by A. D. Scott
The ringing of his doorbell awoke McAllister.
“Not again,” he muttered as he massaged the crick in his neck from sleeping in the armchair. He had slept in fits and starts, had woken in the grey dawn—which was not that early this time of year—to help Don to the bathroom, had made a cup of tea, then dozed off again. By the sound of various church bells, from a simple toll to a full peal from the cathedral, he knew it was now mid-morning.
“Good morning, Mr. McAllister.”
“Is it?” McAllister peered at the bruised sky and smelt imminent rain.
“I won’t come in . . . I don’t suppose Donnie McLeod is still with you . . . ” The big man shifted uncomfortably on his small neat feet.
“He . . . ” McAllister did not have a chance to elaborate.
“No, I don’t suppose he’s here.” Sergeant Patience was speaking in a deliberate, penetrating voice, knowing it would carry down the hallway. “And I don’t know where he went to last night . . . ”
McAllister waited, knowing he would soon know why the policeman was blethering on.
“We, I mean Detective Inspector Dunne, has been wanting to speak with Mr. McLeod for some time, and always seems to miss him. So, since he was in the cells last night . . . ”
“With the door open . . . ”
“A precaution in case he chocked or summat . . . ” Sergeant Patience took McAllister’s nod as agreement and continued, “So, if you should see Mr. McLeod, maybe you can persuade him to come in, volunteer-like . . . ”
“Not a word about last night will come from me,” McAllister told him. “But wasn’t Mr. McLeod booked in?”
“Nothing like that, I, we, was only helping him off the street, just in case . . . ”
“Aye.” McAllister wanted to say he was grateful, knew this wasn’t needed but also knew that Don was now in the policeman’s debt. “If I should see Mr. McLeod, I’ll tell him to contact the police.”
The slump of relief on the man’s face made McAllister reassess him. He knew the sergeant would do him few favors, but his concern for Don McLeod was laudable. Then he remembered the old newspaper saw about good subeditors of long standing—and that was his deputy—“They knows where the bodies are buried.”
McAllister made tea. He considered cooking bacon and eggs and his favorite Stornaway black pudding, then decided against it; the state of Don’s stomach might not be ready for a good Scottish fry-up.
It took three large mugs of tea, the first one fortified with a slug of whisky, before Don was ready to slump upright. It took a long bath and a change of cloths three sizes too big for him before Don looked half alive. But the real talking had to wait until late in the afternoon, after McAllister had lit the fire and served them his culinary masterpiece—cock-a-leekie soup.
“You look like a ghost of yourself,” McAllister remarked. “An improvement. Last night you looked like the ghost of some long-dead clansman from Culloden.”
Don made a noise, no words.
“I know it’s none of my business . . . ” McAllister continued.
“You’re right. It’s no’.”
“But if you are going to kill yourself slowly, can you let me know so I can make other arrangements.” He let that remark lie between them as he served his guest another bowl of soup.
They took their time and after washing up, they went back to the sitting room. The rain had set in dark and heavy and steady, real Sunday weather, so McAllister switched on the standard lamp, a dark wooden piece whose base was carved with what looked like overlarge misshapen vine leaves, the parchment shade trimmed with yellowing tassels hanging unevenly around the rim. It had come with the house and McAllister had kept it, as he enjoyed the well of golden light it made in the high-ceilinged room. When the uneven electric flow made the lamp flicker, he thought of campfires and starry nights and times past, drinking with friends in hidden camps in the foothills of the Pyrenees, resting before the next round in the losing battles against Franco’s fascists.
“Thanks.”
The sound of Don’s voice made McAllister jerk back to the here and now.
“Thank Sergeant Patience.”
“He’s no’ a bad manny under all that flesh and bombast.”
A long five minutes passed before Don spoke again, but McAllister didn’t mind.
“I’m no’ coming back.”
“Fine,” McAllister said, “but I’d appreciate it if you could come in and help out until we find a replacement.”
