Some of these cases were more than two years old. Occasionally, a file would be taken from a box next to Barbara’s desk. It would be returned later, with a red CASE CLOSED stamp across its front. A clipped photo of the subject, taken in the mortuary, would be inside the cover, the cause of death invariably recorded as suicide or misadventure. Barbara could then file that one in a different location. By the time the stamped copy reached her, relatives would’ve been informed. It didn’t happen often though.

  ‘It was a suicide. Cut an’ dried. An’ even if it wasn’t, you can’t just bloody wade in on another copper’s patch. No’ without permission,’ said Don. He knew he sounded like a wee brother on the verge of jealously shopping a more adventurous sibling. ‘Look, y’know what ah mean, right? Dodd’s gonnae go Radio fucken Rental if he finds out you’ve spoken to a suspect in a case.’

  ‘A suspect?’

  ‘Well, aye. Fuck sake, Sherman, waken up, eh? Most MPs get found in their uncle’s attic or buried under their da’s tattie patch.’ He sighed.

  ‘But it was a suicide, you said so yourself. If the case is closed, this family can’t be under suspicion, can they?’

  Barbara and Don knew there was something strange about this case. A young man, understood to have been homeless, being fished out of the Clyde with a few signs that he may have been in a violent struggle. The post-mortem had detected an unusual substance in the body’s bloodstream. It wasn’t something the pathologist had regularly encountered. Following extensive testing, methylthioninium chloride was confirmed. Originally noted as misadventure, the death was then officially designated as a suicide. It made no sense at all. Lachlan Wylie wasn’t even registered with the labour exchange, let alone a GP. So where would he get such a drug? And why would he self-administer a little-known treatment used for urinary-tract infections?

  ‘Let it lie, Sherman,’ Don had said. ‘You’re a good copper, but this just isnae worth the attention you’re tryin’ tae give it.’ Don Braithwaite knew that when a suspicious case was closed by the homicide guys, it was because there was a higher purpose at work. Digging around for that purpose was not recommended.

  ‘But nobody cares about these cases, Don. It’s heartbreaking.’

  ‘You sure it’s no’ just this one that’s breakin’ hearts?’

  ‘I can’t deny the personal interest, yes … but you’d be the same. Imagine a youngster from Tollcross Road was missing. That wouldn’t get your attention?’

  ‘Only if it was my case. This wasn’t yours. It was assigned tae somebody else. Somebody way more bloody senior.’

  Barbara Sherman reflected on this conversation regularly on the long journey from Glasgow up to Oban. She was headstrong, certainly. And unlike others on the shift, a bollocking from her sergeant now held little fear for her. And one from further up the division would simply prove she was right to be so inquisitive. She knew she had far more resolve than the tattooed hardmen who often crumbled in the muster room; more strength of character. If only they would give her an opportunity to demonstrate it.

  She arrived an hour before the ferry set sail. She had forgotten how much she hated the five-hour crossing. There were shorter routes, but they added disproportionately to the drive time.

  Once on board, the small vessel she’d always used bounced around on the volatile swells of the Hebridean Sea. A member of the crew calmed the family of a teenager who was vomiting violently as the horizon disappeared. Barbara smiled, remembering her own early voyages.

  Darkness descended as the tiny harbour lights glinted through the fog. Questions jostled for attention. Would Esther Wylie be at the pier to meet her? Would she treat Barbara in the same curt way she had on the telephone? Why was she so indifferent to the strange circumstances of her son’s death? If she didn’t care about him, why did she report him missing?

  It had been the strangest of phone conversations. Initially open, it had seemed to close down when Barbara had revealed their shared background. Attempts to understand more about where the Wylies had lived, or if Esther Wylie had known the Shermans were met with apathy, and then indignation when Barbara said she’d be returning. Well, here she was. Docked and disorientated. Home.

