by A. D. Scott
“I’m well thanks. Joanne I called because . . .”
“I’m sorry, Patricia, can we talk later? I have a meeting in a few minutes. I need to organize my thoughts.”
“Oh I’m sure you will wing it. You always do.”
Joanne wondered if there was an implied criticism in that remark.
“Joanne, I need your help,” Patricia continued. “Sandy asked me to call. He is really angry about his boat being on the front page of the Gazette in such a sensationalist newspaper article. Now the Aberdeen paper has picked it up and they keep phoning this house for an interview, so Mummy is furious as well. Please tell Mr. McAllister the boat is gone, end of story.”
“I can’t influence the editor, Patricia. Maybe Sandy should talk to him.”
“He won’t talk to anyone, not even me.”
“Are you and the baby well?” Joanne tried bright and chatty. She didn’t want the discussion—“sensationalist newspaper article” indeed.
“I’m healthy enough. It’s everything else. Daddy is still insisting we live here, in the same house as my mother. Sandy agrees.”
“I’m sure she will come round when the child is born.”
“Your mother didn’t.” And with that remark, Patricia was gone.
Sandy Skinner had been eavesdropping on his wife’s phone conversation.
“That your friend, the interfering one from thon Gazette rag?”
“That was Joanne, yes. She’s promised to do her best to help.” “That’ll be the day.”
Sandy knew instinctively that this was not the time for a quarrel. But he was furious.
None of his plans were working the way they were supposed to. He had charted it all as carefully as the route to a new fishing ground. He kept note of her cycle for a good twelve months, he knew when she was ripe. He had bedded her, made her pregnant, married her, and now he wanted his due.
He lit a cigarette and stared out of the windows across the fields towards the firth, which showed up on the horizon as a grey strip of light.
The loss of the boat was a huge blow, financially and other-wise—he’d learned everything he knew on that boat. He would have said he loved her if he knew how.
Who’d have known a milk bottle and paraffin could sink a boat? He’d deal with the eejit that threw the bottle. He knew there would be no help from his family, even though the boat and the business was rightfully his. He was the firstborn son after all.
No one in his village would help after he took on those west coast boys as crew instead of locals.
The Church would be no help: he’d been thrown out of the Brethren, all for a harmless drink or two.
Then there were the debts. Wriggling out of that situation was proving impossible.
I should’ve taken Pat to see the bank manager. That would impress him, show him what I’ve married into.
Missus Ord Mackenzie should have been a man, he thought, cold auld bag with no tits on her. There hasn’t been a son in their family for generations, all inherited down the women of the family. But I’ll put that right, and ma son will have it all in due course.
It might be fine for my boy, but me, I hate this farming catastrophe. Filthy places, farms, loads o’ stupid animals and even more stupid fellows running around wi’ tractors an’ all, doing the same thing year in year out, never leaving the land, never going anywhere. Me, I’m a hunter, out on the high seas, out in all manner of weather and danger. Thon landsmen are cowards, not real men. They huddle round their fireside the minute a wee storm threatens.
Thinking is no goin’ to get me anywhere, he said to himself, Patricia will have to get me out of this. I can twist her round ma wee finger. Just have to get her away from her ma. What was it she was bleating on about? A honeymoon? Complete load a shite, that. But still. On our own, I can work the charm. Then she’ll see sense.
He put the cigarette out in his teacup and spoke.
“I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should go away for a few days, a wee break, eh? Sort of a honeymoon?”
Patricia’s face said it all.
“Sandy, what a lovely idea. But not too far please, I get really carsick at the moment.”
“Somewhere along Loch Ness, maybe?”
“Perfect.”
Well done, Sandy lad, he told himself. It’ll all work out. Her stuck-up friend from the newspaper will tip her the word on any developments. I’ll squeeze the money out of her father somehow. The old duffer won’t refuse, it being for his grandson and heir, after all. Aye, he thought, me, Sandy Skinner, I’ll be the laird o’ this place afore long.
