‘Right, RoboCop,’ said Scott, stifling a smile. ‘Let’s get up tae this farm, and hope that there’s somebody at hame and this is all just a wild goose hunt.’
‘Chase, Sergeant,’ remarked DC Potts.
‘If there’s any chasing tae be done, that’s your job, son. Let’s get going. I hope you don’t get a rush of customers, Mrs McAuley.’ Scott opened the front door of the shop and headed for the unmarked police car.
‘You be careful, Malcolm,’ said Mrs McAuley, biting her lip. ‘I hate seeing you as the thin blue line.’
‘Yellow line, d’you not mean,’ said Potts cheekily. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get him back home safe and sound. Come on, Constable McAuley.’
‘Have you got your pepper spray?’ shouted Mrs McAuley, but it was too late. She watched as her husband got into the car, almost knocking his hat off in the process.
From the village, which was situated in the middle of the island, they turned right, heading roughly north. The road was single-track, and they were frequently forced to slow down behind sheep taking a leisurely stroll along the route.
‘Right, gie us the background on these Bremners,’ said Scott to McAuley, using their slow progress to learn something more of the missing family.
‘Well respected on the island, Sergeant. Old Mr Bremner and his wife arrived just after the beginning the war, as you maybe know. They’re Jews. Managed to escape the Nazis in the nick of time. Their son, Randolph, came over a wee bit later. He must have been a tiny baby when his mother and father made it out of Germany. A dangerous journey, I dare say. They left him with a family friend who passed him off as her own and got him to the island. Easier, I suppose, though I still don’t know how they made it in those dark days.’ He sighed.
‘That’s a long time ago. Who’s still alive?’ Scott was more interested to discover who was missing than in having a history lesson.
McAuley, though, was undaunted. He drew in a deep breath. ‘Oh, old Mr Bremner died in the eighties, but Jan, his wife, is still alive. Nearly a hundred, you know. Randolph, the son, shares the house with her. Always been a bit of an oddball. He was educated on the island by a private tutor – another German, though I don’t know much about him. Randolph went back to Germany in the late fifties. To rescue his parents’ fortune, so they said. Anyhow, he came back a couple of years later with a German wife and stayed put after that. He and his father didn’t get on – that was plain.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘Lovely woman, by all accounts. Died in her forties. Cancer, I think. I barely remember her. She was Dougie’s mother.’
‘Who the hell is Dougie?’
‘Well, Gunther is his real name, but he always hated it. He asked us all to call him Dougie, and Dougie he’s been ever since. He’s just like one of us; likes a pint and manages the farming and lobster creels. He and his wife live in the bungalow across the field from Achnamara. He runs the farm now. Randolph used to, but not very well. Made a hash of it when the old boy died. His idea of farming is bees. Been stung a couple of times by them in the course of my duties.’
‘Right, we’ve got this Randolph and his mother. He was born sometime around the beginning of the war. His mother, who’s a kick in the arse aff a birthday card fae the Queen, and then there’s this Dougie and his wife. Is that it?’
‘Yes . . . well, no, actually.’
‘Make up your bloody mind,’ said Scott as they ground to a halt, this time behind a queue of cows who were crossing the road.
‘They have a son, Alex. He’d be in his twenties now, I think. He’s not on the island. Never liked it here. After primary school on Gairsay he went to some private place near Glasgow. Another case of father and son not seeing eye to eye. A cruel boy, bullied other kids when he was young. Cheeky in the shop when he came back for holidays – arrogant, you know?’
‘Where’s he now?’
‘Now, that’s an interesting question. Last I heard, he was at Glasgow Uni, but then he decided he wanted to go to Europe, so he moved elsewhere to complete his studies. Another one who didn’t like his name.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘An odd one – foreign – sounds like Alice?’
‘Alice? Are you sure?’
‘Well, something like that. Anyhow, I’ve not seen him for a few years, though there’s the odd postcard from him. I recognise his handwriting. You have to be vigilant in this job, Sergeant Scott.’
