Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘The Bomb Squad are at Achnamara now. The property is still intact.’

  ‘That is good news. I’m surprised that you’re not looking at a pile of smouldering ruins by now.’

  ‘We’ve been betrayed.’

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line before he received a reply. ‘Maybe. Maybe it was just luck.’

  ‘How could it be luck? Only you and I knew that I’d be here today. You, me and Berkovic. One of us is a traitor.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re saying? This organisation has been working for the last seventy years to shed light on this. Why would there be this problem now?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Feldstein replied flatly. ‘We won’t make any progress here until after dark.’

  ‘You’ll have to be careful. Remember, you’re in the UK, not some corrupt South American republic or festering Arab cesspool.’

  ‘I know where I am. You concentrate on your responsibilities. Find out who has betrayed us and eliminate them.’ He hung up.

  He counted three policemen in uniform now. He focused the binoculars on the front door of the property. A man with short dark hair, wearing a suit, was smoking a cigarette and talking on his mobile. He studied the man for a few moments, turned, and began to make his way back down the hill.

  He would need to get some sleep. It promised to be a very long night.

  *

  ‘The boys fae the squad reckon it was an incendiary charge, Jimmy. They’re just making a last sweep, then I’ll be able tae get in there and have a look.’

  ‘Good. Why on earth would someone rig such a thing to their cellar?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, big man. I’m sure we’ll find oot mair when I manage tae get in there.’

  ‘Just you and Potts. Leave McAuley where he is. We don’t want the whole island talking about this. Symington’s on her way. I’m meeting her at the ferry.’

  ‘This place is full of surprises, Jimmy. I’ll see you when you get here.’ Scott ended the call and breathed in the salty air. He heard footsteps and turned round.

  ‘All clear, Sergeant Scott,’ said Watts, the head of the Bomb Squad. ‘You’re in for a treat down in the cellar.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’ll not spoil the surprise, but it’s like stepping back in time.’

  Scott followed Watts back into the farmhouse, where three members of the Bomb Squad, all in protective gear, were packing away their equipment.

  ‘We’ve swept the rest of the house. No more nasties to report,’ said Watts. ‘We’re off to take a look at the bungalow nearby. Here, this is what caused your problem.’ He handed Scott a small, blackened box, from which wires extruded, their plastic coating melted to reveal the copper wire underneath.

  ‘Oh aye. I’m sad tae say my knowledge o’ this kind o’ stuff is very limited, my friend. Tae be blunt: what the fuck is it?’

  ‘It’s an incendiary timer – a bloody old one, at that. Probably made sometime in the thirties.’

  ‘So it didn’t work very well?’

  ‘Luckily for you, no, it didn’t. The charge was probably damp. It would have sparked off more spectacularly if you hadn’t doused it in water.’

  ‘No’ just a pretty face, eh?’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Watts with a smile. ‘Oh, one more thing. It’s German.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The timer. I’ll have to take it back and consult the books, but I think it’s an old Wehrmacht device.’

  ‘What’s this, the bloody Eagle Has Landed?’

  ‘In your case, more like the pigeon, eh? It all fits, I suppose.’

  ‘Fits how?’

  ‘Wait till you get into the cellar, then you’ll see what I mean.’ Watts walked off, leaving Scott puzzled.

  ‘What now? Are we going down there, Sergeant Scott?’ asked McAuley.

  ‘Time you got back tae your shop, Constable McAuley. We’ll take things fae here. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I was kind of hoping I’d get to go down to the cellar. The bomb boys tell me it’s interesting.’

  ‘I’ll let you know what it’s all aboot,’ said Scott. ‘Mind now, this is police business, keep it to yourself.’

  ‘I think you’ll find I’m professional in all things, Sergeant.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot o’ things tae be professional aboot.’

  ‘I hope they’re okay – the Bremners, I mean. I’ve known them all my life.’ He walked away, his fluorescent jacket, blackened in places by soot, vivid against the dim sky.

  Scott loped up the front steps, back into the farmhouse. ‘Right, DC Potts, let’s get doon there.’

