The Interpretations

  He could just about handle barcodes but it was with communications technology that he had a really difficult relationship. He’d managed to learn how to use a computer – the word-processing side of it, at least – and he had even succeeded in mastering email, though he had never explored the Internet further than this. His main difficulty lay with telephones, particularly the mobile variety. For a journalist, he would freely admit, this was a bit of a handicap.

  There was one phone in Jim’s flat. When he was at home and awake, it was switched to answerphone; when he was at home and asleep, it was unplugged. He had a mobile phone which only two people knew the number of. The first was Jim’s editor, Bloomingfield; the second – and only recently, since his accident – was Mike Delvan. When Jim carried the phone with him it was usually switched off. But he didn’t take it with him very often. Most of the time, he left it at home.

  On Wednesday, four days after Miss Crystal’s leaving party, Jim left the Herald offices at one thirty and went home to pick up ‘Island Years’ which he intended to return to the Reverend McFarren later in the day. While at home he noticed there was a message on his mobile phone. It was from Mike Delvan: ‘Hi Jim. I know how we can find Tom. The star fruit have been most successful. Bring more.’

  He wanted to go to the hospital straight away but he had copy to deliver by four o’clock and he was struggling. And first he had to have lunch. He set off for the Din.

  He had just started on his quiche and green salad when Bohespic approached, pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said.

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Yes. I think you’re probably right.’

  ‘Well,’ Jim said, ‘it’s a conclusion most people arrive at sooner or later.’

  Bohespic leaned forward. ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie,’ he confided. ‘Now, you haven’t mentioned it to anyone, have you?’

  ‘Not a soul.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Bohespic sat back in his chair. ‘Maybe not such a good idea after all,’ he said. ‘What with Culloden not that far away. And the Glenfiddich Monument.’

  Jim said, ‘You’re well out of it, believe me. Too expensive to set up and you could never be sure you’d get enough visitors.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking myself. That Wade idea, though . . .’

  ‘Wade?’ Jim said, hoping his alarm was not audible. ‘What about Wade?’

  ‘The Wade Experience. Your idea, remember?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘The same kind of problems,’ Bohespic said with resignation.

  ‘Oh, I agree,’ Jim said. ‘On second thoughts it’s probably just as risky.’

  ‘Right. Well.’

  Bohespic paused. As Jim took another mouthful of quiche he felt sure that the landlord was going to lean forward and confide in him once more.

  Which he duly did. ‘Jet ski,’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A jet ski centre. These warehouses are very close to the shoreline.’

  ‘Jet ski,’ Jim repeated.

  ‘Yes. You know, those wee things like scooters . . .’

  ‘I know what they are,’ Jim said.

  ‘Well, I’ve done a bit of research. They’re not that expensive, actually. Start with, say, fifty. Hire them out . . . I don’t know . . . ten pounds an hour, something like that . . . and you don’t need to do that much to the warehouses. I mean . . .’

  He stopped, intimidated perhaps by Jim’s blank look. ‘What do you think?’ he said at last.

  Jim put down his knife and fork. He wondered if it was possible to save this man from his own stupidity. Probably not. ‘I can think of one major problem,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, actually, no. I can think of several major problems but let’s just look at one for the moment.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘The two hundred yard walk to the water.’

  Bohespic looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘It’s just there. The water’s right there.’

  ‘That’s at high tide. At low tide it’s two hundred yards away. Haven’t you seen it at low tide?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘It comes in and goes out,’ Jim went on. ‘In and then out. Or, if you prefer, out and then in. It doesn’t really matter but that’s what it does. I don’t know for sure but I’d say that the water would be close up to the warehouses for only three, maybe four hours in a day. I’m sorry but a jet ski centre won’t work. It’s a daft idea.’ He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat his quiche again.

  Bohespic remained at the table but said nothing for about half a minute. Then he said, ‘You don’t think I should do it then?’

  ‘No, I do not,’ Jim said. ‘Definitely not. Please, please, please don’t even think about doing it.’

  ‘Right.’

  This time Bohespic really did look hurt. Not quite crushed but certainly hurt. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘Thanks for that.’ He rose to go.

  Jim said, ‘Hold on, hold on. Come on, Andrew, sit down.’ He couldn’t remember if he’d ever called Bohespic Andrew before but he did now. ‘Sit down a minute,’ he said.

  When Bohespic had sat down again, Jim went on, ‘Look, I know you’re keen to get a hold of those warehouses. And you’re probably right. They could be the basis for a good business.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, what are you good at?’ Jim asked.

  ‘What am I good at?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘It’s staring you in the face,’ Jim said. ‘Look around you.’ He gestured to the crowded bar. ‘This place is packed. It’s completely packed. You provide good food at reasonable prices and, as far as I know, the same goes for the booze. I’ve no idea how much you make here but it’s obviously a successful business . . .’

  ‘Open a pub?’ Bohespic said, surprised.

  ‘Or a restaurant. I’ll tell you what, it’ll be easier to get planning permission for a restaurant than for a jet ski centre. And you wouldn’t have to bother about the tide. It’s a beautiful view whether the tide’s in or out. Lots of space for parking, too. People would turn up in droves.’

