This afternoon I attended the local hospital, where I examined the corpses of thirty dead German sailors, an unfortunate U-boat crew.
Note: the crew seemed depleted. The complement of the vessel should be circa sixty. As yet, the RN has made no comment as to the reasons for the vessel’s sinking. Amongst the sailors’ possessions are two silver cigarette lighters, about a finger’s length and thickness. Both bear Nazi regalia . . .
Daley went through his correspondence: memos from headquarters, routine emails and even some letters. He read a request from the local high school that he might give a talk to fifth-year students as to the merits of a career in the police. Much as he liked to encourage the young, he made a mental note to make his excuses and leave the task to someone else. How could he try to persuade someone with their whole life in front of them to devote it to staring at dead bodies and dealing with the worst that humanity had to offer?
Wondering who to send, he thought briefly of Brian, but instantly dismissed the notion with a smile. The thought of his friend being a role model for anyone was a bizarre one. He then worried that, for entirely different reasons, he was an equally unsuitable mentor.
With no conscious effort, his mind drifted to his son. What did the world have in store for his little boy? He shuddered at the thought and reminded himself to call his lawyer.
Forcing himself out of his chair, he brought his holdall over to his desk, unzipped it and fished about in the depths. His hand alighted upon the dry leather of the journal. He removed it from the bag and opened it on his desk, the furtive nature of its acquisition prompting him unconsciously to glance at his door before starting to read.
The cover bore the words, The Journal of Inspector Wm. Urquhart M. M. Volume 4, commencing Monday, 7th May 1945.
It took time for Daley to become accustomed to the cramped writing, but soon he could read it quite quickly. The first page covered the sinking of a German U-boat on the causeway next to the island at the head of the loch. He read on with interest, wondering just why this object had been taped to the back of a filing cabinet in the cellar of a remote farmhouse on an even more remote island off the coast of Kintyre.
The keeping of a journal was a rare event amongst police officers now, but he’d seen the day when young detectives were encouraged to do so by their wily older colleagues. Cover yer back, son. Write it a’ doon. Aye, but not in your official notebook, or every defence lawyer this side o’ the High Court will know what’s been going on.
Resolving to give his predecessor’s journal his full attention away from Kinloch Police Office, Daley closed it and replaced it in his holdall. He thought of Feldstein. How had he known of the journal’s existence, and what could he discover about the disappearance of the Bremners and the strange contents of their farmhouse from its pages?
He realised that, in what seemed like the first time in months, his mind was focused, not partially labouring on events of the all too recent past.
He looked at his watch – almost one thirty. He deserved some lunch. He pulled on his jacket, left the office and took the short walk to the County Hotel.
Carrie Symington could hear Brian talking to Stoddart, but she couldn’t concentrate on what was being said. She kept hearing that sly Cockney voice. Her heart thudded in her chest.
‘Would that be okay, ma’am?’
She raised her eyes to see both Scott and Stoddart looking at her intently.
‘Sorry, what . . . would what be okay?’
‘We need to get the advice of a military expert, ma’am,’ replied Stoddart. ‘It’s just that so much stuff in the cellar looks like it’s from the Second World War. The translator’s busy as we speak.’
‘And mind, you have that press conference this afternoon,’ said Scott.
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to assist me there, Brian,’ replied Symington with a forced smile.
‘Aye, well, if you knew my track record wae these things, you’d soon work oot that you’d be better off on yer ain. I’m no’ so good at anything tae dae wae the press, ma’am.’
Stoddart snorted, subduing a laugh. ‘You can say that again. That press conference you did down here a few years ago is still required viewing on YouTube. Remember, the one where the victim’s husband kicked off?’
‘Oh, I remember it fine, okay. Oor Jimmy left me holding the baby there, and no mistake.’
‘What?’ asked Symington.
‘Are you feeling okay, ma’am? You’re looking a wee bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Stoddart.
‘I’m absolutely fine. Now, let’s get on with this, or we’ll be stuck on this island for the duration.’ Symington noticed the detectives glance at each other, and regretted her sharp tone. ‘I’m just a bit tired. All this bloody sea air,’ she continued, this time with a smile. ‘So, get on to HQ and see who they recommend, Inspector Stoddart. And, Brian, I’d like to have a word with the special constable here. What’s his name again?’
