A Double Death on the Black Isle

by A. D. Scott

  “Well?” McAllister asked when Joanne and Rob rushed in.

  “We have a front page,” Rob told them. “Trouble is we have only part of the story.”

  “Something more is about to happen,” Joanne said. “I feel it in my bones.”

  “When? I need this story now.” Don was standing with what few pages he had ready for the typesetters.

  “The fiscal dropped the charges against the McPhee brothers,” Rob announced.

  “He what?” McAllister stared.

  “I wasn’t expecting that.” Don was equally surprised. “What happened?”

  Rob had their attention. “I don’t really know. Maybe Joanne can explain.”

  She did.

  “Let me get this straight,” McAllister said when she had finished, “Mrs. Munro was asked what she saw or heard that was absolutely ordinary and she wouldn’t answer the question?”

  “Couldn’t,” Joanne said. “She started sobbing and couldn’t stop. A doctor was called.”

  “So what happens now?” Rob asked.

  “You go straight round to the fiscal’s office and get a statement,” McAllister told him.

  “And don’t come back until you have the full story.”

  Rob left.

  “Joanne,” McAllister continued, “you write up this morning’s events. You have two hours.” She had a flash of panic, followed by a flash of pride. She took out her notebook, glanced at it, and started to type. Don’t think about it, she told herself, just picture it, and write it.

  McAllister turned to Don. “You have Rob’s copy for the first two days of the trial?”

  “Aye,” Don told him, “subbed and set.”

  “Fine. What else needs doing?”

  “A bottle or two will sweeten the printers if we have to run late,” Don informed him.

  “Aye, but it would need much more than a bottle to delay the trains and the buses and the ferries so we can get the Gazette out to the Highlands and islands.”

  “True,” Don said. “The only other solution is to fall down on yer knees and pray we have the full story in the next three hours.”

  “We will,” McAllister said firmly, more to reassure himself than from certainty.

  “You want to bet? Five shilling for each hour past five o’clock.”

  “A pound if we have the full story before five o’clock?”

  Don considered the odds. “Done,” he said. They shook on it.

  No one from the office of the procurator fiscal would speak to Rob, nor to any of the other reporters.

  “We will be issuing a statement tomorrow at midday,” the clerk announced.

  “That’s your deadline gone,” the skinny fellow from the Aberdeen daily reminded Rob.

  Sergeant Patience was on desk duty at the police station when Rob arrived. He had been told that no information was to be given out regarding the case, especially to the gentlemen of the press.

  When Sergeant Patience looked at Rob, he remembered writing that letter. He had not and never would recover from having to apologize to Hector Bain. Then there was the lecture from DI Dunne.

  How did the inspector put it? “We must maintain good relations with the Highland Gazette”? So, I’ve been told, “no reporters,” but on the other hand . . .

  The policeman looked around. No one was near. He beckoned Rob closer. Rob smelled engine oil on the sergeant and was momentarily distracted.

  “Hang around outside,” the policeman muttered. “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned back to his paperwork.

  “Great,” Rob grinned. He spotted the ingrained oil in the cuticles around the nails of the sergeant’s big hams of hands. “I can see you’re a mechanic.”

  “What? Oh right.” The sergeant was flustered. He spent hours scrubbing the oil off, but no use, some always remained. “I’m restoring a bike.”

  “A motorbike?”

  “A BSA. One o’ the first ones ever made.”

  “Really? Can I come and see it? I love bikes.” Rob was genuinely interested.

  “Aye, I’ve seen you and your Triumph around the place.” The sergeant thought it over. “I could show it to you on Sunday.”

  Rob walked out to the Castle Wynd to wait. One more triumph for me, he thought, Police Sergeant Patience is my new best friend.

  Rob waited an hour and a half. He didn’t mind. Sergeant Patience appeared on the steps. He beckoned. WPC Ann McPherson was at the reception desk.

  “Hiya, Ann. What’s happening?” Rob was pleased to see her. He had gone out with her a few times, but she was too much the policewoman for it to work.

