by A. D. Scott
“May I take this?” Joanne asked.
“Will it help find her killer?” It was clear Mrs. Galloway was reluctant to let the drawing go.
“You really don’t believe she killed herself?” Joanne needed to know it wasn’t only her who doubted the official verdict.
“I always found it hard to credit. And—”
“Ah, there you are.” McAllister walked in, smelling of beer and wind. “What’s that? Another of Alice’s paintings?”
Joanne jumped. Caught out, she blushed, saying, “I had this idea that maybe I should check—you know.”
“Good thinking. We’ve come all this way to give Calum a lift to see his mother, so why not?”
When he smiled, Joanne guessed that he’d foreseen there was more to their journey.
“May I see?”
Mrs. Galloway said, “It’s a fine drawing.”
“It is,” Joanne agreed.
“You look really beautiful,” McAllister said.
Muriel Galloway blushed and said thank you and desperate to have his attention elsewhere she pushed the other drawing towards him.
“Ah. This really is special.” From McAllister’s voice and the way he sat down, staring at the subjects, Joanne could sense his fascination. “I think perhaps I recognize—”
Joanne nudged him. He looked at her. And at Muriel Galloway. “On second thoughts, I’m not so sure.”
“Is this what everyone is looking for?” Joanne asked.
“Perhaps.” He was staring at the back of the drawing. In pencil was a list of numbers. They began with a letter, followed by a single digit, a slash, then a string of numbers. There were twelve in all. The column of numbers was scrawled, the spacing close, and not every symbol completely formed. This was written in a hurry, he decided.
“What’s it about?” Muriel Galloway asked.
“Best you don’t know,” he replied. “But we need to take it, and I can’t guarantee you’ll get it back.”
“I don’t want it.” Mrs. Galloway had seen in McAllister’s face a hint of fear. And excitement. His long, hard stare, as though trying to guess not who the men were but what they were, scared her. “As long as I get to keep my portrait, no, I don’t mind.”
“Thank you.” He added, “I will try to keep where it was discovered secret.” Top secret, he was thinking. He glanced up at Joanne. Saw her sitting slumped in the dining chair, elbows on the table, head resting on her hands. “It’s time we left. Long drive ahead. Thank you again.”
“I’ve made soup—won’t you have some before you set off?” Mrs. Galloway asked.
“Sorry.” He took Joanne’s arm with one hand, steering her out to the car. In the other, still between the protective sheets of paper, was the drawing. “Sorry,” he said again as he went to open the driver’s door. “We’ll stop in Tain or Dingwall for something to eat. But I need to get out of here.”
“I want to drive. You need to think. And smoke. But with the windows down.”
Joanne kept to the main coastal road; the climb over the shorter but tortuous route over the pass she knew would not be safe. Not in her condition of excitement with a strong dash of fear. The first hour of the drive, they said little. It was when she felt the ache in her shoulders, noticed her knuckles tight around the steering wheel and drained of blood that she knew she needed to stop. Invergordon, there was sure to be a café there. There wasn’t. It being Saturday afternoon, nothing was open; it was half closing day for shops and too early for the pubs.
Just past the town, she drew into a lay-by on the shoreline of the firth. “Need to stretch my legs,” she said.
“Me too,” he answered.
Although chilly, it was clear. Fluffy clouds were reflected in the still, flat water of the firth. Spreading clouds of rotting bladder seaweed made picking their way over shingle difficult. McAllister paused, searched the sea stones, and picked out four flat skimming stones. He handed two to Joanne.
He threw first. “Six.”
She threw next. “Eight!”
His turn. “Seven.”
Her turn. “Six.” She laughed. “Thirteen skips to fourteen. I win!”
“One more throw settles it.”
“No, let’s get home.”
Just before the main bridge into town, they stopped for a fish supper. They decided to eat the fish and chips—which came wrapped in an old issue of the Gazette—on a bench facing the river and the castle.
