The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘But none after that?’

  ‘No. I think after Culloden and its aftermath, which was savage, there was little appetite for armed rebellion, if I may call it that. But the thing to remember is that, to my mind, the Stuarts were never really that interested in Scotland, not since Mary.’

  ‘Queen of Scots?’

  ‘Yes. She came back with her eyes on the English throne, which she thought was rightfully hers. It’s my opinion that she merely wanted to use Scotland as a stepping stone to that. I believe that the Stuart monarchs who followed cared very little for Scotland, unless they needed something. Charles Edward Stuart was the same. He needed an army, the French wouldn’t supply one, so he raised one in Scotland. But he was focused on getting his father’s backside back on that throne in London. Scotland was merely a means to an end. Not a popular view, but it is my own.’

  Rebecca said, ‘Isn’t that the position that new film is taking? That Bonnie Prince – sorry – Charles Edward Stuart was merely using the Scots?’

  ‘It is, which is why they’re using me as an historical advisor. Also, I’m part of a clan battle recreation society which they have found useful in staging the battle itself.’

  ‘That’s proved controversial, hasn’t it, the production’s attitude to Charles, not you being historical advisor?’ Rebecca smiled.

  ‘Well, my involvement isn’t popular either. Spioraid nan Gàidheal are not my biggest fans, it has to be said. That’s reciprocated, though.’

  ‘So, they don’t like the film’s portrayal of Charles Edward Stuart as – what?’

  ‘Frankly, a drunken, spoiled brat who would perhaps not be so romantic a figure as he is today if he hadn’t shown courage and daring while he was escaping Scotland after the slaughter over there on the moor. The film does show that side of him, that his experiences here did have an effect on him and that he did have affection for his Scottish army. But more importantly they don’t like the script showing a more human side of the Duke of Cumberland.’

  Rebecca dragged one of those nuggets from her memory. ‘He commanded the government forces, right? He ordered the slaughter of the wounded.’

  ‘He did, and he also oversaw the quite brutal reprisals that followed. They wanted to dismantle the clan system to ensure that the clans could not rise again. Between that and the Clearances that followed, the traditional Highland way of life was gone for ever. It was a brutal period, certainly, and Cumberland had blood on his hands, but the scriptwriters didn’t want to show him just as a monster. He was human, like the rest of us. He was capable of terrible things – most of us are – but we are all still human. So, just as Charles was far from perfect, Cumberland is being shown as far from monstrous. He is, in fact, the conquering hero of the title and I’m told they intend using a piece of music by Handel in the score.’

  Rebecca was no classical music buff, but she vaguely remembered reading a story about Handel and his composition celebrating the defeat of the Jacobites at Culloden – maybe that was what the woman was talking about.

  ‘But that’s not the only thing Spioraid don’t like,’ Anna went on, before Rebecca had the chance to ask. ‘They don’t like an English actor playing Charles – even though he was by birth half Polish and was born on the continent. But, more importantly, they object to the casting of a black actor as one of Charles Stuart’s advisors.’

  ‘Was this person black in real life?’

  ‘No. But it’s all about diversity, isn’t it? It’s common – the film a couple of years ago about Mary had a black actor playing the English ambassador. Spioraid can’t stomach that and have lashed out publicly and – I think – in secret against the production. They’re merely a bunch of bigots in tartan. They may fall short of pulling bedsheets over their heads and burning crosses – an old clan tradition, by the way, usurped by morons – but that doesn’t mean they aren’t racist arseholes.’

  ‘What do you mean, in secret?’

  Anna fell silent for a moment, then sat up again, grasped her mug in both hands and stared at the coffee. ‘This can go no further because it’s not my place to talk about it. The production company has gone to great lengths not to make these things public.’

  Rebecca leaned over towards the desk and thumbed the recorder to OFF. ‘Then I’ll keep it off the record.’

  That seemed to satisfy her. ‘Good. There have been – em – incidents on the set and at the production compound. Break-ins. Acts of vandalism. Unexplained fires – nothing major, but still, a fire is a fire. And the actor I mentioned, the black one? He’s had to have security with him at all times.’

  ‘He’s been threatened?’

  ‘Yes. There is a strong suggestion that Spioraid is responsible. Or their bully boys in New Dawn. I’ve been threatened, too.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Strange phone calls in the middle of the night. God knows how they found my number. Two letters. Unlike those politicians the other day, no mysterious powder, though. I’ve alerted the post room here, just in case.’

  ‘Have you told the police?’

  ‘Yes, they know. But what can they do? The production has a very efficient security team now. Donahue Security. But that didn’t prevent the most recent incident.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Anna paused again and Rebecca could tell she regretted going down this particular path. ‘I’m not supposed to know about it. I really shouldn’t be talking about it. The police don’t even know, because the man in charge doesn’t want to risk the publicity. He’s the one who insists that news of the vandalism doesn’t get out, starving Spioraid of the oxygen of publicity and all that.’

  ‘I promise none of this will be printed, unless at some point it leaks and we have to. All of this is background for now.’

