by A. D. Scott
“How can I help?”
“I think it might be to do with me asking questions about Miss Ramsay.” Calum didn’t say at your wife’s request. “Can I talk to you? If I leave now, I can be down in three hours.”
“Come straight to the Gazette office.” McAllister was about to put down the receiver. Something stopped him. He listened. No dial tone. Not yet. A silence, thick and dense, seemed to be radiating out of the black Bakelite receiver. And in that void, he felt another person . . . persons? Spirits? Spooks? Witches? He shook his head. Get a grip, he told himself. And hung up.
“Don!” he bellowed.
“Give us a wee minute!” Don shouted back.
When his deputy came in, the first thing they did was light up. Then, cigarette smoke spiraling upwards, they talked.
After McAllister related the gist of DI Dunne’s warning, the sacking of Calum Mackenzie, and his suspicion about the man seen in the company of the worthies of the county at the golf clubhouse—and after he told Don he’d been warned not to discuss it with anyone—he sat back, knowing Don was now as intrigued as he was. And as Joanne had been all along.
“Reminding a journalist of the Official Secrets Act, eh? I like it.” The news cheered Don up greatly. Over the last few weeks of rain and gloom and the depressing sight of demolition crews tearing down the historic buildings on Bridge Street, and along the river below the castle, he was in the mood for some mischief.
“One other thing,” McAllister said. “If he’s interested, do we want to offer young Calum a job? Joanne says he’s a hard worker. The advert for a junior reporter has run for weeks and no likely candidates.”
“I’ve read a wee bit o’ young Mackenzie’s work—pedestrian but nothing that can’t be fixed. Will he want to leave home though, move to another county?”
“Does he have a choice? Newspaper jobs are rare. For us, the chance of having inside knowledge of a story that might involve a shady section of the establishment . . .”
“That’s settled, then.” Don grinned. “The lad starts next week.”
McAllister was about to say, What about his mother? But he was sensible enough to stop himself. He’s a big boy now.
On the long drive down through Sutherland and Ross & Cromarty, over the pass, and all along the coast, Calum saw nothing of the towns and villages and scenery so spectacular it would lift any gloom. Indeed, his sense of grievance was so heavy it hurt his bones. One time, he had to stop the car, as he felt physically sick. His nose was blocked from crying, and even with the windows wound down letting in blasts of icy North Sea air, he felt claustrophobic.
Never once did he dream that that morning he would lose his job. And that same afternoon, he’d be offered another that would be, to him, a huge promotion.
Don asked Calum the questions. McAllister observed.
“So, what’s this I hear about the Sutherland Courier kicking you out?” Don began.
“I don’t understand. I had a meeting with my boss just last week. He was telling me how well I was doing.”
“How long are you into your cadetship?”
“That’s why we were chatting. I’ve been there since I left school, five years, and I finished my training a few months back. The editor promised me a wee pay rise. Now he says he has to let me go.”
The red around Calum’s eyes was threatening. McAllister could barely cope with a crying woman, much less a crying man. “Probably why he fired you. Doesn’t want to pay more, so he gets rid of you and hires a junior.”
“Aye, I’ve heard all you Northerners are tightfisted.” Don was grinning, trying to make a joke of it.
“Really?” Calum doubted that, but to save face and have an explanation for his mother, he would grab any excuse.
“Let’s go over it once more. And try to remember word for word what your editor said,” Don told him.
“And try to think about what was not said,” McAllister added.
“Like what?” Calum was lost.
We’ll need Rob or Joanne to train him in observing between the lines, McAllister was thinking. “Like was the editor nervous? Did you believe his story?”
“Come to think o’ it, he wasn’t himself. I thought it was because . . . because he doesn’t like my . . .” He was about to say mother, remembering how Mrs. Mackenzie had once implied the editor was “fond o’ the lassies,” even though he was a married man. “It could be because he doesn’t like firing anyone. I’ve been there since I left school, and nobody’s lost their job.”