  With Potts behind Scott, both holding torches, the detectives descended a short metal ladder that led from the open hatch down into the cellar. Though the ceiling was low – there was just enough room to stand up – Scott was surprised by the extent of the space he was now in. It was clear that the cellar ran the full length of the house, with various nooks and crannies.

  To his right sat a Chesterfield-style couch, its burgundy leather worn to bright pink in places. Facing it was a wooden bureau, of the type his granny might have given pride of place to in her best room. An anglepoise lamp sat above a blotting sheet, beside an ink well and a selection of pens and pencils. Everything looked decades old – out of place.

  ‘Look at this, Sergeant,’ said Potts. He’d walked deeper into the cellar, and was now out of sight around a corner.

  Scott followed the beam of Potts’s torch. On the wall in front of them was a huge map of the world, faded and yellowed with age. Various areas had been marked with red stars and white circles. Scott ran his finger across the bottom of the map, dislodging a line of thick greasy dust.

  ‘Dae you notice something strange aboot this, son?’

  ‘It all looks strange to me.’

  Scott pointed the beam of his torch over the European section of the map. A huge black swastika was plastered across a large swathe of the continent.

  6

  Kinloch, 1945

  The vessel lay on its side on the shingle of the ancient causeway. The good people of the town were well used to seeing naval craft. Since the beginning of the war, their loch had been filled with vessels of all shapes and sizes – most of them clothed in the battleship grey favoured by the Royal Navy and their allies. They had seen the population of their small town more than double; sailors, soldiers and airmen became a regular sight in the shops, pubs and hotels. The world had become a different place. Their country was locked in a life-and-death struggle against people of whom they knew little; people governed by a philosophy that seemed as at odds with the way they ran their lives as it was possible to be. The locals could still remember stories of the blood, gore and filth of the trenches. To those who had been caught up in it, it seemed such a short time ago. To those who followed events in the newspapers and hung on the words of those who returned, it had been a conflict fought at a remove. This war, however, was more personal to those who hadn’t signed up. In years gone by, soldiers trooped off on trains and ships to another land to take on an enemy. In the last few years, the enemy had come to them.

  Every man, woman and child on the causeway watched the sailors in silence as they clambered warily onto this strange vessel, now almost completely above the waves, with only the tapered beam partially covered by the grey water of the loch. The crowd stared as two seamen took the ladder up the conning tower and disappeared into the body of the craft.

  One small boy turned to his father. ‘Whoot’s that black cross a’ aboot, Faither?’

  His father sucked on his pipe before answering. ‘It’s a German submarine, son, a U-boat.’

  The boy bit his lip for a few moments, his eyes searching along the superstructure of the vessel. ‘Should we no’ run away? Whoot if they Germans come oot and start shooting?’

  ‘Their shooting days are o’er, son,’ replied his father pragmatically. ‘There’s no man left alive on that boat.�
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  ‘How dae you know?’

  ‘How long have I been at the fishing for?’

  ‘For ever?’

  ‘Aye, it seems like that sometimes.’ He nodded, tapping the used tobacco from his pipe with the palm of his hand. ‘Mind whoot happened to your uncle Billy?’

  ‘He drooned.’

  ‘Aye, he did that, son.’

  ‘My auntie Sheena was greetin’ for weeks.’

  His father turned away from his son, blinking away tears at the memory of his drowned brother. ‘She did, aye. So did we all.’ He looked down at the boy, ruffled his hair with his big, calloused hand. ‘The men aboard that boat are drooned, tae. Like your uncle Billy.’

  The boy looked, wide-eyed, at his father, just as a burst of laughter came from a group of young men standing a few yards away. ‘How come there’s naebody greetin’ jeest noo?’

  ‘These men were Germans, son. The enemy.’

  ‘So there’s some folk we want tae droon?’

  ‘Put it like this: if they men were still alive, they’d try and kill us. Noo that they’re deid they canna dae that.’

  The boy bowed his head. Before long, he started to sniff copiously, a muffled sob coming from his closed mouth.