“I needed that,” she said, licking the grease from her fingers. “I was starving.”
When they arrived home, after she’d switched off the engine, she didn’t move, just sat, staring into shadows. She whispered, “Is it safe?”
With the girls at their grandparents’ for the night, with no lights on, no music coming from the sitting room, and no smoke from the chimney, all life had departed from their home.
“I’m pretty sure it is, but . . .” He told her, “I have a plan. Move over, I’ll drive.”
She laughed when he registered them as Mr. and Mrs. Smith and told the receptionist, “No, no luggage.”
She loved the clean sheets, the endless hot water, and the suggestion that this was a belated honeymoon.
She understood when he said, “Tomorrow. Time enough to talk about it tomorrow.”
But she insisted the drawing, in the envelope, in her handbag, be placed between their pillows.
That McAllister was asking to meet in his solicitor’s office made DI Dunne curious. But not worried.
When he heard what McAllister had to say, he was shocked. “You did what?” It came out louder than the policeman intended.
“We found a drawing by Miss Alice Ramsay. I believe it is what Hennessey and his colleagues were searching for. I had it photographed and copies printed. Four are in sealed envelopes and placed with reliable people. They will only be opened on my personal say-so.”
“You were told to drop the matter. You were reminded of the Official Secrets Act. Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Not really,” McAllister said. “But I’ve given up trusting anyone—even you, Inspector.”
Angus MacLean had agreed to be a silent witness yet found it hard not to smile when John McAllister, respectable editor of a local newspaper, implied that a senior policeman who he now knew to be with Special Branch, a senior representative of the Foreign Office, and a local detective renowned for his integrity were untrustworthy.
“So where is the original drawing?”
“In a bank vault. Not that I expect that to be a problem for those shady branches of the security services. But it will be difficult and time-consuming, and what can they do to me without raising a hell of a fuss?”
“Clap you in irons in the castle dungeons?” the solicitor joked.
DI Dunne frowned. “What are you hoping to achieve, Mr. McAllister?”
McAllister heard the “Mr.” and knew the policeman was distancing himself. “I don’t want to know about spies or betrayals or state secrets. I want my family left in peace. I will not have my wife scared to be alone in her own house. And I want the death of Miss Ramsay explained.”
So that Joanne can stop obsessing over it, he would never say. But DI Dunne guessed.
McAllister added, “Inspector, you have been witness to most of the interviews. You must have the measure of these people.” He needed a cigarette but had left the packet in the office as part of his cutting-down regime. “It didn’t occur to me until after we found the drawing that this is what Hennessey hoped for. He couldn’t risk any more searches, so he described the portrait in detail to my wife. He guessed, rightly, that she couldn’t resist looking for it.”
DI Dunne didn’t contradict him.
Here McAllister took a deep breath and spoke as though being interviewed. “I wish you to pass on this information, Inspector. I will be keeping the original drawing until I have an explanation, an apology, and a guarantee that this is the end of the matter.” He stood. “No doubt, I will be hearing from
them soon.”
“No doubt,” echoed Angus MacLean.
DI Dunne left. From his deep sigh, they could hear, and see, he was not happy.
As they shook hands, the solicitor said, “I have news on your bid for the house.”
When McAllister returned home, Joanne asked, “Did you do what we agreed?”
“I did. Now we wait.” He put his hands on her shoulders, facing her. “I have other news.”
She was too scared to look up at him.
And feeling her tremble, understanding her fears, he quickly said, “I’m afraid we didn’t get the house.”
She said, “Is that all? I thought you were about to tell me something serious.”
He hugged her. Held her close. Felt her shake. He stepped back, looked at her. She began to smile. Then laugh. “You’re hopeless, McAllister. That’s twice you’ve lost a bid. Next time, I’m taking charge of business.”
He agreed.
“It’s only a house, McAllister. No one’s life is at stake.”
CHAPTER 22
My oh my, they are all so fixed in their public-schoolboy code of conduct they can never envisage that a woman could be intelligent enough to outwit them.