‘Aye, right,’ said Scott, raising one eyebrow. ‘So, basically, we have four missing persons in total?’
‘Yes. Jan and Randoph from the farm itself, and Dougie and Eva from the bungalow.’
Soon, the three conical mountains that were the Paps of Jura soared hazily out of the blue. They passed by some small steadings and a couple of cottages before the road turned up a small hill, and McAuley told Scott to take the first left onto a farm track leading to Achnamara.
Gulls squawked overhead as the occupants of the car alighted in front of the farmhouse. Scott took in the scene, noting with dismay that there still seemed to be no sign of life.
‘So, what time did you get here, Mr . . . Constable McAuley?’ he asked, deciding to humour their local guide.
‘Now, let me see,’ replied the special constable, fishing a notebook from the pocket of his fluorescent jacket. ‘Just to let you know, I didn’t make these notes at the time. Well, for a start, I was in my postman’s uniform, so it wasn’t appropriate. But I jotted what I found in my official notebook as soon as I got back home – after I’d called Kinloch Police Station, of course.’ He flicked through the pages slowly, making Scott sigh, until he stopped and, with a note of triumph in his voice, announced that he’d visited Achnamara at about 07:35 hours. ‘I then proceeded to knock on the door. When there was no reply, I took it upon myself – observing the custom of the island, mark you – to open the door, shouting to see if anyone was home.’
‘And there wasn’t,’ said Scott, anxious to hurry things along.
‘Wait now, Sergeant.’ McAuley cleared his throat, again consulting his notebook. ‘First off, I turned left into the hall, then—’
‘Okay, we get the drift. Tae cut a long story short, there was naebody aboot, right?’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ replied McAuley, clearly disappointed that he’d not been able to take this rare opportunity to disclose the full set of notes he had meticulously written earlier.
‘Did you move anything?’ asked DC Potts.
‘Well, I took a burning pot of milk off the stove and uprighted a chair. But apart from that, I just left everything the way it was.’
‘Let’s take a look,’ said Scott, turning the brass door handle and entering the hallway.
‘How long do you intend to stay, Mr Feldstein?’ enquired the plump woman behind the reception desk of the Gairsay Hotel.
‘I’d prefer to leave that open. I’m here researching a book and I’m not sure how long the work will take.’ The man spoke with an ostensibly American accent that overlaid a slight, but distinctively foreign, inflection. ‘I’m willing to pay extra, of course.’
‘Oh, that won’t be necessary. We’ve just opened for the season. It’s a quiet time of year. Gets much busier come late May and June when the gardens are at their best.’ She paused. ‘A writer, did you say? How interesting.’
‘Not that interesting, I’m afraid. Just boring old history. But it’s a living,’ replied Feldstein. ‘I’ll give you my credit card details, then if you could show me to my room? I’ve had a long journey.’
‘Of course, Mr Feldstein.’ The receptionist took her new guest’s details, then led him through a door and up a flight of carpeted stairs and along a corridor. She stopped at room nine, opened it with a key on a long wooden tab, and handed it to her new guest. ‘This is one of our nicest rooms. There’s a great view across the bay towards Kintyre. The phone’s there on your bedside table, so just call reception if you need anything. Breakfast is between seven and nine, ser
ved in the dining room across from reception, and we do lunch and dinner if you book ahead.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, flashing the woman a smile as she left. It swiftly faded to a blank expression as he flung a large case onto the bed and unzipped it. He removed some clothes and hung them in the wardrobe. When the case appeared to be empty, he pushed a tiny lever on its side, revealing a false bottom which he pulled free from the case. A small handgun and a box of ammunition were strapped to the inside. He pulled the tape away roughly and cocked the weapon, checking and rechecking it, before loading it and tucking it into the waistband of his trousers. He taped the ammunition box into the case, before reassembling it and stowing it in the wardrobe.
He sighed as he looked out of the window. Under a grey sky, the sea looked dark and restless. A small boat with two fishermen aboard was puttering slowly across the bay. Seabirds were swooping and diving on the breeze. He stood for a few minutes, seemingly transfixed by the scene, then took the smartphone from his pocket.