  “Detective Inspector Dunne will speak to you now.” She had gone formal on Rob.

  “Aren’t there any other journalists with you?” the chief inspector asked when Rob walked into his office. Then he smiled. “Don’t worry, Rob, you’re the local press, you’re the first to be told, as I know you have a deadline. The others can get the information from the procurator fiscal’s office tomorrow.”

  He switched to his professional persona.

  “Mr. Alistair Munro of Achnafern Estate, the Black Isle, Ross & Cromarty, has confessed to hitting his son Fraser Munro. Fraser Munro subsequently died. Alistair Munro pushed the body into the ditch, where he pretended to discover it an hour later.”

  Rob stared at the policeman and the policewoman. “Are you sure?”

  “That is Mr. Munro’s statement.”

  “Has he been charged?”

  “Not yet. The fiscal’s office is finalizing the charges. Mr. Alistair Munro is in custody. He is being represented by Calum Sinclair. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Will Mr. Munro be allowed bail?” Rob asked.

  Inspector Dunne was a decent person. He felt nothing but pity for Mr. and Mrs. Munro.

  “I hope so,” he replied. “Patricia Ord Mackenzie is going assurance for him. I hope it can all be sorted before the day’s end.”

  Rob ran the short distance to the office. He charged into the reporter’s room.

  “Allie Munro has confessed to hitting Fraser and putting him in the ditch.”

  “Never!” Joanne was shocked. Mr. Munro was the last person she suspected. But it made a kind of sense. “Poor Mrs. Munro.”

  McAllister looked at the clock. It was seven minutes to five.

  “You owe me a quid,” he told Don.

  “Don’t I know it,” Don replied. “Right, boys and girls, let’s get going. Joanne, where’s your copy? Rob, get on wi’ it. McAllister, you finish the last o’ the sports pages, I haven’t the time.”

  Another deadline, another issue of the Highland Gazette, and another scoop—but there was no rejoicing.

  By early evening all that remained was to finalize the “wee fiddly bits,” Don’s immortal phrase.

  McAllister was at the reporters’ table, leaning back in his chair, smoking—a pose that would become part of the McAllister legend.

  Joanne was making small stacks of copy she couldn’t be bothered filing. Not tonight.

  Rob was completing a list of records he wanted to buy.

  Don came into the silence and laid the proof of the front page on the table. He lit up, then started.

  “We had this auld dog,” he took an audible draw on the cigarette. “Nearly fifteen she was and had arthritis something terrible, couldney walk, so it was time to put her down. Ma father went for his gun, and we took her out to the back o’ the byre. I was thirteen and I’d know Bess all my life. Dad said to leave, so I looked at her one last time. I’ve never forgotten her eyes. She knew.”

  He took his pencil from behind his ear, and after a nod from McAllister, he signed off on the front page.

  “Aye,” Don said. “I’d rather think about ma auld dog than this.”

  He tapped the headline.

  “Father Confesses to Killing Son.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The McPhee trial had been over for three weeks, and Joanne was back to juggling work and two schoolchildren. It was e
ven more difficult now the long summer school holiday had started.

  The girls occasionally stayed with Chiara, but mostly they stayed with their granny. They were the only children that Annie knew whose mother worked, but instead of feeling the stigma, Annie enjoyed the freedom it gave her.

  At first she thought it was because she was almost ten that her granny let her wander on her own for the first time. She went to the swimming pool by herself, to the library on her own, and was allowed to take her bike to the islands unsupervised. In spite of the natural self-absorption of a child, she began to notice that Granny Ross was different. And Granddad Ross was being extra nice.

  Granny’s not angry, Annie thought. She’s not sick. Unable to diagnose a case of disillusionment, she left it as one of those imponderables that affected adults.

  Joanne walked into the kitchen in the late afternoon to collect the girls. Late July, summer was full-blown, not yet tipped into the excess of August. The nights were still bright, the days still warm—mostly. But the heather was not yet in bloom.

  “Hello, Mum, I hope they were good.”