“I’ll do that.” Don was beyond noticing McAllister’s apparent lack of sympathy, beyond seeing McAllister’s dismay.
“There’s a bed made up . . . ” was all the editor could think to say.
“No. I’m off home.”
McAllister doubted that. The nearest public house was the most likely destination, he thought. “Don, I need your help to find whoever killed Joyce.” As he said the name, he saw the flinch, the shudder, the pain. It was as if a knife, the same knife that had killed her, had penetrated between Don’s ribs straight to his heart. The shaking, the trembling, the snorts were not an alcoholic aftermath; he was crying. Don was holding his head between his square ink-stained hands, sobbing in heaving silent spasms. McAllister went to the drinks cabinet and brought out the big gun, a Glen Farclas 110 proof, a whisky he called the Lazarus cure.
He put the glass into Don’s hand and poured a lesser measure for himself, and sat out of sight of his friend, gifting him the invisibility to recover. He waited. When the sobbing subsided into sniffing, into blowing the nose, into finishing the dram, McAllister took the analyst’s role, asking, “When did you first meet her?”
“Right after the first war.”
With the patience of a heron stalking minnows in a lochan, McAllister waited.
“I had bad burns.” Don didn’t say from what. “She was only a young thing, nineteen, born on Hogmanay on the last day of the old century, ‘a foot in each century,’ she’d joke. She was a volunteer nursing assistant in a place for wounded soldiers—in Stirlingshire it was. She was staying with family friends, hoping to get in to university.” He didn’t tell McAllister it was a castle with titled gentlefolk she was living in, and there was no need to explain how unusual it would be for a young woman of any class to go to university in those days.
“I was the only sailor there,” Don continued, his voice faint, speaking through the thick yarn of time. “When I was admitted, I was delirious, only speaking the Gaelic.” He took a sip of the whisky, the water of life. It acted better than a blood transfusion. “Not that her Gaelic was great, but she’s from the Northwest, she’d heard it enough around the estate. Spoke it wi’ the local bairns.”
“And you became friends.”
“Aye. We became friends. I recovered and was going back to Skye but somehow got waylaid here and found myself on the Gazette. I think they gave me the job out of pity and because I could spell and besides, I was the only one the printers would listen to.”
“Right Bolshie lot printers can be sometimes.” McAllister laughed.
“That’s rich coming from a Glaswegian.”
McAllister heard the lift in Don’s voice. “So you met up with Joyce again here?”
“Aye. She was in India, came back in the early thirties. Thon soldier fellow came back five years later and not long after, Joyce came to work at the Gazette.”
That the wife of Sergeant Major Smart, a decorated and wounded former soldier, took a job was highly unusual. That a woman of Mrs. Smart’s wealth and background and education had done so was more than unusual, it was a mystery. One of the many mysteries surrounding Mrs. Smart, thought McAllister. Then he remembered the sergeant major’s bullying and decided that was why she had taken a job.
“So how does, did, Mrs. Smart know Jenny McPhee?”
As soon as McAllister spoke, he knew his mistake; he had broken the bond between them. He saw the slight shift in the way Don held his glass; noted the way his friend licked his lips, took a deep breath, le
t it out slowly, then set his shoulders back as though he were about to face a firing squad.
“That’s for Jenny McPhee to tell, that’s if she wants to.” Don was definite in his answer. Which I very much doubt was the unsaid remainder of the response.
McAllister knew there would be no more real information that evening—if ever. “I told Sergeant Patience you’d present yourself at the police station for an interview.”
“Aye, I owe him.”
“We’d all like you back at the Gazette.”
“No.” Don eyed the bottle sitting on the side table next to the hearth, but McAllister didn’t take the hint, so he stood, hitching up the ridiculous trousers, so long on him he looked like a scarecrow.
“I’ll give you a lift home,” McAllister offered, but Don shook his head and immediately regretted the gesture. He walked out of the room practicing the steps—one foot, then the next.