‘I’m here. Now what?’ He listened to the voice on the other end before hanging up without a word.
It didn’t take long to ascertain that the Bremner family hadn’t returned to Achnamara. Scott opened a drawer in an old oak sideboard in the lounge. He found a well-thumbed address book and handed it to Potts.
‘Lots of addresses of folk on the mainland, and abroad, Sergeant.’
‘Well, use your initiative, son. I’m sure the Bremners had plenty of friends on the island. We can contact them easily. We want tae find oot where this Alex bugger is – the boy needs tae know his family have been beamed up. He might even know something aboot it. So, look for his address. And we’ll need tae find out who was the last person tae see them. Have you any idea?’ He glanced at McAuley.
‘Well, I was here two days ago with another parcel. But Dougie usually enjoys a pint or two in the local hotel most evenings. I can check if he was there last night.’
‘Don’t you enjoy a drink or two yourself?’ asked Scott.
‘Och, no. By the time my working day’s finished, I just relax in front of the telly for a couple of hours.’
‘Unless there’s a fire, or you’ve got tae arrest someone, eh?’
‘We have little crime here, Sergeant Scott. Some of the young folk get a bit rowdy at the weekends, but it’s mainly good-natured stuff.’
‘So the stab-proof vest stays in the wardrobe?’
‘I like to get out on a Friday night and let folk see the uniform. A reassuring presence, don’t you think?’
‘I’m sure everyone sleeps like babies here, knowing you’ve got their backs,’ said Scott, seemingly without a hint of sarcasm.
Without warning, there was a loud crack like a firework or the discharge of a rifle. Scott could smell cordite on the air.
‘It came from out in the hall,’ whispered Potts, crouched behind a leather sofa.
‘Was it a gun? It sounded like one.’ Scott was almost rooted to the spot. It wasn’t that long since he’d been the victim of a shooting, and the memory of it was sharp enough to make his mouth dry.
‘Look!’ McAuley was pointing out into the hallway, from where issued a thick pall of blue smoke.
Scott rushed out of the lounge. The smoke was coming from under a door on the opposite side of the hall. ‘What room’s that?’
‘It’s just a cupboard, I think,’ replied McAuley.
Scott ran into the kitchen, Potts at his back. ‘We’ll need tae get water, son.’
‘Here,’ replied Potts, pulling a blue plastic bucket from under the sink and handing it to his superior.
Scott banged the receptacle into the deep sink and filled it with cold water. When it was about three-quarters full, he heaved it back out, slopping water on himself and the floor. ‘You get the door handle, son. Quick!’
Potts tugged at the brass handle on the cupboard door, but it wouldn’t budge.
‘There’s a key in the lock!’ shouted McAuley.
Potts turned the key and pulled the door open. A cloud of acrid smoke billowed out of the cupboard, causing Potts to cough and splutter.
Scott pushed past him with the bucket and poured the water onto the floor, from where the smoke was now coming. ‘Quick, get me more water! We need tae get this pit oot.’
McAuley found a large cooking pot after the young detective had refilled the bucket and raced back to Scott with it. After a few trips, the smoke began to peter out. Scott poured another bucketful over it for good measure, then stood back, coughing and choking, his trousers soaked and his face blackened with soot.
‘What the hell was that?’
Potts edged into the cupboard, his feet squelching on the wet carpet. He took a flashlight from his pocket and directed its beam to the floor. ‘Looks like a hatch, Sergeant. A cellar, maybe?’
Scott looked at McAuley, who was looking in dismay at his sodden trousers. ‘You know anything about a cellar here?’
‘No. I’ve never seen it before.’
Scott peered at the floor of the empty cupboard, still illuminated by Potts’s torch. ‘Right enough, there’s some kind of hatch here.’ He poked tentatively at the floor with his left shoe, then squatted over the hatch and grasped a brass handle. ‘If this is the door tae the cellar, we better take a look. The family might be down there.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the emergency services?’ said McAuley, his voice wavering.