“Tell us what happened.” Don was trying not to show his impatience. As he barely knew Calum, he didn’t snap as he would if it were Rob, or more likely Hector, meandering around the heart of a story.
“It was first thing this morning. I came in, on time,” he added to impress the editors. “The receptionist told me to go to the editor’s office. He’s a nice man, ma boss, and I knew right away something was wrong, cos he never even asked me to sit down. He just said, ‘Calum, I’m sorry, I have to let you go.’ ”
Calum didn’t say that his instinctive reaction was to ask, Go where? He continued, “Next, he said, ‘Your work is fine, but it’s just, we have no room for you at the moment. Maybe in another year or so, you can come back. So I’ve asked the pay office to make up a month’s wages in lieu of notice. I’m sorry.’ ”
Again, Calum didn’t relate how he’d almost fallen into the visitor’s chair, his knees were so shaky. He didn’t say how he was almost crying, asking, “You’re firing me? But why?”
“Cutbacks,” he’d answered. The man Calum had worked with, respected, and admired couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at him directly. But Calum could see that he too was feeling wretched. “It’s best you go now, lad. I’ve written excellent references for you. I’ll put them in the mail. Good luck.” And he’d left his office, leaving Calum too shocked to move.
“That’s all?” Don asked.
“Aye, that was all.” Calum folded into himself, making himself smaller than his already fourteen-year-old size.
McAllister was stumped as to what to ask next. Then he remembered the game he played with Annie when helping her with her essay writing. “Your editor . . .”
“Mr. Watt.”
“You think he was upset when he spoke to you?”
“He seemed to be.”
“Unhappy?”
Calum nodded.
“Uncomfortable?”
Calum seemed to catch on and thought for a moment. “Shifty,” he said finally. “He couldn’t look me in the eye, and his explanation was . . .” He searched for a word. “Stupid.”
Oh, dearie me, Don was thinking. There’s a lot we need to teach him.
Almost as though he had read the deputy editor’s mind, Calum began thinking aloud. “We had all the excitement of Alice Ramsay’s trial. The editor was happy with my work. Then it went quiet. Then we had her—her death. Then the auction. Then there was the Fatal Accident Inquiry.”
“Wait. Already? We never heard about that.”
“It was held at five o’clock in the afternoon with no notice given to the newspaper. We were sent a statement. Suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed. The hearing only took fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
“I wrote up the FAI verdict,” Calum continued, “but it didn’t run. Not a good subject for a family newspaper, I was told. ”
“What about the police?” Don asked. “Surely they were there as witnesses? And whoever found the body? They would have to appear.”
“I was told the police found the body,” Calum said. Though which policeman he didn’t know, as it wasn’t one of his friends or contacts. He couldn’t admit this to his potential new bosses; who found the body and in what circumstances were the first questions any half-decent reporter should ask.
McAllister nodded, thinking that was something that definitely needed investigation. Why would the police have just shown up at Alice’s farm without any notification? He knew from his own experience how fa
r it was off the main road, and no neighbors nearby. “And the funeral?”
“I’ve heard nothing.”
McAllister hadn’t moved. His eyes were fixed on the junior reporter. Calum felt it and began to perspire. Not sweat, Calum—horses sweat, gentlemen perspire. He could hear his mother’s voice, and his hands were now clammy, his tie too tight. How she would react when she heard his news terrified him. Plus he couldn’t fathom out what the older men wanted to know. He looked at Don, hoping for a cue.
Don saw and nodded.
“Thon stranger in the golf clubhouse, the man in the picture Hector took,” Calum began.
McAllister still didn’t move. But his eyes were boring into the slight figure of a journalist, drowning in the visitor’s chair.
“I was wanting to find out about that man—no for a story, just interested—an’ I’d noted the car numberplate like I always do . . .”
Don was shifting in his chair. Get on with it, laddie.