Though now that they suspect I know, I could lose everything; traitors cannot afford to leave loose ends.
It was such fun in the beginning. I’ve known D since we were children, when we would join the adults for the shooting season.
We children were sent by train, with our governesses, with the baggage, with all the accoutrements for the deer stalking, and salmon fishing, and hiking, plus our frocks for tea-parties and, of course, the Hunt Ball.
The Hunt Balls were a de facto marriage market. Us sweet young things—awkward, blushing, barely educated, potential breeding stock—were on display much like slave women in a marketplace.
Even sheltered in our Swiss finishing schools, we girls knew who was available, who their family was, their lineage, their income, and which marriage would consolidate the family fortune—or lack thereof. Some of our chums were marrying Americans for their fortunes.
Meeting up again as adults in those prewar years, working in affiliated services, attending the same parties in Cairo, and Istanbul, and Paris, to say nothing of our social life at home, what fun we had. The champagne bills must have been astronomical.
Sisters, wives, husbands, cousins, friends; we all knew one another well.
Or so we thought.
Don McLeod had heard many bizarre tales in his life but none quite as bizarre as this.
“If it hadn’t been for Westland vouching for him, I was beginning to think Mr. Stuart—if that was his name—and our newest spy, Mr. Hennessey, are from one and the same department.”
“Perhaps they are.”
“We have no way of knowing.” McAllister was speaking through the smoke steaming out of him like a kettle on the boil. His voice indicated the same held-in pressure.
Don knew to sit back, let his editor release the pressure, and only then would they begin at the beginning, analyzing every moment, every incident, every nuance of the scandal, knowing they could never print.
“I’d like you to keep this safe.” McAllister handed Don an envelope with the original drawing. “Put it in a bank, maybe, but not in my name.”
“Nor mine.” Don thought for a second. “I’ll put it in the Darts Club deposit box. I’m on the committee, but my name’s on nothing official.”
When Don left, McAllister began a systematic series of phone calls to everyone he could think of. As casually as he could, and knowing a great many explanations, or lies, would be needed, he’d say, “I’m researching a piece about the lack of investment in the Highlands. Along the lines of ‘we pay the same taxes as everyone, but what do we get?’ ”
The editor of the Sutherland Courier suggested that upgrading the A9 from the lowlands to John o’ Groats was a priority. “And a new bridge across the firth,” he added.
The answers were different, but all were of the same ilk.
After he’d heard McAllister out, and realizing he had no idea why the editor had called, Angus MacLean said, “You are investigating the allocation of government money and thinking you might ruffle a few feathers. Got it.” He recognized a cover story when he heard one.
“I hope not,” McAllister replied.
Peter Kowalski, friend and prominent businessman-about-town, was next to receive a baffling phone call from McAllister. “You are trying to find out how exactly the government in London spends our taxes?”
“Exactly. Although it might stir up some unwanted attention from some governmental—”
“I never discuss politics,” Peter said. On the telephone, he meant. A Polish refugee who had escaped the Nazis, Kowalski was now settled, and safe, in the Highlands and more aware than most of the powers of secret services of all varieties.
McAllister left a message for Sandy Marshall. Then, last, he wrote a letter to the chairman of the board of the Gazette, again stating his articles might stir up controversy but that he was doing his job as an investigative journalist believing it would increase the standing, and the circulation, of the Highland Gazette.
He had alerted all the people he could think of and felt better. So if I should disappear or be knocked over by a car, someone will check.
The police constable tried Calum Mackenzie’s lodgings.
“He came back yesterday, and he’s at work, as far as I know,” the landlady said.
Next, he tried the Gazette.
“Aye, Calum was in first thing this morning. Haven’t seen him since.” Don didn’t add that he’d told Calum to leave and only come back when he had an article worth publishing. “Chase a cat up a tree, then call the fire brigade if you have to!” he’d shouted at Calum.