  His father knelt down and lifted the boy’s chin gently with his forefinger. ‘Whoot’s the matter, Hamish? Why are you crying?’

  ‘It’s no’ right they boys are laughing,’ he sobbed. ‘They men are drooned, jeest like my uncle Billy. We didna laugh when he died. We shouldna laugh at they men, neithers.’

  His father looked up just in time to see one of the sailors who had disappeared into the U-boat poke his head over the conning tower and wave frantically. Soon, more sailors could be seen scrambling into the submarine.

  Daley stood beside his car, hands in pockets, at the ferry terminal. In the distance, the peaks of Jura towered over Islay. Much closer, across a short stretch of water, lay Gairsay, a strip of green land with a couple of low hills and houses and farm buildings dotted about it. He watched the lazy sweep of the wind turbines for a few moments, finding it hypnotic. Gazing back at the sea, Daley could see the black-and-white ferry making its way towards the mainland, almost halfway through its journey. The weather had improved, and weak late-afternoon sunshine glinted off the water. Daley watched a crow hopping along the car park, pecking at the ground, looking for pieces of discarded food. It reminded him of his visit to Mary’s grave, and he tried to force the painful memory from his mind.

  The phone rang in his pocket, and, expecting it to be Scott, he answered it without looking at the screen.

  ‘You don’t deserve to see your son.’ The voice was as cold as it was familiar: Liz.

  ‘Liz, please. I’ve had a lot on. I’m sorry. I’ll make time to see him in the next few days, I promise. We can get this sorted out.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ve been to my lawyer, and he agrees with me. We’ll have to make this formal. You’ll have to go to court to apply for access. It’s obvious that you can’t be trusted with a more informal arrangement.’

  Daley paused before answering. It was as though she was a complete stranger; that nothing, no warmth or affection, had ever passed between them. He could hardly blame her, though. ‘I’m sorry that things have come to this, Liz.’

  ‘This is the last time I’ll be in touch. If you have anything to say to me, I want you to do it through the lawyers. There’s a letter on its way to you from mine.’

  The phone went dead.

  It had been short, but most definitely not sweet. He could think of a time when a phone call like that from his wife would have devastated him. Now, it only registered as a minor irritation. He missed his son, though, and felt guilty that he’d been too wrapped up with his own grief to have seen the boy. That had been thoughtless and wrong. Still, he couldn’t let her dictate terms, not now. He resolved to call his own solicitor as soon as he had a moment.

  He heard a car pull up behind him. Chief Superintendent Carrie Symington was sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked police car. She waved and smiled. He watched as the driver removed her bag from the boot and, after a brief exchange, got back in the car and drove off.

  ‘I’ll go over in your car, Jim, if that’s okay?’ She walked over to his vehicle and waited for him to open the boot. ‘I took a call on the way down the road.’

  ‘Oh, who from?’

  ‘The MOD, some bureaucrat called Timothy Gissing. Wants to be kept informed, if you please.’

  ‘How do they know anything about this?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Jim. Their involvement in anything makes me twitchy. What’s this all about?’

  ‘I don’t really know. They’ve managed to disable some kind of booby trap in the farmhouse and now they’re searching the cellar.’

  Symington let Daley lift her bag into the car. ‘So, not just a missing persons enquiry?’

  ‘It would seem not, ma’am.’

  She studied her colleague. He’d lost weight and looked pale and drawn. The vitality she’d first noticed in him had disappeared under the weight of grief. ‘You’re just back from some leave, am I right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Daley with a drawn-out sigh.

  ‘These feelings won’t last for ever, Jim. I know it’s hell just now, but it will get easier.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want it to get easier, ma’am.’

  ‘Carrie, remember.’

  Daley smiled weakly. ‘We better get going. Ferry’s nearly here.’

  7

  ‘It’s like stepping back tae the war,’ said Scott, looking at a dusty typewriter. ‘Reminds me of my auld granny’s hoose. She never redecorated after my grandfaither got killed in a Lancaster bomber. The hoose was frozen in time. I used tae go there when I was a boy. This is just the same.’