Calum took the hint. “So I asked a pal at the police station to check it out, and the registration number is English. From London.”
McAllister realized he’d forgotten to check the numberplate himself.
“That’s all my friend could find out before his sergeant—his boss—stopped him.” He saw the look between the two journalists. “There’s another thing. On my way out, I asked the deputy editor why I was being fired. He was really surprised, said he knew nothing about it.”
Don knew that if an editor, without his knowledge, fired one of his journalists, he would be more than unhappy. He tucked away this information, and would call his colleague in Sutherland to check.
The Church Street clock chimed four.
“Anything else?” Don asked.
Calum was fooled by Don’s soft Skye accent, and the deputy editor’s eyes reminded him of his granddad, and he found himself saying, “When I spoke to my friend in the solicitor’s office about—” He stopped. “Sorry, I promised I’d no tell.” Promised who what, he didn’t elaborate.
“Quite right. A good reporter always protects his sources.” Don looked at McAllister. They knew each other so well; McAllister recognized it was his turn.
It took Calum less than two seconds to say yes to the job offer. He did not consider his fiancée, his mother, where he would live—there was nothing else he wanted to do with his life except work in a newspaper and play golf. “One thing, is it easy to get into the golf club here?”
McAllister was startled. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you worry, Calum, I can fix that,” Don told him. “So now you’re one of us, you need to put us in the picture. The information from the solicitor?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. McLeod, I don’t know names, so it’s not really helpful.”
Don had run out of patience. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Oh. Right.” Calum heard the reprimand. “Someone put in a claim on Miss Ramsay’s estate. It’s being checked—at least, I’m assuming it is.”
Don was thinking, When he hands in his copy, I’m sure to need ma wee red pencil through at least half of his words. “McAllister? Any more questions?”
“Welcome to the Gazette, Calum. And get me that car numberplate, will you?” McAllister asked.
Don stood. “So, laddie, let’s you an’ me meet the others and tell them the good news.”
As they walked the few steps to the reporters’ room, McAllister could hear his deputy saying, “When can you start? Next Monday?” He knew this was Don’s way of keeping their source close and agreed it was a good tactic.
They needed Calum Mackenzie as a contact in that community. News of the goings-on in a county in the far northeast was usually of no interest to neighboring counties, yet this story had potential. Threats to him, and to Calum, were suspicious; visions of front-page headlines and a coup worthy of a national newspaper filled his mind.
McAllister was in the hall hanging up his overcoat and hat when Joanne appeared. “Calum called. He’s been fired from his newspaper.”
That Calum had called her before phoning her husband she didn’t share.
“We’ve offered him a job.” McAllister wished he’d made it clear to Calum that Joanne was not to be involved. Too late now, he thought. He told her all he knew from Calum. Told her about a claim on the estate.
“I know about that,” Joanne said. “Sorry I didn’t tell you, but Calum told me about the claim a few days ago. I asked him to try to find out the name. I was worried I’d lose the manuscript.” When she said it, it sounded like an excuse. Even to her.
“Did you ask anyone else to help?”
“I phoned Mrs. Galloway at the hotel. I phoned the nursing home and asked Elaine, Calum’s fiancée. No one knew anything, and they promised to keep it quiet.”
Was that why Calum was fired? Asking about the estate? No, that would be normal for a local reporter. It had to be something else. “I had a visit from DI Dunne yesterday.” Again, it was information he’d had no intention of sharing with her. But if somehow she found out on her own, he knew what her reaction would be. There should be no secrets in a marriage, she’d say. And he couldn’t tell her not to keep information to herself if he was guilty of the same.
When he’d finished, she said, “The Official Secrets Act?” It came out as a whisper, as though she might be overheard. “That’s . . . that’s very important.” And terrifying. There was no word she could think of to convey her alarm.