  Still Anna hesitated. Then she sighed. ‘Ah well, these things do leak out eventually. There was another break-in, a couple of nights ago, at the production compound. It’s a bit away from the set. They have built a village for the scenes after the battle and also found a bit of land among the hills to recreate the battle itself. You can’t have actors and extras and film crews tramping all over the real site, of course. The compound houses the production offices and also a large warehouse for the costumes, hundreds of them.’

  Rebecca felt excitement burn. She knew what was coming next. ‘Someone stole a Highlander costume, didn’t they?’

  Anna’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  Rebecca regretted blurting out her question. She mentally cursed herself. Elspeth would not have made such a rookie error. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.’

  The historian scrutinized her from across the desk. ‘This has a bearing on the murder, doesn’t it?’

  Shit, shit, shit. ‘I really am sorry, but I can’t say anything. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention . . .’

  Anna waved away the suggestion. ‘Yes, yes – I won’t say a word.’

  Rebecca was relieved, although she still berated herself for her stupidity. ‘Has this theft been reported to the police?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. John Donahue, the man who owns Donahue Security, is an absolute nut for secrecy. It wouldn’t reflect well on him and his company, would it? Security is heightened and yet a bunch of right-wing nutjobs can still get in and steal costumes? Perhaps it should be, though, given our conversation today.’

  ‘But you don’t think he will?’

  ‘I doubt it. I can’t do it, either. I have signed an agreement with the production company not to talk out of school about anything I see or hear on set. If I broke that, it would reflect badly not just on me but the university.’

  ‘Yet you’ve spoken to me about the problems.’

  ‘I have indeed.’ Her eyes probed. ‘Journalists still protect sources, don’t they?’

  Rebecca understood. Anna could not report the matter herself but she could. The subject of confidentiality regarding journalistic sources was complex, but Rebecca didn’t think the police wou
ld press for a name.

  Then something else occurred to her. ‘You said “costumes”, plural. So there was more than one taken?’

  Anna took a breath. Rebecca waited.

  ‘There was another costume taken that night,’ Anna said. ‘That of a government soldier.’

  18

  It is his smell the child remembers most. It is not overpowering and is only apparent when he is close. On those occasions when he doesn’t merely return back down the stairs.

  It isn’t body odour, it is a musk that is perhaps peculiar to him. A mixture of sweat and food and cigarette smoke. And bitterness and rage and all the disappointment of his life. And then he locks the door again and returns to family life below, taking his desires and his musk with him.

  The child hears him sometimes, fighting with her. The child seldom sees the woman, can barely remember the name of the man’s wife now, thinks of her only as her. The child hates the man but despises her.

  Because she knows.

  The woman knows what is happening on the floor above and she does nothing. When her husband leaves her to head upstairs, is anything said? She has to know what he is going upstairs to do and she does nothing.

  Nothing.

  Women aren’t like that, the child has always believed. Women are sensitive and caring and nurturing.

  Not that woman. Not her.

  She is as bad as her husband. Maybe worse, because she does nothing.

  And then there is the son. The child sees him now and again, passing by the doorway as his father lingers. A thin, sallow-faced boy, his eyes haunted and shadowed with pain. When they speak, at breakfast, at meals, nothing is said of consequence between them. The child wonders if he suffers too, if sometimes the father turns his attentions towards him. Or is the look in those dark eyes something else? Is it guilt? Does the son feel a remorse the father never did?

  But the father does feel something, the child knows that, even if he does not know it himself. The day after every visit he brings a new toy. Or a book. Or a video to watch on the little TV in the corner. And he is a different man on those days. He strokes the child’s hair and he smiles. Nothing is mentioned of the other visits, the less pleasant ones with the pain and the tears. Sometimes he watches the video with the child, sitting on the little single bed together, the child cradled in the crook of his arm, head against his shoulder, breathing in that warm musky odour and wondering why every day couldn’t be like that.

  But whatever it is the man feels on those occasion, it is not powerful enough to stop him coming back.

  The footsteps on the stairs.

  The pause.

  The unlocking of the door.

  The hesitation.

  The breathing.

  The smell of him as he draws closer.

  There is a lot of guilt in that house. The father. Perhaps the son. And her? Does she feel guilt? Is that why sometimes quiet sobs creep down the hallway in the night to lurk in corners like secrets? Are those tears all that remain of what had once been her compassion?

  The child wonders these things, alone in that room, with only the toys and the little TV and the sounds of the rain pattering against the opaque window for company.

  19

  The hands-free device clipped to the visor wasn’t top of the range – at a tenner from a petrol station it was never going to be – but it was good enough for Rebecca’s needs. She still had to physically accept calls, which involved that tricky thumb sliding technique on the phone screen that she detested, and terminate them, which was a much simpler punch of a red button, but at least she didn’t need to hold the phone to talk. She knew all the restrictions about using phones while driving but it was no worse than chatting to someone in the car. At least, that’s how she justified it.