  The following morning, a heavy grey had descended. Barbara had forgotten how quickly such oppressively low cloud cover could trigger a headache. It was as if the available air had been squeezed beyond the sides of the island and out to sea. Barbara found breathing a strain. She trembled as she approached the front door. She had checked the number with five people, desperately hoping that they’d got it wrong. She rang the bell. Minutes passed. A curtain twitched in an upper window. She noticed it. She chapped on the door this time. A proper police officer’s chap. No fucking messing. The door opened. Just enough for both to glimpse into a shared past.

  ‘Mrs McNeil?’

  ‘It used to be.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello Barbara.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘What good would that do now?’

  ‘Look, I came up here to talk about Lachlan, nothing else.’

  Mrs McNeil was taken aback by Barbara’s directness. She had been a shy child, and they hadn’t shared many words, even after the funerals of her parents. The McNeils were a reclusive family. None of the McNeil children were at school when Barbara was there. They didn’t go to school at other times either. Mrs McNeil taught them at home. The blurred photo of Lachlan Wylie in his file in Glasgow was of a young man. Smiling. Taken in an Anderson Bus Station photo booth with a young woman on his knee. A girlfriend, Barbara had assumed. The investigation – such as it was – did not identify the young woman. And appropriate questions about the origins of such a personal photo appeared not to have been asked. As they sat together awkwardly in the McNeils’ front room, it transpired that no one had contacted his mother in person either.

  ‘I got two phone calls. That was it,’ she said. ‘One after I’d reported him gone, initially … it lasted ten minutes. And another, to tell me he was dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Barbara, and meaning it.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For Lachlan.’

  ‘He was known as Lachie.’

  ‘Why did he change his name?’ asked Barbara. All the McNeils had changed their family name, not just the eldest son. When she lived here, Barbara had known the woman sitting in front of her as Mhairi McNeil. Esther was her middle name. Wylie was her maiden name. But Barbara concentrated on the boy.

  ‘He left to see a bit of the place,’ she said, seemingly ignoring the question. ‘Why did you go?’

  ‘It became too small for me. Memories at every turning. Too painful.’

  ‘I think you have your answer,’ said Esther.

  ‘Did Lachie contact you regularly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ever visit him in Glasgow?’

  ‘He was in the city, but I didn’t know where he was. That was the way he wanted it.’

  Barbara was struggling. It occurred to her that sh
e didn’t know what she was trying to determine. But there was something indefinable. Esther was being awkward and obstreperous. Not because Barbara was a policewoman. Not because of the tragedy that connected them. But because there was something she was holding back.

  ‘I never blamed Mr McNeil, you know. For the crash,’ said Barbara.

  Esther was affected by this. Like she’d been punched in the gut by Ken Buchanan. Barbara could see it. The older woman’s resolve had crumbled.

  But it wasn’t true. Barbara Sherman hated Angus McNeil for what he had done. For his recklessness on the road. And for his determination – assisted by his local Catholic community – to cover it up. To shift blame. To avoid investigation. To absolve himself. Esther began to cry. Barbara stood to put a consoling hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  ‘Lachie left because his daddy was ab—’ She stopped. She couldn’t say it. She didn’t need to. It was etched across her face. The pain, the guilt. A mother complicit in her husband’s physical and sexual abuse of their children.

  ‘I persuaded him to leave. To get away. He told me he’d kill his father if he touched him again. I couldn’t cope with the thought of that happening … of Lachie throwing his life away on such a f…’ She stopped. Still mindful of the sins. She wiped her eyes. Composed herself. ‘On such a fucking bastard of a man.’

  Barbara cuddled her. She couldn’t help herself. Esther Wylie tensed. Barbara now understood the whole family’s desire to rid themselves of the McNeil name. Angus McNeil had ruined so many lives. It only made Lachie’s death even more pointless.

  They took a walk in the rain. Past the bend where the accident had happened. Past the pub where several people had lied about Angus’s fitness to drive. Up the hillside to Heavel.