A Small Death in the Great Glen

by A. D. Scott

  What the chief inspector hated most of all—and he acknowledged that this was not exclusive to this part of the world—was the denial, the complicity, the hiding of society’s ills in order to maintain that all-pervading moral imperative, respectability.

  Morrison, found dead in a snowdrift, was a solution to all their problems. He would remain innocent as the lamb but would privately be blamed for any and every sin.

  Westland sighed. The meeting with the chief constable had gone as expected. The suspicions that he voiced were met with more than disbelief; he was ridiculed and threatened with an adverse report to his superiors. There was no evidence against this Polish fellow, the chief constable agreed, but the man was not entirely innocent. He has no papers and I have to agree with Inspector Tompson, the senior policeman had said, his alibi is very convenient. The parents couldn’t have killed their son, they were at work and seen by half the town, so that theory was gone. The priest is not, and never was, a suspect, Westland was told, and was ordered to leave out the other outrageous, if not downright libelous, suggestion. No officer on my force would ever subvert a criminal case to protect his church. That’s me told, Westland thought, sighing to himself, having long ago lost the capacity to be shocked by decisions from senior officers.

  Tompson continued in his duties. The fatal accident inquiry into the priest’s death would deem it just that, an accident. And still there was nothing, nothing that could show Tompson was covering up for a fellow Catholic.

  “I’ve talked to him,” the chief constable had said, “and Tompson explained to me that while he was checking the house, gathering up all that valuable photographic equipment and the rest of Morrison’s belongings, he found a greatcoat in the stove and was only finishing off the job to clear out the stove. He is on a church committee that looks after their properties.”

  “Aye, checking the house in the dark.” But again DCI Westland was ignored. He next tried to put a case before the procurator fiscal. They reviewed the photographs found in Morrison’s luggage, they tried to piece together any evidence connecting Morrison with the boy Jamie. There was nothing.

  “Tompson went to the house to tidy up, as he put it, within five minutes of receiving the phone call that Morrison had been found.” DCI Westland pointed out, “He didn’t even bother to inform me that the body had been discovered; I heard it from the desk sergeant.”

  “He was only trying to protect the Church from any scandal over Father Morrison’s wee hobby,” was the reply. “Not that there is anything criminal in the photos. Distasteful as they are, there is nothing that would warrant laying charges. Bring me evidence, and I will make sure the truth is known,” the fiscal had promised.

  At least he is willing to consider that a priest could be corrupt, Westland thought. But it was of little consolation.

  One hundred yards away, McAllister sat in his office, feet on the desk, door firmly shut, lobbing scrunched-up balls of copy paper into the top hat that had mysteriously migrated from the reporters’ room. Rob had told him—in great detail and with accompanying gestures and sound effects—about his derring-do confrontation with Inspector Tompson in the Big House, as he now referred to it, having picked up the name from the children.

  Angus MacLean had phoned McAllister explaining that his contact in the church had discovered that the demise of the Boys’ Boxing Club was due to the war. There had been talk of an inquiry into some aspect of the club, Angus was told. It was probably nothing more than gossip, his friend had added. So, nothing.

  The Reverend Macdonald passed on to McAllister the information that Father Morrison Bain had disappeared for a year or so; on retreat, was the story. He was next heard of as a particularly active chaplain in the Clydeside Blitz. A hero, a friend, a comforter, was the consensus of those who knew him from that time. Again, nothing.

  DCI Westland phoned McAllister, relaying the details of Inspector Tompson’s explanation to the chief constable for his visit to the priest’s home. Westland was livid. He had been forced to apologize for implying that Tompson might be involved in covering up a crime. Not that Father Morrison could possibly be a suspect in the boy’s death, the chief constable had added at every opportunity.

  Nothing, nil, nada, McAllister doodled in his notebook. The key was on his desk next to the button. No point in informing Westland. He watched clouds, counted passing seagulls, drank four cups of tea, took five aspirins, then, halfway through the morning, his hangover receding, idleness turning to boredom, then instinct kicked in. He was a reporter, so he started with the story. Maybe I should do as Don does, start with headings. Right.

  First heading: Key. Second heading: Greatcoat. Third heading: Big House. Fourth heading: Prisoner. Under Key he wrote, Visit boy’s—he crossed out boy’s—Jamie’s parents. Under Greatcoat he wrote, Whose is it? Why burn? Button? Under Big House, he listed Tompson’s search—for what? Under the last heading, he paused, then reached for the phone. While he waited to be connected he made a decision. He respected DCI Westland, but he was not going to share any information with any police officer, ever.

  “Angus? McAllister. I wonder if you can arrange something for me?”

  In the reporters’ room, they were getting on with a Monday morning not defined by the ritual news meeting.

  “You’re looking good.” Rob examined Joanne. There was definitely something different about her. She looked younger. “New hairdo?”

  “Don’t be silly, when would I have the time—or the money—for that?”

  “It’s what I always say to women because if they have had a new hairdo and I don’t notice I get into big trouble.”

  “Let’s just say that I’m looking forward to the New Year.”

  “Talking of which,” said Don, “I’m off to chase ad copy for the New Year edition.”