  ‘Some kind of hobby, do you think?’ considered Potts. ‘A fascination with the military?’

  ‘Maybe, son, maybe. What’s through here?’ Scott turned the handle of a heavy oak door. The room was spacious, holding a pair of camp beds, two chairs and a table, and old filing cabinets. On the wall above an ancient electric fire a painting stood out in the gloom. Scott whistled through his teeth. ‘If it’s a hobby, it’s a strange one.’ The woman in the painting seemed to be staring straight at him. Whoever had painted her had been good; the piercing cold blue eyes seemed almost illuminated.

  ‘Who’s that, gaffer?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but I wouldn’t like tae bump intae her on a dark night.’

  ‘One of the family, maybe?’

  Scott stared up at the painting and shivered involuntarily. ‘Maybe. The painting’s quite old, by the look of it.’

  Scott forced his gaze away from the woman in the painting and took in the rest of the room. The cream paint on the beds was chipped, with spots of rust bubbling through. The faded striped mattresses looked thin, old and well used, with no sheets or blankets to hide their stains.

  Against the far wall sat the filing cabinets, each with three deep drawers and, like the beds, dotted with rust. Scott was surprised to find the top drawer of the first cabinet he came to unlocked, so he pulled it fully open and delved inside. Under the beam of his torch, reams of yellowed paper nestled in cardboard files. He pulled one out and studied the typescript. ‘We’re going tae need a translator.’

  ‘I suppose there’s nothing unusual about a German family having documents in their own language,’ observed Potts, peering over Scott’s shoulder.

  ‘Naw, not at all, son. But look at this.’ He pulled out one sheet of paper, which crackled with age. Emblazoned at the top of the page was a black swastika contained within a white circle on a red background.

  ‘Did McAuley not tell us that the family were Jewish?’

  ‘Aye, he did that. Not the kind of headed notepaper you’d expect to find in the hoose o’ somebody of that persuasion, would you no’ say?’

  As advised by Sergeant Shaw, Daley stopped off at the village shop to spea
k to McAuley. The special constable was standing behind the counter, now dressed in a brown hand-knitted cardigan and fawn corduroy trousers. Though he’d spoken to him by telephone in the past, it was the first time the pair had met. As they exchanged pleasantries, Daley noticed that McAuley’s hands were shaking slightly. ‘Did you get a bit of a fright?’

  ‘Aye, a wee bit, sir,’ confessed McAuley. ‘I’ve been the special over here for a number of years now, and this is the first time I’ve felt in any kind of real danger. Your sergeant was very professional, mind. Made sure we were all safe.’

  Daley pondered the professionalism of DS Brian Scott for a few heartbeats before smiling. ‘He’s been in the job a long time now, an old hand. Sergeant Shaw in Kinloch tells me that you knew this family reasonably well.’

  ‘I thought I did, sir. But you know what thought did,’ replied McAuley ruefully. ‘Stuck a feather up its arse and thought it was a chicken, if you’ll pardon the expression. I can’t understand why the Bremners would rig up a device like that to their cellar – doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘This job rarely makes sense. In any case, we don’t know if the family were responsible for that. Could all be something to do with why they’ve disappeared, but best we don’t jump to any conclusions.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. On that subject, my wife took a call when I was up at the farm with your colleagues – from a newspaper, if you please.’

  Daley cursed silently. Any involvement with the press was the last thing he needed. Just after Mary’s death, he’d been snapped by a photographer on his doorstep, while personal questions were fired at him by a spotty-faced journalist, anxious to know just what his relationship had been with the deceased woman. Symington had managed to suppress the story, but at the moment – like most times in his career – he wasn’t particularly well disposed towards the gentlemen of the press. ‘How on earth did they come by this so quickly?’ he asked.

  ‘This is a wee island, sir. I’m sure you know how quickly gossip spreads in Kinloch – well, it fair gallops on an island this size. The Bremners were well liked, but that won’t stop someone trying to make a few bob with the papers.’