“I believe his fiancée works at the hospital,” the policeman said.
“Aye, so I heard. Anything I can help you with?”
“No thanks Mr. McLeod, it’s personal.”
When the constable left, Don lit up. He knew that look of panic-stricken dread; cadet reporters experienced it when doorstepping the newly bereaved. People of the first half of the war-torn twentieth century knew it from a knock on the door, a uniform, a telegram. Don knew that the young constable’s face would burn, words scorching his throat, how he would wake up in the night, reliving that part of his job he would never become cynical about, breaking the news to the oblivious wife, husband, children, family. He knew it only became easier to bear if, or most likely when, the policeman or the reporter lost his humanity. Or took to drink.
Whatever it is Calum lad, I’m sorry I was so hard on you. He groaned. He picked up the phone and called Joanne on the off chance Calum was there. Engaged. Ten minutes later, the telephone still engaged, he decided to walk over for a cup of tea. Maybe check up on Joanne whilst there; not that he’d tell her that—Joanne became pretty feisty if she thought she was being protected.
Joanne recognized the shape through the glass. “Hold on, Sandy, Don’s at the door.”
She put a hand over the mouthpiece and called out, “Come on in. Won’t be a sec.”
Don went to the kitchen and put on the kettle.
She returned to her phone call. “Really, Sandy, that man’s got the hide of a rhinoceros.”
“I know. But at least one mystery is solved. He and Miss Ramsay knew each other at the College of Art.”
“Was that the name she went by? Alice Ramsay?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“You need McAllister to explain.”
“Aye, well. I also checked up on Hennessey. He is with the Foreign Office, though which department is impossible to know.” Sandy was aware his line might be tapped in spite of the laws and safeguards that prohibited tapping a newspaper telephone.
“I don’t want to think about those men,” she said. “But thanks for letting me know about Forsythe.”
“Buy tomorrow’s newspaper. Dougald Forsythe blows his own trumpet so well he
should take up politics.”
“Heaven forfend.”
Don was reading yesterday’s Scotsman when Joanne joined him, saying, “That was Sandy Marshall. He was telling me about Mr. Forsythe. He’s donated the Leonardo drawing to the School of Art as an example of a master forgery. He says he knew all along and only wanted to show up the art establishment. According to Sandy, he’s making out that he’s an all-round great guy and only— What’s wrong? Is it McAllister?” She dropped to the chair.
“I left McAllister punching the life out of his typewriter. No, nothing’s wrong, I’m only here for a cup of tea.”
The doorbell rang. The front door opened. Whoever was there was not a stranger. “Joanne? Hello?”
“In the kitchen.”
Elaine was in her uniform. She was a mess of hair escaping her nurse’s cap, pink-rimmed eyes, and a smear of snot on the collar of the blue dress. She would not look out of place in a portrait of Highlanders fleeing Culloden. “I can’t find Calum. I’ve no idea where he went. How am I going to tell him? He’ll never cope.”
“What is it?” Don asked. Remembering the policeman who’d been to the office looking for Calum, he knew he’d been right to be uneasy.
“Excuse me a moment.” Elaine went to the sink, wetted a hankie, wiped her eyes, then began. “Sister called me into her office. Told me to call my mum.” She’d been terrified that the bad news concerned her family.
The telling was secondhand, but in her mind’s eye Elaine was there, in the hotel she’d worked in as part-time receptionist, housemaid, and waitress on Saturdays from when she was fourteen until she’d left school. She’d known everyone at the gathering since she was a baby. As she repeated the story to Joanne and Don, she did the voices, the gestures. Perhaps not word-for-word accurate but certainly sentiment-perfect, Elaine spoke the picture, word-painted the scene.
“Last night at the hotel, it was a going-away do for Mrs. Byrne, the chiropodist. She’s flitting to Aberdeen as her husband has a new job. Mum was there with my auntie and a bunch of friends. No one asked her to the do, because no one wanted her there. The excuse was that she needs a wheelchair.”