  “From the liquor merchants, no doubt.”

  “Cheeky bizzom. No cherry liqueur chocolates for you.”

  “I’m away out too,” Rob said, “and, Joanne, if you need a babysitter, I’m free.” He couldn’t look at her in case she spotted his guilty conscience—she would not be happy if she knew he wanted to question Annie.

  “Oh aye, and where am I supposed to go for a wild night?”

  It had been some time since Rob had looked after the girls and now that Bill had vanished, and Chiara was on her honeymoon, there was no social life for her.

  “My mother loves it when you come over. Why don’t you call her?”

  “Well, I have to return the dress I borrowed for the wedding.”

  “Call her.” And he was gone.

  McAllister came into the reporters’ room five minutes later. In a much smaller bandage, his cheek was down but still swollen, with a shade of light blue-green that gave him a resemblance to a cartoon character—Man with Toothache.

  They were comfortable again alone together.

  Joanne leaned her elbows on the table, the Glasgow paper open on the features section.

  “Is this what you plan to do with the Gazette?”

  “If wishes were horses, as my mother would say.” He half-smiled at her. “No, but I’ll steal a few of their ideas. We don’t have the advertising to support too many changes and usually not enough material to fill the extra pages.”

  “You certainly can’t say that of the last couple of months.”

  There was quiet for a few moments.

  “So it’s all over, is it?” Joanne asked. “Morrison, or is it Morrison Bain, dead in a snowdrift, all sins now attributable to him because he can’t answer back? And the chief inspector is off tomorrow, I hear, with no case to be brought over the boy’s death. That’s it, is it?”

  “Aye. Looks like.” McAllister fiddled with the button in his coat pocket.

  “I never told you,” she started, “and it won’t affect my work,” she was quick to add, “but I’ve managed to get a prefab. I’ll be moving in, sometime in the New Year”—she looked away—“just me and the girls.” She couldn’t bring herself to say, I
won’t be living with my husband. “No one knows yet. I want one last peaceful family Christmas with Granny and Grandad Ross, and my sister and brother-in-law. They’ll all be very disappointed in me. …” She laughed. “Nothing unusual in that!” Her voice dropped a decibel. She shook her head and shook the newspaper shut. “And my husband, along with most of the male population in Scotland, won’t notice I’m gone for at least the first two weeks of the year. I’ll flit then.” When he does notice, then I might need help. Thinking about Bill’s reaction was frightening; he would not let her go easily, of that she was certain.

  “If you need any help …”

  “Thanks, but I’ll have Chiara plus two Polish gentlemen with a van, plus Rob as babysitter. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that, Mrs. Ross, no doubts at all.”

  She blushed deep pink and they both turned back to the typewriters and started to clatter away.

  Rob hadn’t forgotten; the priest may have perished but it wasn’t over. Maybe it was his ambition to be an investigative reporter, maybe it was his nosy nature, but mostly it was plain dislike of Tompson that kept him returning to the same question: What was Tompson really looking for next door?

  Rob recalled the picture that had confronted them in the dim light after he and WPC Ann and DCI Westland had burst into the room; drawers opened, linoleum curled up at the corners, photographic equipment stacked up in the center of the room, paper spilled on the floor, negatives scattered everywhere. He had no idea what Tompson’s explanation was and WPC Ann McPherson had no idea what was going on at the police station—she was now permanently on foot patrol, Tompson’s orders—so, Rob puzzled, what was it he had been searching for?

  “Mum? If you wanted to hide something next door, where would you put it?”

  “Big or small?”

  “Small. I think.”

  “That’s easy.”

  He was gone before she had finished the explanation.

  Rob shuddered. “I hate this place.”

  The coal hole was the only way he knew into the house without breaking something, so again, the coal hole it had been. Getting out was simple; he went out through the back door and pulled the door to. Every creak, every scratch of tree branch on windowpane or roof tile, every sigh down the bedroom chimney, had him clammy with fright. The room had been searched again by the police and was in a complete bourach; linoleum had been rolled up, furniture searched, the bed pulled apart. Rob had always been mindful of the taboo of entering another person’s bedroom. This time was no different. He crossed the bare floor to the dressing room, making directly for the cupboard behind the mirror that his mother had described. He felt for the hidden catch.

  “It’s a hiding place where ladies put their jewelry, that sort of thing. Quite common in Victorian dressing rooms, I believe.”

  You can’t see it, his mother had told him; feel for a latch in the top left-hand corner, and push it upward. The mirror will open outward, and the cupboard is behind. If it is locked, I have no idea where the key is, but then the key has been missing for about twenty years. … Yes, Mum, he had said.

  He pulled the mirror open. The cupboard was unlocked. He put in his hand. It was dim, but he didn’t want to switch on a light, not even a torch. He felt around. There was one fat foolscap envelope, nothing else. He closed the cupboard. It took him a few moments to fumble the latch of the mirror into place. He ran down the stairs, let himself out through the back door, pulling it to as quietly as he could, and he sprinted back home to the safety of his bedroom. His father was at work, his mother was out shopping again—Christmas is only four days away, she had reminded them at breakfast. Rob knew he should be back in the office too, Don had told him one hour, no more, we’ve a lot to do what with McAllister being only half-here.