“The cheek of the woman . . .” Joanne spoke aloud just as Rob arrived in the newsroom.
“What woman?”
“Patricia Ord Mackenzie. I was there for the Easter weekend . . .”
Rob wasn’t listening, his own weekend still tingling in his veins. He felt guilty about the job interview. I can’t keep it secret; I’ll have to tell her.
“Joanne, I went to Aberdeen for . . .”
Don and McAllister arrived. Rob said no more. Mrs. Smart came in and joined them at the table. Hec snuck in last, like a dog unsure of his welcome. He was the Gazette’s photographer, but was he part of the team? He had his doubts about that.
The newsroom buzzed with a morning-after-holiday energy. McAllister spread out last week’s pages on the big communal table.
“Right, let’s get started. Overall impression?”
There was a babble of “great” and “very good” and “like it” and “very happy” and “smashing.” The last word was from Hector. It was currently his favorite word, and he used it for everything and anything.
“Any phone calls?” McAllister asked Don.
“A few” was the reply. “Well all right, more than a few. On Friday I did a ring around the newsagents and shopkeepers. They like it.”
“It sold out at the station,” Rob said. “I tried to buy a copy and they were all gone by ten o’clock.”
“Sold out in Fort William by lunchtime,” Don added.
“On Saturday morning, not usually a busy time for me, I took bookings for advertisements,” Mrs. Smart told them.
“My parents-in-law think it’s easier to read,” Joanne contributed. “That means they like it, and my mother-in-law is not one for changes.” Joanne turned to McAllister. “You haven’t given us your verdict.”
“Early days yet.”
There was a spontaneous groan.
“Sorry,” he laughed. “This edition is good, but we have to keep it up, every week, every year. . . . So, next edition? Front page? Anyone?”
“Last week’s lead story is still good for a follow-up,” Don said, looking at Rob. “Any more from the police?”
“They’ve still no idea who threw the petrol bomb.”
“Maybe I can use my ‘Police Baffled’ headline this week.” Don glared at McAllister, who had changed the heading to a more innocuous, “Police Search for Information.”
“I’ve done a think piece for page five,” Rob continued, “the state of fishing, small boats being squeezed out by the big trawlers, intense rivalry between ports, Icelanders trying to keep all their fish for themselves, that kind of thing. Some are even saying the herring won’t last forever.”
“I’ve some smashing pictures of fishing boats,” Hec contributed.
“Talking of which . . .” McAllister nodded to Joanne, “the fishing boat story. Have you found the skipper, what was his name? Skinner?” McAllister was looking at her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze.
“I did meet the skipper of the boat.”
“And?”
“What I found out is not really relevant to . . .”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“I was in the Black Isle for Easter, staying with Patricia Ord Mackenzie, an old school friend and . . .” She paused.
“And?” McAllister was getting impatient.
“Patricia was married on Thursday, I was her matron of honor, her husband
is Sandy—Alexander—Skinner, the owner of the boat that went on fire.”
“Did you get an interview?” asked McAllister.
“An Ord Mackenzie married a fisherman?” Don.
“Can I take their picture?” Hec.
“I bet she’s up the spout,” Rob.
“Goodness me,” Mrs. Smart.
All this was said all at the same time, simultaneously, overlapping, leaving Joanne flustered and guilty and completely lost as to how to reply to any of the questions.
“Order.” McAllister thumped the table. There was a momentary hush.
“Joanne, firstly, there is no ‘went on fire.’ The boat was fire-bombed. That’s a crime in Scotland. Second, this is a sensational new twist to the story—you should have told us immediately.” McAllister caught the warning glower from Don. “Sorry, I know it must have been awkward for you, but does this Skinner fellow know who threw the bomb?”
“Sorry. Sandy didn’t speak to me much.”
“Did you ask?”