  ‘A lot of set up costs,’ Bohespic said.

  ‘Quite right. A big conversion job on the warehouses. But you might get a grant to cover part of it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask. You’ve got a solicitor?’

  ‘McElwin.’

  ‘He knows all about this stuff. Half an hour chat with him, he’ll put you right.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Bohespic looked happier now. ‘Staring me in the face, as you say. Certainly worth making a few enquiries, yes. But, well, let’s see . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What would I call the place?’

  Jim wasn’t quite able to suppress a sigh. ‘Let me work on that, OK?’ he said.

  He was back at his desk at the Herald by 2.15. Bloomingfield came into his office ten seconds later. ‘Change of plan,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Jim looked up at him.

  ‘That piece on the new mart . . . scrap it.’

  ‘Just the piece or could we scrap the mart as well?’

  ‘Market forces will take care of that little issue, no doubt,’ Bloomingfield said.

  ‘Soon I hope. Monstrosity of a place. Have you been there yet?’

  ‘Happily, no. But I have been to the Clearances Memorial.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘To check the damage.’

  ‘What damage?’

  ‘Christ, Jim, try to keep up, eh? Don’t you read the newspapers?’

  ‘I’ve got a stack of Heralds in the toilet,’ Jim replied. ‘I occasionally glance at them before I allow them to fulfil their prime purpose.’

  Bloomingfield shook his head. ‘Do you ever wonder if you’re in the right job?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I used to, but I don’t any more. No, I’m
quite sure I’m in the right job. It’s the incisive, in-depth reporting that really gives me a buzz. You know, all those vital, life-changing issues that you get me to cover. That piece last week on the Free Church bring-and-buy sale and . . . and the North Treshie Ladies’ Whist Drive last Friday. I mean, where would the Herald be without the dramatic tension I bring to bear on these and other fascinating events?’

  ‘Actually,’ Bloomingfield said, ‘I think some of your stuff recently has been shite.’

  ‘Oh, no no no,’ Jim said quickly. ‘No, you’re quite wrong there. ALL of my stuff recently has been shite. It’s just that some of it’s good shite and some is really crap shite.’

  In spite of himself, Bloomingfield smiled. He tossed half a dozen Polaroid photos onto Jim’s desk. ‘This is what they’ve done to the memorial,’ he said. ‘I need five hundred words. A bit of shock and outrage but concern as well, maybe even a bit of pity for the sad bastards who did it. That kind of thing.’

  ‘No problem. Five hundred words by four o’clock it is.’

  ‘Make it half past three.’

  ‘Ah! Half past three. So, we’re concentrating on crap shite today, is that it?’

  ‘Whatever,’ Bloomingfield said as he left.

  Jim spread out the photos on the desk in front of him. The memorial was a very large block of red granite, set on a grey granite plinth. The polished surface was inscribed with information about the Sheeppark Clearances and the death of Elsie McKillop. Examining the photographs carefully, Jim could see no structural damage but the graffiti was obvious. Someone had sprayed DLF all over the main part of the monument and the base. This cluster of three letters was repeated perhaps twenty or thirty times, in different sizes and different colours. DLF meant nothing to Jim. Dalmore Liberation Front? Dalmore Local Fascists? Not very likely. Maybe it was something as banal as Derek Loves Francesca.

  Jim rang his contact in the Dalmore Constabulary who told him they had no idea who had done it or what DLF meant. The investigation was on-going. For Jim, this was good news. It meant that, in the absence of facts, he could just make the whole thing up.

  ‘Police are still baffled,’ he began, ‘by the recent desecration of the Clearances Memorial on the southern approach to the Duie Bridge. On Sunday night graffiti was sprayed over the memorial in various colours, the legend DLF appearing no fewer than twenty-seven times. The Herald puts this appeal out to our readers: If you know anything about this appalling act of vandalism or if you have any clue as to what DLF might mean, contact us immediately . . .’

  Shock, disbelief, disappointment, concern, pity, compassion. Historical background, societal foreground, cultural change. Heritage, devotion, ownership, memory, distinction. Unique, irreplaceable, priceless. Blot, outrage, resolution, determination.

  Oh, it was shite, all right; it was shiter than shite. Jim posted his 498 words at 3.17 and left the office.

  ‘Peaches,’ Mike said as he looked into the paper bag.

  ‘Fleming got them in specially.’

  ‘Did he? For me?’

  ‘Well, you and a few hundred other people.’

  ‘Good of him anyway,’ Mike said. He was in the chair by his bed again. His head at least was now clear of bandages. There was a scar and some heavy bruising on the right side of his head above and slightly forward of his right ear.

  Jim said, ‘You’re looking better.’

  ‘No, I’m looking worse. I’ve got the bandages off and I’m feeling better but looking worse. Seems you can’t have both.’

  ‘On the mend, anyway.’

  Mike placed the bag of peaches on the bed.

  Jim said, ‘I got your message.’

  ‘The more I think about it, the dafter it seems.’

  ‘Let’s hear it anyway.’