  “Course we were,” Wee Jean answered on her granny’s behalf.

  “Don’t be cheeky,” Joanne laughed. “Run and tell Annie I’m here and get your bags.”

  “Tea?”

  “I’d love a quick cup.” Joanne was still on her mission to be extra nice to her mother-in-law and wasn’t finding it at all an effort.

  Mrs. Ross warmed the pot, spooned in the tea, poured in the boiling water, and set the cozy on the pot.

  Joanne asked, “Mum, what are your plans for the Black Isle Show? Patricia has invited us to spend the night at Achnafern Grange.”

  “Has she now?” Mrs. Ross said with all the enthusiasm of a cat contemplating the rain.

  “I know you always meet Mrs. Munro and . . . Mum, is anything the matter?”

  “It’s not for me to say.”

  “Mum, please.” Joanne caught the brightness in her eyes, the tremble in her hand. “Sit down, I’ll pour. Tell me what’s the matter.”

  “It’s not my business.” Mrs. Ross folded her arms across her pinny.

  Seeing that gesture—the arms defensive across the bosom—Joanne knew no explanation would be forthcoming.

  “We’ll all go to the show together,” Joanne suggested. “Afterwards Patricia can take us back to Achnafern. She has her own car now so we won’t have to wait around for Mrs. Ord Mackenzie.”

  “Bill usually comes to the show wi’ us all,” Granny Ross said, waiting while Joanne struggled for an answer.

  “I don’t see why he can’t come with us,” Joanne offered, but she would be amazed if Bill agreed to come with them—she knew he would much rather be with his drinking cronies.

  “You don’t mind?” Mrs. Ross asked.

  “Mum, he is the girls’ father. I have made it clear to him he should spend time with the girls. I have no problem if he wants to come with you and Granddad and the girls.” And I will make myself scarce, she thought.

  Going with Bill to the Black Isle Show had been an annual ordeal almost as bad as Hogmanay; he was usually so drunk by mid-afternoon that Joanne and the girls would pretend he weren’t with them.

  “We’ll see,” Granny Ross said. “I’m helping in the Women’s Institute tea tent as usual, but I’m not sure Agnes will be there this year. Her man certainly won’t.”

  So that is what’s upsetting her, Joanne thought as she walked home—it’s unknown for someone from the farms to miss the Black Isle Show and it’s probably the first time since they were children that Allie and Agnes Munro would not be attending.

  Joanne knew Mr. Munro was waiting for his hearing before the sheriff, but was not in custody. Patricia told her that Mrs. Munro was keeping very quiet.

  “She’s even avoiding me,” Patricia had said over the telephone.

  The next morning, Joanne was writing an item on the forthcoming show, reminding Gazette readers of the attractions, the judging classes, and giving advance notice of new events. The press release from the Black Isle Agricultural Society was informative but dull.

  “This press release is as boring as my social life,” Joanne complained.

  “McAllister will take you out on the town.”

  “Don!” Joanne protested.

  “McAllister!” Don shouted towards the open door of the editor’s office, “Joanne needs a person to take her on a date.”

  “Don!” she protested for the second time.

  McAllister came in. “Where would you like to go? Dinner? The pictures? A drive to Nairn or Strathpeffer, somewhere out of town to preserve your reputation?”

  “Good idea,” Rob said.

  “Hold on you lot,” Joanne said as she looked across the table at Don and McAllister and at Rob, who was sitting beside her. “Do I get to make a decision in all this?”

  “He’s free.” Don pointed at McAllister. “He’s paying. . . .”

  McAllister nodded in agreement.

  “You’ve chucked your husband out. . . .”

  “Don!” she was laughing and blushing.

  “So what’s your problem?” Don finished.

  “A babysitter.”

  “I’ll volunteer,” Rob said.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. I don’t see why I can’t go out with a friend.” Joanne grinned, but couldn’t help thinking, If someone sees us it will be all over town.

  “Thank you, Don,” she said. “As you so kindly pointed out I’m a free agent so, McAllister, how about the film at the La Scala? The one with Grace Kelly.”