“Sorry, no. After seeing the front page, I doubt he will give an interview to anyone at the Gazette, especially me. Patricia Ord Mackenzie called first thing this morning. She said her husband asked her to ask me to ask you to drop the story.”
“And?”
“I told her Sandy Skinner should speak to you himself.”
“Joanne,” he looked at her carefully, “do you have a conflict with this? Can you continue working on this story, no matter where it may lead?”
“I don’t know. Sorry.”
She was seized by the sensation that she had somehow failed. On her first story, she had not been professional, had not taken the opportunity to question Sandy, to do her job, to grab a scoop, as Rob would have done.
And as the buzz of the newsroom continued around her, as stories were discussed, assignments agreed upon, she felt she would never measure up to the standards of a professional like McAllister.
The meeting over, Joanne and Rob had the reporters’ room to themselves. Joanne was trying to decide how to approach Sandy Skinner for an interview.
Rob was reading the report from Graham Nicolson. “It says here that Sandy Skinner was in Mallaig a couple of months ago, looking for a crew. I bet they had to be Catholic.”
“Oh really?” She was not that interested. She kept starting a sentence, hating what she wrote, and tearing the paper from the machine, scrunching it up into a small ball and throwing it at the top-hat-cum-wastepaper-basket that sat under the only window in the room.
“Catholic crews can fish on a Sunday, or leave on a Sunday night, to get to the fishing grounds before the others. It’s been a source of tension for years. You see, many of the families on the east coast are Brethren, strict Sabbatarians.”
“Sandy Skinner can’t be religious, he married Patricia in the registry office.”
“Maybe that’s what this is all about, a religious dispute,” Rob speculated.
“Maybe.” This time, as she ripped the copy paper from the typewriter, Joanne’s fingers caught the ribbon, which unrolled into a fankle of black. As she tried to thread it back into the spool, the ink stained her fingers, the desk, and the cuff of her best white blouse.
“Blast and double blast!” This was as close to swearing as Joanne got. “Blast this machine and blast this story!”
“I’m happy to take over the story, but you’d be sorry if you give up. It could turn out to be very interesting,” Rob said.
Joanne gave up on the typewriter ribbon. She went to stand in the window. Rain is not far off, Joanne thought, peering through the grimy panes to an equally grimy sky, knowing my luck it will probably sleet.
“It never occurred to me that friendship could get in the way of a story.” She spoke to the clouds, not wanting Rob to see how upset she felt.
“We can work on this together,” he offered, “and whenever it starts to get hairy, blame me.”
“Thanks, Rob, but I have to learn to stick up for myself. Patricia is my oldest friend, but . . . I don’t know what it is, but I sometimes feel . . . used.”
“I know. She’s not my favorite person. We were forced to spend holidays together when I was a child, our fathers are friends.” Rob didn’t elaborate; it would all sound so petty. “Speaking of friendship, I have a confession.”
He told her about the job offer.
“Never! You can’t!” Joanne looked at him, at his cheerful face, his dandelion hair, the way he had of never standing but always leaning in a casual film-star kind of way, and she felt the hot sting of almost tears. “Oh Rob, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It would be great for your career, but I’d miss you.”
“I’d miss you too . . . and all this.” He gestured round a room so tight you could almost touch the walls opposite. “It’s flattering to be asked, and I haven’t made a decision. The idea of a good job on a big Aberdeen newspaper is all very fine, but . . .” he grinned at her, “their accent is so thick I can’t understand a word anyone says.”
At lunchtime, and only because Don told him to help select a shot for the front page, Rob met Hec at his studio, also known as his granny’s washhouse.
Ducking under the clothesline, where negatives and proof sheets were dangling thickly from wall to wall, crisscrossing the tiny space, Rob noted, and was impressed by the custom-built cabinets stretching from floor to ceiling, all neatly labeled according to a classification system known only to Hec. It was then that Rob realized he was in the lair of a true professional.
“Here, take a pew, we’ll sort through these.” Hec handed Rob proof sheets and negatives.