‘We are the emergency services,’ replied Scott. ‘From now on, you can be the fireman.’
McAuley shook his head for a few moments, then looked despairingly at the detective. ‘But . . . I don’t have the right uniform on.’
5
With a feeling of dread, Daley pulled into the car park behind Kinloch Police Office. He let the engine idle and closed his eyes. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself and muster the strength to go into the office.
It was mid afternoon now. His journey to the town had been spent in total silence. He could no longer bear listening to the radio as he drove. Silly pop songs got on his nerves, classical music was too melancholy, and he couldn’t concentrate on chattering voices. He’d spent two hours with his own thoughts; they hadn’t made for good company.
He jumped when someone knocked on the window by his side. Daley pressed a button on the door and the window wound itself down.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. I saw you parking up on the CCTV,’ said Sergeant Shaw.
‘What’s the hurry?’
‘It’s DS Scott, sir. We have a bit of a situation on Gairsay. Chief Superintendent’s been looking for you.’
‘Gairsay? What’s Brian doing over there?’
‘I’ll brief you on the way in, sir.’
Daley followed Shaw into the office. By the time he was sitting behind his desk in the familiar glass box, he had a rough outline of what was happening on the tiny island.
The phone on his desk rang.
‘Chief Superintendent for you, sir.’
Daley took the call.
Symington listened, her eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Not to stop you, Jim – I know you’re fresh to this yourself – but to recap: basically, a whole family were reported missing on Gairsay early this morning, and DS Scott went to investigate. Am I right?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Since then, they’ve had to put out a fire and they’ve discovered something untoward in a cellar. Not this family, I hope.’
‘No, ma’am. DS Scott has just called for the assistance of the Bomb Squad. Apparently the door to the cellar was booby-trapped in some way.’
‘Is everyone okay?’
‘Fine, though no sign of the Bremner family. DS Scott is there with DC Potts and the island’s special constable. The Bomb Squad are making their way from Glasgow in a helicopter as we speak.’
‘Tell Scott I don’t want him taking any risks.’
‘I haven’t spoken to him directly yet, ma’am. My understanding is that everything has been secured now, and th
e squad are merely a precaution. But something’s up, ma’am.’
‘Please, Jim, it’s Carrie. We agreed, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, Carrie, we did. I’m just about to call Brian now. As soon as I have an updated sitrep from him, I’ll call you back.’
She hung up. Daley still sounded flat, exhausted, haunted by recent events. Had it been any other officer, she would have insisted that he take proper leave. However, she knew he was on his own now, his private life a mess. Only the discipline of the job was keeping him going.
She knew that feeling – knew all about loneliness.
She picked up the phone again. ‘Get me a car and a driver. I’m going to Kinloch.’
Feldstein had borrowed a bicycle from the hotel. He now stood on top of the highest hill on Gairsay, which conveniently overlooked Achnamara. He folded the map and returned it to his backpack. Using his expensive Swarovski binoculars, he peered at the farm, assessing all the activity that now surrounded it.
He’d seen the blue helicopter flying low over the island from his hotel room. Deciding to tap into local gossip, he’d spent half an hour in the hotel’s tiny bar. Apart from wild speculation about the disappearence of the Bremners – something he already knew – he gleaned little new information. A drunken old woman had persistently tried to engage him in conversation, but the barmaid had managed to stop her from annoying him. Soon realising he’d discover very little within the cramped confines of the public bar, he decided to take to the hill.
He scanned the sea surrounding Gairsay. He could see the white sails of a yacht as it glided across the grey waves in the distance, most likely heading for the isle of Islay. The day had brightened slightly, and the dim disc of the sun could be seen through light cloud. It wasn’t warm though, and he was glad he’d decided to wear a thick polo-neck under his Barbour jacket.
The phone in his pocket rang.
‘Yes,’ he said curtly.
‘The farmhouse, what is the situation?’ The voice on the other end was deep, with a similar accent to his own.
Well of the Winds Page 3