“Thanks,” Don called out to McAllister, who stood on the doorstep, watching him shuffle up the garden path like an old man in slippers two sizes too big.
“Anytime. There’s always soup on the hob in this house.” McAllister knew that if he were the crying kind, he would burst into tears at the sight of Don McLeod passing under the pool of lamplight down the street back to his own house, where, as far as McAllister knew, Don lived with not even a wee dog for company.
If he wants to tell me anything, he’ll tell me, McAllister thought as he prepared for an early night. I only hope he doesn’t drink himself to death before then.
* * *
Rounding up the Monday morning news meeting, McAllister told them all that Don would be off for a while longer.
Joanne said, “We miss him.”
“I know he’s upset by Mrs. Smart . . . I mean we all are, but . . . ” Rob was floundering, not knowing how to put his gut feeling that there was more going on than he, as the resident know-it-all, knew.
“How will I know which team to photograph?” Hector asked. “Mr. McLeod always knows who’ll win.” As usual he was ignored.
“I doubt if Don McLeod has had a holiday from the Gazette, ever,” McAllister told them. “So let’s just see this as a long overdue holiday.” The meeting had been businesslike, none of the usual banter, and over earlier than usual. He looked around. “Anything else? No? Okay, we’ll check where we’re at tomorrow morning.”
He was not in his private office more than five minutes when his phone rang.
“Thanks Betsy, send him up.”
When Detective Inspector Dunne came in and had shut the door, McAllister saw the detective’s face and wondered if he should pour them both a dram. No, not yet eleven. Too early on a workday.
“I’ve come informally, more as a courtesy.” DI Dunne perched on the visitor’s chair, a chair deliberately chosen by McAllister to make meetings as short as possible. “I value our relationship with the press . . . ”
“Spit it out, man.”
“Donal McLeod has been arrested for the murder of Mrs. Smart.”
“Never.” The word came out like a cannon shot, and McAllister jerked back with the recoil. “You can’t believe he did it.”
“The Procurator Fiscal believes we have enough evidence to charge him with murder in the first degree.”
McAllister caught the implication in the policeman’s words. “Thank God hanging has been abolished.”
DI Dunne said nothing, just stared at the floor.
“You said the fiscal says he has enough evidence—how about you?” McAllister was pointing his finger directly at the policeman’s heart. “Do you believe Don capable of murder?”
“I believe everyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances. I believe the evidence against Don McLeod is strong. But cold-blooded premeditated murder? A careful, accurate stab with a knife? Let’s just say I am not entirely convinced.”
“What evidence do you have?”
“McAllister, as I said, this visit is informal, to let you know one of your employees is charged and . . . ” Dunne was struggling with how much he should tell.
McAllister watched the struggle play out in the detective’s hands, not his face. He’d be no good at poker, was his irrelevant thought.
“Sergeant Major Smart is well regarded in this town,” DI Dunne started.
McAllister knew what that meant; it meant he had all the right people, including the Chief Constable and the Provost and all the ex-servicemen in the British Legion, on his side. He knew the Highland Gazette had ruffled feathers and rattled bones, especially recently, but to believe Don McLeod killed Mrs. Smart, that made no sense.
“I want this to go no further for now—although it will come out eventually . . . ”
McAllister nodded.
“The sergeant major has made a statement saying Don McLeod had a close friendship with his late wife going back decades.”
“Friendship?”
“Aye.” He was unable to use any other word. A man in his mid-forties, the idea of people in or near their sixties being lovers was unthinkable. “Maybe there was more to it when they were young. They spent every Sunday evening together for years . . . ” He hesitated. To share the content of a witness’s accusations could cost him his job, but he trusted McAllister and valued his intelligence.
DI Dunne had heard the ramblings of the sergeant major with great distaste. The retired soldier had constantly reminded everyone in the police station of his powerful friends.