They looked through dozens of, to Rob anyway, very similar shots of fishing boats, and a harbor.
“I can’t do this, Hec, I can’t tell anything from a negative.”
“Fine. I’ll look through the Black Isle negs, you look through the prints.”
In his own kingdom, Hec was different—not such a pest. He was confident, good company. Rob selected about a dozen of what he considered the best shots, then looked at them again. He stared at one particular photograph. He found another similar shot, but the figure was farther in the distance.
“Hec, can you make this bigger? Maybe blow up a part of it?”
“Easy peasy.” Hector looked over the shot. “That one’s no good.” He leaned over Rob, patronizing, a man who knew best. “See, here, the angle’s all wrong, the boat’s only just caught alight, there’s no drama in the composition.”
“So who’s this then?” Rob pointed to a figure on the left of the frame, running along the canal towpath, away from the fire.
“Oh aye, him. I saw him. He was running towards the lock keepers’ house at the end of the canal basin. You know, the locks that lead into the firth.”
“Hector!” Rob didn’t realize he was shouting.
Hector immediately turned defensive, his shoulders hunching, his eyes blinking. “What?”
“Don’t you see?” Rob shook the pictures six inches in front of Hector’s face.
“See what?”
“I give up. You’re hopeless, helpless, and useless.” Rob knew there was no point trying to get sense out of Hector. Instead he gathered up the prints and the negatives and the magnifying glass and drove back to the office where he dumped everything, including Hector, in McAllister’s office.
“You can sort this out,” Rob handed the photographs to the editor, saying, “because if I stay, I’m likely to do him damage.”
McAllister took the prints and the negatives, saw what Rob had seen, then sent Hec home to print out some blowups. It was late afternoon before Hector returned.
The police station was a short walk from the Gazette office. Tucked beneath the castle walls, the too old, too small, too narrow building, its walls imbued with the scent and sound of misery, cast a spell on all who entered. Wee Hec was terrified. McAllister was scared too. Scared that Hec, who was only at the police station because he had been ordered to, would reach up and hold his hand.
&nbs
p; “Detective Inspector Dunne, please.”
They were shown into an office, not an interview room, McAllister noted and approved. This inspector was shaping up to be a huge improvement on the previous detective inspector with whom McAllister had a traumatic history.
McAllister had already told Detective Inspector Dunne of the photographs. Now he handed them over and he and Hec sat in silence as the policeman examined them.
“Thank you for bringing these in.” DI Dunne’s tone was formal, all business. “I’m intrigued by this particular picture,” he pointed to the shot showing a person running along the towpath. “But before we go on to look at these in detail, Mr. Bain . . .”
Hec took a quick look round to check if there was another Bain in the room.
“. . . It’s been eight days since the fishing boat was set on fire. Why didn’t you show these to us until now?”
Hector looked down at his hands and said nothing.
“Answer the Inspector.” McAllister poked him in the arm.
“Because they’re no good, the shot is the wrong angle.” Hec gave an exaggerated sigh, treating DI Dunne as he had treated Rob earlier—as someone who was a complete ignoramus about art. “The pointy bit of the boat is straight on to the camera, so you get no idea of the size of it, and there’s no smoke or flames. . . .”
“Hector.” McAllister’s growl terrified Hector.
When he continued, Hec’s voice had gone up an octave, so he sounded as well as looked eleven years old, “Mr. McAllister said I had to give you these pictures.”
“Do you understand why?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
“These photographs could help us find a criminal.” The policeman was patient, interviewing Hector as he would a child. “They could be important evidence.”
Hector was listening now.
“What I don’t understand is, why didn’t you mention this to the constables at the scene of the crime?”
“The sergeant doesn’t like me.”
“Which sergeant?”
“The fat one. He says I’m a peeper.”
“That must be Sergeant Patience.” A most inappropriately named man, Detective Inspector Dunne always thought. “Is that why you didn’t come in earlier? You’d already spoken to the sergeant?”