  “Agreed,” McAllister said. “You get to watch Grace and Frank and Bing and I get to hear Louis Armstrong. But I do believe you’ve seen it before, Mrs. Ross.”

  “Three times, Mr. McAllister. And I still love it.” She laughed. “One condition, though. I am not going to sit in the back row with all those necking teenagers. I want to see the film.”

  “We shall have a very chaste date at the cinema. I might even treat you to some chocolates.”

  “It takes more than a box of chocolates to get round me, John McAllister.”

  McAllister arrived at Joanne’s pre-fab five minutes after Rob. Annie answered the door.

  “Hello, Mr. McAllister,” she said, “Mum is ready to go out with you.”

  Annie approved of Mr. McAllister. He treated her the same as he treated everyone and never once bent his long, lanky frame to talk to a girl half his height.

  “Stay out as late as you want,” Rob told them. He turned back to the girls, “Now, where were we?”

  “I’m the princess, you’re the baddie,” Wee Jean said. “Can we start now?”

  “Give us time,” Rob laughed. “Annie and I still have to write the play.”

  It was late when the girls finally went to bed. The play had been a great success. Even Rob had enjoyed it. At the end, the baddie turned into a prince, he was allowed to kiss the princess, and they all lived happily ever after.

  “I stole the idea from Prince Rainier,” he told Annie. “A film star and a prince . . . not the most original script we’ll ever write.”

  But Annie didn’t care. Rob had listened to her suggestions, and they had written their very own play.

  “I’m going to be on television one day,” Rob had told her, and Annie was absolutely sure he would be.

  McAllister left the car in the station car park. In full view of the bar, and on the busiest street in town, Joanne thought, not exactly discrete.

  Outside the cinema there was a long queue for tickets. The weather had turned dreich in the space of an hour. Intermittent rain fell on the waiting queue, and gusts of wind swirled around their legs. McAllister looked questioningly at Joanne. She found a solution.

  “Rhona.”

  An embarrassed teenager saw Joanne and blushed. She was with a boy her parents detested.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ross.”

  “Would you get us some tickets?” Joanne asked the girl. “We’re going across the road
for a coffee before the film starts.” McAllister produced a ten-shilling note.

  “Oh aye. Of course.”

  “And don’t look so worried,” Joanne reassured her. “I know you’re babysitting at my place.”

  Sitting in the steamy window seat of the café, looking across to the slowly moving line, the commissionaire at the heavy swing doors, and the crowded, brightly-lit foyer, they waited.

  “I’d never have dreamt this town could be so busy,” McAllister observed.

  “It’s Friday night and it’s the only warm place to do your courting. Even you should remember that. Or hadn’t they invented the cinema when you went courting?”

  “In my day, they hadn’t invented electric.”

  “I knew they were backward in Glasgow.”

  They sipped their coffee, with Joanne creening over the back of the mock-leather banquettes from time to time to check the progress of the queue. She suddenly slithered down the seat.

  “I don’t believe it!”

  McAllister turned to see what had caught her attention.

  “Don’t look.” Joanne grabbed his arm. Rhona came rushing in.

  “Here’s your tickets, Mrs. Ross,” she said, dropping them on the table. “I have to run.”

  McAllister took them. “We should go now if we want decent seats.”

  Joanne was shaking and peeking over the booth, staring down the street towards the couples still lined along the pavement. It took him a moment to realize she was fighting to control her mirth.

  “Will you please tell me what’s going on?” he asked. “I hate missing the beginning of a film.”

  “We’re not going.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look. Just before the ticket booth. See?”

  He peered through the darkening evening. It took him a moment to register the scene. There, caught in the bright lights of the foyer, was the unmistakable outline of Betsy Buchanan. Her male companion turned to her and offered her what looked like a box of chocolates. He was rewarded with a hug. Then the two of them went arm in arm over the red carpet towards the usher, who took their tickets, then opened the heavy door into the cinema.

  “I bet he bought tickets for a private box.” Joanne could now sit up.