  ‘So, do you think this Fowler woman told you that about the costume purposely? I mean, she knew she was telling you?’ Elspeth’s voice crackled from the cheap speaker. A light rain dribbled across the windscreen and the wipers scraped across the glass. Rebecca was on the A9, heading back to the office, aware that she was already ten minutes over her allotted hour. Barry would not have bothered unduly about something like that, unless it became a habit, but the project manager was an unknown quantity. He might want to flex his authoritarian muscles.

  ‘Well, I didn’t drug her or waterboard her, Elspeth.’

  ‘You know what I mean. She told you for a reason?’

  ‘Yes, I think she wants me to report it to the police. She doesn’t want to breach her agreement with the production company by going directly to the law with it.’

  ‘She’s breached that already by telling you.’

  ‘Yes, but there are degrees, I suppose. Going to the law is official. Telling me, knowing I won’t give up a source, is an indirect way of doing it. So what do you think?’

  The line fell silent, or as silent as her cheap kit allowed. The shower had passed and the wipers groaned a little against the glass, so Rebecca flicked them off. ‘I think we pass it on,’ Elspeth said. ‘I said we would and it would show good faith. We can’t use the clothes angle yet anyway.’

  ‘So shall I contact them or will you?’

  ‘No, let’s give your source a further degree of separation. I’ll do it. I’ll phone Roach direct.’

  In her heart she knew that Elspeth feared she might crumble under police pressure to reveal her source, but she was relieved to be spared talking to DCI Roach. The detective looked shrewd and tough, and Rebecca was not sure herself she wouldn’t crack. She hoped she would never be put to the test.

  Rebecca asked, ‘You think we should check with the production company ourselves?’

  ‘Might be worth a call, just to keep them on their toes. But let’s leave it for a day, let the police make their inquiries. That way we further protect your source because, if the cops move on it right away, then the company might think the leak came from them. Let’s keep your Professor Fowler on-side. It never hurts to have an expert on our team. And I’ve a feeling about this story. It’s all about the past.’

  20

  Val Roach knew John Donahue by reputation only. As a former detective chief superintendent in Glasgow his foul temper was legendary. It was said he had the ability to make grown men cry. And these were men who had faced down hardened Glasgow thugs with nothing more than a baton and a few choice phrases. By rights, this trip should have been made by a couple of detective constables, but Edward Moore, the young officer detailed to contact Donahue, who now ran security for the film production company, had been given short shrift. Donahue was too busy, DC Moore had been told. He didn’t see why a murder more than seventy miles away had anything to do with him. And then, just to emphasise it, Moore was told once again that Donahue was busy and the phone was put down.

  When the information regarding the stolen costumes was passed along, Roach called the man herself, but he didn’t answer. She tried three times but no one picked up. That was when she shouted to ‘Yul’ Bremner that she was taking a field trip, that he should hold the fort, and told young Edward he was behind the wheel.

  To be truthful, she was grateful that Donohue had proved to be prickly and uncooperative because she didn’t like being stuck in the office. She knew the donkey work should be carried out by other members of the team, but she hated paperwork, hated sitting behind a desk, hated the bureaucratic nuts and bolts of any investigation. She could do them well, and better than most, but what she really enjoyed was being out and talking to people. Donahue had given her the ideal excuse, even though the trip down the Great Glen from Inverness to Fort William would take up the entire afternoon. However, if the McTaggart woman’s tip proved to be genuine, confirming that the clothes had come from the film set could be some sort of breakthrough. After all, they had bugger all else. It had crossed Roach’s mind that the Highlander gear might have originated there, but with no report of a theft it didn’t seem that vital. Now, though, a visit from a senior officer was just what was needed.

&nb
sp; At least, that’s how she justified it to herself. Her boss might see it differently, but she’d cross that bridge once she’d burned it.

  It had turned out to be a reasonably decent day, for March at any rate. It wasn’t raining now, which in Scotland is always a blessing, and the sun was doing its best to break through the slate-coloured cloud cover. Edward Moore wasn’t the talkative sort, which she appreciated, so she was able to consider the case as they weaved down the north-western side of Loch Ness. Thinking time, that’s what she liked. And there was lots to think about here. An unidentified male, the post-mortem showing he’d been pumped with heroin, although no sign he was a user. A Highland costume. And the sword sticking out of him like it was waiting for King Arthur.

  Mysteries, mysteries . . . Too many mysteries.

  A day after the inquiry kicked off, she still had no idea who the dead man was. It was too early for any DNA to hit – that’s if his genetic material was on the register – and his fingerprints did not appear to be on file.

  DS Bremner had attended the PM, which was a relief because she also hated observing the ‘dice and slice’ side of a murder investigation. It wasn’t that she couldn’t stand the sight of blood – she had grown used to that – but it was all so clinical. The impeccably clean room itself; the gleaming instruments; the smell of disinfectant; the calm, measured voice of the pathologist as they dissected, removed, weighed, measured and described wounds, contusions, lacerations, organs. It was all so impersonal. She knew such detachment was necessary, she knew to do her job she also had to remain objective, but the post-mortem suite was too much for her.