  He opened the envelope. Negatives, large-format, two and a half by two and a half inches, at least a dozen sheets of them. There were also about twenty prints, of varying sizes, some only small snapshots, others larger, professional size. Rob pulled a large one from the pile, stared at it, dropped it, clasped both hands over his mouth, ran to the bathroom and vomited.

  Don had given McAllister the same warning.

  “Be back here as soon as you can, we have to finish this paper a day early what with Christmas an’ all.”

  He’d almost said, Yes, Mr. McLeod, then he remembered where he was off to.

  This time McAllister drove to the tiny terraced cottage. As he parked the car, he noted that the doorstep didn’t shine, the windows didn’t glisten. This was not due to the weather. The house itself was grieving.

  It took some time for the door to open. At first McAllister thought that the man was Jamie’s grandfather come over from the Isles to comfort the parents. It was only when he was ushered into the gloom of the parlor that he realized it was the boy’s father.

  “The wife, she’s gone back home,” was the first thing the man said. “Nothing here for her.”

  “I’m sorry.” What a bloody inadequate word, McAllister thought.

  “Aye.”

  They stood. Then McAllister reached for the key. He handed it over. The man held the edges of the tag in two fingers as though it was an exhibit in a trial.

  “It’s Jamie’s key. He keeps it round his neck, inside his vest, in case he loses it.” He handed it back. “He doesn’t need it now.” He turned, abandoning McAllister, not curious, not apologetic, nothing; all connection to the rest of the human race had been buried along with his son in that small coffin, now deep in the dark foreign soil of a churchyard, many miles, then one long and one short sea crossing from their home.

  McAllister sat for a while in the car before starting the engine. He felt no triumph in being right. The key; the first item on his list, it could now be ticked off as done and accounted for. He put it back in his pocket along with the button. The coat; why burn it? So no one would connect the owner to a crime? He remembered the greatcoat found by the canal. That belonged to Karl. This button was off a British Military Police coat. What was that all about? He put it aside as too hard. What next? he thought as he drove back to the office.

  What McAllister didn’t know, but was about to find out, was that the third item, the Big House, the object of Tompson’s search, that could also be ticked off of the list.

  Don interrupted McAllister and Rob.

  “Don’t you two worry about a thing—Joanne and me, we’ll put the paper out all by ourselves!” But a brief glance at the junior reporter’s face showed what he thought might be tear streaks on an alabaster mask. “Oh. Right. I’ll see you both later.” He turned to go. “I forgot. McAllister, there was a phone call from the prison governor while you were out. The answer is no. He, the man you wanted to talk to, he’ll no see you.”

  McAllister nodded. Don waited. When he realized there would be no explanation he asked, “Is it important?”

  “It might be.”

  “Later then.” He left them to it.

  McAllister rose, took the envelope, an identical envelope but with far different contents to the one the police now had. He put it in the safe. He spun the tumblers. He handed Rob a hankie. Then he poured them both a whisky. They downed the dram.

  “Right, let’s get on with it. We’ve a paper to put to bed.”

  Joanne glanced at Don when Rob and McAllister took their places at the typewriters. He shrugged. They all worked steadily through the afternoon, all avoiding whatever it was that was still too raw to share.

  Rob would never admit it—even to himself—but with his discovery, he had lost his innocence. Normally he welcomed his mother’s concern and enjoyed the comfort of her company. He usually shared his triumphs, telling her of his progress on the path to star journalist. But not this time. Mother protects boy, man protects mother, as it should be. What he had discovered in the former McLean family home next door he would never share. The images of those helpless little boys haunted him to the point where he was scared to shut his eyes.

 
“Joanne will be round soon. Do you want supper before you go?” Margaret was concerned by Rob’s silence but said nothing. He’ll tell me when he’s ready, she thought.

  Rob was regretting his offer to babysit. But he had promised, so to cancel would involve too many explanations and he wasn’t good at lies. He was certain he could wheedle more details out of Annie; four hours ago he had been a boy, he still remembered how to talk to children.

  The girls were in bed. Joanne left. Five minutes passed. Annie came down the stairs for a glass of water. She had her book with her. She sat opposite Rob and they talked about what they were reading. Rob showed her the lurid cover on the new Compton McKenzie thriller; Annie was rereading Anne of Green Gables.

  “Annie, I need to ask you something but it must be our wee secret.”

  “You don’t want my mum to know.”

  He looked at her sharply. She replied in such an adult tone, he knew there was no point in being subtle.

  “Your mother only wants to protect you, but yes, this must be between us only.”

  The child nodded.

  “I need you to describe to me everything you can remember of what you saw the afternoon Jamie disappeared.”

  “You’re looking for clues? Like the Famous Five?”

  “Exactly.” Not exactly, Rob thought, the Famous Five didn’t have to confront murderous deviants. “So tell me all you can remember and try to describe what the hoodie crow—the man—what he was wearing.”

  McAllister thought everyone had left so he was startled when Don walked into his office.