“Sergeant Major Smart says that Don McLeod is a known gambler, about to retire . . . ”
“Really? I never knew that.” McAllister believed Don would retire when the clansmen were resurrected from their graves in Culloden.
“And that, having prior knowledge of her will, he plotted to kill Mrs. Smart in order to benefit.”
“Plotted?”
“With Jenny or Jimmy McPhee—or both.”
“Can any of this be proven?”
“Jenny and Jimmy McPhee have firm alibis—almost all the public bar, plus the landlord, in the hotel in Muir of Ord swear the McPhees were there all evening. Mr. McLeod has no one to vouch for him, and he admits she left his house minutes before her death. Also, her leaving a valuable estate to him—the fiscal thinks that shows motive.”
“That proves nothing.” McAllister sighed and reached for his cigarettes.
“You’ll find out eventually, so . . . ” The inspector knew he was about to break so many rules he would be back in uniform as a lowly constable if found out. “The knife. We’ve recovered it. It was hidden in a crevice in the courtyard wall outside Don McLeod’s house.”
“He wouldn’t be so stupid!”
“He’s admitted it’s his knife—an old filleting knife he says belonged to his father. But it’s sharp and clean and . . . ” And still had traces of blood on it.
McAllister stood. He needed to pace. With the inspector there, there was little space. He pored a dram without offering the policeman one. He downed it in one, then went back to his chair. Elbows on the desk, head in his hands, he said, “None of this makes sense. Don cared for Mrs. Smart . . . greatly.” He was unable to say the “love” word.
“He also admitted he was drunk that night. Add all these things together and the fiscal sees a good case.”
“What about you?” McAllister was not hearing certainty in DI Dunne’s voice, but the inspector only shrugged. “Will you pursue this further? Try to find the real killer?”
“Ah well. You know how this operates.” They both paused to consider Dunne’s words, both knowing indeed how the system operated. “Being the lead detective and a person having been charged, all I can say is, a cold-blooded killer who knew what he was about did this.” That it could be a she never entered his mind. “If anyone should show me good reason to investigate further, I would be duty bound to do so.” The policeman had resumed formal policeman speak, then his voice dropped an octave, went softly confidential, and McAllister was reminded of the story that Detective Inspector Dunne had been
destined for the Church before the war changed his plans. “Don’s not helping himself.”
“What does he say?”
“That’s it, he’s saying nothing, and the sergeant major’s shouts are loud.”
DI Dunne knew he had said more than was needed. He stood. “I’ll bid you good morning, Mr. McAllister. I’ll see myself out.” He said this partly as a formality and partly because, seeing McAllister’s face, he doubted the editor could move from his chair.
Once alone, move from his chair McAllister did—straight to the decanter. He took the Talisker he saved for serious occasions and poured a healthy dram. Still standing, he gulped it down. He poured another, and took it to his desk. Five minutes later, and none the wiser, he picked up the phone and dialed.
“McAllister at the Gazette here. May I speak with Angus McLean?”
Five minutes after that, he walked into the newsroom where Rob and Joanne were working steadily at their typewriters. Even Hector was picking away, two-fingered, listing the weights and the winners of a trout-fishing competition.
“The front page.” McAllister had their attention. “I’ll be doing the lead story.” He leaned against the high table, feeling the effects of the whisky on an empty stomach, or so he told himself. “Don has been arrested for the murder of Mrs. Smart.”
The babble of “no” and “never” and “that’s not right” and “the polis are stupid”—this last from Hector—filled the room, echoing up to the high ceiling and back down to the high desk, permeating walls that had absorbed much in one hundred years, but nothing as scandalous as this.
“I know, I know”—McAllister held up his hand—“but we must cover the story. So be prepared for the onslaught of gossip and innuendo.”
“And Don?” Joanne looked at him, her eyes huge and, McAllister noticed, startlingly green, as though emotion had washed out the bluish tint he normally saw and loved.