“One very big mystery, I agree,” he said. “But until we find out more, it’s best you do absolutely nothing. No more questions. No more phone calls about Miss Alice Ramsay.”
“And you? What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.”
From the way she looked up through a stray strand of hair, her eyes holding his, questioning his decision, he could see she was disappointed.
“I’m not ordering you to do or not do anything, Joanne. But this is way beyond a small-town newspaper affair.”
“I know. The Official Secrets Act is the realm of spy stories and national newspaper headlines.”
“So for once in my life, I must listen to the advice of the police.” He was shaking his head, grinning as he said this.
She smiled back. “Not at all like you.”
“Next week, we should be back to normal, and young Calum joining the staff should make life easier. I have a feeling he’ll need some training. He’s selective in the information he shares and doesn’t always realize the importance of what he knows.”
“Back to the beginning for Calum, then.” Joanne knew that feeling. There was no need to add that without his mother as his main source of information, the newly hired reporter would have to cultivate his own contacts in unfamiliar territory. “Look out for him, will you?”
“I will.” Her thinking of others before herself was yet another reason he loved her. And respected her. “As well as a job, Don has promised Calum a membership at the golf club.”
“In that case, Calum Mackenzie will be at the Gazette for life.”
CHAPTER 10
The color of autumn is magnificent up here, especially in the woodland at the beginning of the glen, she is thinking. Winter is creeping in, seemingly overnight; that wind this morning, even the hens felt it.
“Let’s hope we don’t become snowed in,” she says to the wee dog.
She sighs at the idea of encountering Mrs. Mackenzie but knows she has no alternative. “I’ll take the Land Rover to Mr. Mackenzie and have him put on heavy-duty tires. And I’ll dig out the snow chains just in case.”
Then the thought of North Africa intruded, remembrance of warm star-studded nights, of cocktail parties and New Year embassy balls. And winters in Italy. And Turkey. It can snow there, she remembers, but it’s definitely warmer than up here in the glens.
She looks at the dog. “Don’t worry, boy, I won’t abandon you.”
Don watched McAllister staring out the high window. Looking like he’d found a sixpence and lo
st a pound, Don decided. He glanced up and could see nothing of interest. A lack of pigeons, maybe, he thought, as not even they were out in rain that had started days ago and seemed set to continue for the biblical forty.
The view was even more dreich when seen through the ever-present cloud of cigarette smoke, as thick and as threatening as the weather outside. The half light in homes and offices and schools, too dim to be comfortable, too bright to turn on the lights, was depressing. “Dreich,” that good Scottish weather word, rolled off the tongue and was descriptive of the feel, the sound, the shiver of weather not quite dramatic enough to call a storm. Dreich—miserable enough to require liberal amounts of whisky. Or start arguments. Or cause road accidents. All three combined could end up a large-font front-page splash.
When the editor slid off his stool and went out without a word, Don didn’t question him. I’ll find out soon enough.
He turned to the others. “Rob, when you get back from covering that court case, will you give Calum here an hour or so of your time? Frankie, two o’clock for that update on the dummy. Calum, phone your mother—but only this once. Keep your private life out of the office.” At the sight of two bright spots of red blooming on Calum’s cheeks, Don stopped himself from saying, You’re twenty-two, not twelve.
“Use the phone in my office downstairs,” Frankie offered. “It might be important.”
And Calum stopped himself from saying, It’s not important; it’s my mother. He’d been forced to take a job away from home, and he saw it as a chance to start again, only better, a chance to lose his reputation as a mammy’s boy. “Thanks, Frankie.”
In his private office, McAllister shut the door in a do-not-disturb-on-pain-of-the-sack notice to all. Knowing the number as well as his birthday, he dialed an outside line and rang the Glasgow number.
“Herald.”
“Sandy. I got your message.”
“You, now we, have a problem.”
“Tell me.”
“That numberplate you asked about, it rang all kinds of bells. My contact in the police is furious, says he might lose his job over it.”