  ‘Well, it was Andy that gave me the idea.’

  ‘Andy?’

  Mike pointed to the empty bed in the corner. ‘He’s through in the TV lounge at the moment. But he’s leaving soon.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Yes, and not just the hospital. He’s leaving Dalmore altogether. Going to live with his daughter in Sheffield.’

  ‘Sheffield? Bit of a change from Dalmore.’

  ‘Oh, he says he’s lived in Inverness and Sheffield can’t be that different.’

  Jim shrugged.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mike went on, ‘he told me he’d be keeping in touch with Dalmore because his friend Dougal McBain would be sending him the weekend edition of the Herald every week.’

  ‘Very considerate.’

  ‘And that’s when I began to think of Tom. I mean, let’s suppose your theory’s right: McCall helped him to disappear to escape from Archie. Well, if he wants to come back, then he’s got to wait till it’s safe. Just like McCall was thinking. He needs to know about Archie, particularly if Archie’s back in jail or dead. So . . . obviously he couldn’t contact anyone direct but he’d be able to keep up with the news by getting the Herald.’

  ‘In Spain?’

  ‘He could order it, couldn’t he? Through a local newsagent. You have got foreign subscribers, haven’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Jim said, ‘but I’ve never really thought about it. There’s people in other parts of Scotland, but other countries . . .’

  ‘Can you find out?’

  ‘Easily. But I doubt if we keep any record of subscribers over the years.’

  ‘I was thinking that myself,’ Mike said. ‘Could be a problem.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Jim said, ‘the postcard’s from Spain but we don’t know if he decided to stay there. He could have gone just about anywhere.’

  ‘Yes, I thought about that, too. But don’t forget that his passport – Peter Clinghurst’s passport, I mean – was bound to run out after a few years. How old was Clinghurst?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s say he was a couple of years older than Eileen Tulloch – eighteen or nineteen. In that case his passport was probably quite new. So it would have . . . I don’t know . . . maybe seven or eight years to run. The thing is that Tom can’t get a new one, not as Clinghurst, anyway. Not as himself, either, for that matter.’

  ‘You mean he’s got to come back to Britain.’

  ‘Yes. So I’m thinking of patterns of subscription, here. I mean, I know it’s a long shot but what if you had someone in Spain ordering the Herald in nineteen eighty-two then that one is cancelled but another new order pops up a few weeks later somewhere else and so on . . .’

  ‘Until there’s an order from somewhere in England, perhaps . . .’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. It’s a bit of a daft idea, I know.’

  ‘Worth a try, at least,’ Jim said. ‘And I think I know who to ask.’

  Hessie Traven had worked for the Herald for forty-three years. She was now in her late sixties and her involvement with the paper had reduced to about twelve hours a week which she worked pretty much to a schedule of her own choosing. Mostly her work involved the financial side – the ordering of office supplies and so on. She was also responsible for ‘exords’ or external orders. These were orders for the newspaper from individuals or newsagents in other towns and cities and even other countries, areas where the Herald was unavailable. The Herald was unavailable over almost the entire globe, the only exception being the few square miles centred on Dalmore itself.

  Jim was back in the Herald offices at a quarter to five.

  ‘Well, what’s this,’ Bloomingfield asked. ‘Unswerving devotion to duty or did you leave your keys behind?’

  ‘Unswerving devotion to duty,’ Jim said. ‘You haven’t seen my keys by any chance, have you?’

  Bloomingfield didn’t laugh. He said, ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘Hessie around?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Getting herself a coffee, I think. Back in a few minutes. I liked your piece on the memorial, by the way.’

  ‘Certainly one of my best, yes.’

  ‘I only changed about a hundred percent of it.’


  ‘Well, you need the practice. Want me to check it for you?’

  But Bloomingfield was already back in his office.

  A couple of minutes later Hessie returned carrying a mug of coffee. She was a tall slim woman who had been regarded as rather plain when she was younger. If that was the case then age had certainly improved her. Her skin remained pale and clear. Her hair, which had been almost white for many years, was thick and straight. It was tied back in a bun. She was a quiet, resourceful and kindly person who was liked by almost everyone at the Herald. Only cummings couldn’t get on with her at all. He regarded her as an insufferable prig.

  She had her own office, which was quite a privilege for a part-timer, but it was a very small office. Jim had rarely been inside it and was struck, now, but the array of charts and tables on the walls, financial data produced by Hessie herself. There were three four-drawer filing cabinets and, on her tiny desk, a computer that seemed far more up-to-date and powerful than any in the main office.

  It was difficult for them both to sit in the office without bumping knees. ‘Cosy,’ Jim remarked.

  ‘I like it fine,’ Hessie said. ‘People let me get on with things. I’m out of the way.’

  ‘I’m interested in exords,’ Jim began.

  ‘Yes, what can I tell you?’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘A hundred and twenty-three at the moment.’

  ‘That many?’

  ‘Oh, a popular paper, the Herald. You’re talking about the weekend edition, I take it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Only we do have a number of people who get every issue.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Seven or eight, I think. I don’t deal with them so I’m not exactly sure. But, imagine that, every issue!’