‘McAuley, ma’am. I’ll gie him a phone so that he can get the right uniform on.’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ replied Symington, again distracted. ‘I better get prepared for this press conference, so if you’ll excuse me . . .’ She eased herself out of the chair and walked out of the incident room.
Scott shrugged his shoulders. ‘Women, eh, who knows?’
Daley walked into the hotel, past the sweeping staircase with the well-trodden carpet and faded wallpaper, and opened the door to the small bar he’d become so accustomed to over the last few years.
He bought a pint and stood at the bar, looking at the selection of filled rolls on offer.
‘Would you no’ be better wae a proper lunch? We’ve got some lovely haddock in the day,’ said Annie. ‘You’re needing tae get some meat back on they bones o’ yours.’
‘I’ve been trying to lose weight for years. Now’s my big moment,’ replied Daley.
‘Whootever you think, Mr Daley. If you ask me, you’ve got the frame tae carry it off, so I’d no’ be so keen tae let yersel’ go.’
‘I’ll have a tuna roll, please, Annie.’
‘Here, have two,’ she said, fishing the rolls from the basket, unwrapping the clingfilm and putting them on a plate. ‘Are you sitting doon?’
‘Yeah, the usual.’ Daley nodded to the back of the room, lifting a newspaper from the bar. The headline was bold: island family vanish – police baffled. He groaned, tucked the paper under his arm and walked to a table at the back of the quiet bar, Annie following with his plate.
‘Here, you enjoy your lunch,’ she said, fetching a napkin from a neighbouring table. ‘At least you’ll have your paper for company. We’re deid the day.’
‘Cheers,’ said Daley, opening the newspaper to read more speculation about the Bremners.
Annie made to walk away, then hesitated. ‘I got a phone call the other night,’ she said, rather sheepishly.
‘Oh, who from?’ asked Daley, suspecting he already knew the answer.
‘Fae Liz. She was asking for you. Sounded a wee bit doon, if you ask me.’
‘She certainly didn’t sound down when I talked to her yesterday. In fine form, in fact.’ Daley recalled the acrimonious conversation he’d had with his estranged wife.
‘Aye, well, jeest sayin’. Don’t you go cutting off your nose tae spite your face. We a’ know you’ve had a bloody hard time . . . whoot wae . . . well, you know.’ She wiped some crumbs from the table. ‘Life’s too short, is a’ I’m saying.’
She turned round on hearing the bar door open. ‘Talking aboot life being too short . . .’
‘How ye, Annie, Mr Daley?’ The old man smiled, his slanted eyes crinkling. ‘They telt me at the station you were oot for your lunch. I thought you might have taken a wee wander in here.’
‘Good to see you, Hamish,’ said Daley, meaning it. ‘Take a seat. What can I help you with?’
‘Well, now, you see, jeest maybe I can help you.’ Hamish sat stiffly on a stool opposite th
e detective, took a pipe from his pocket and sucked at it unlit.
‘I’ll leave yous to it. And mind, one whiff o’ pipe tobacco and you’re oot on your arse, Hamish.’ She bustled off, grinning to herself.
‘I hope you’ve not been breaking the law and smoking in a public place.’
‘Ach, I was in last week. Jeest had a few too many and forgot where I was. Lighting up efter a’ these years – it’s automatic if you’re no’ thinking aboot it. Now, forbye that. I’ve come tae tell you something aboot Gairsay.’
11
Whitehall
Timothy Gissing read the report twice to make absolutely sure he’d got the gist of it. He opened the laptop on his desk, studied his contacts list, and dialled the number in Brussels on his mobile, not wanting to route the private call through the main switchboard.
He waited anxiously for a reply, and was about to end the call when a breathless voice sounded in his ear. ‘Timothy, you have been a stranger. Give me two minutes and I’ll call you back. The same number, yes?’
Gissing drummed his fingers on his desk, waiting impatiently for his call to be returned. He answered as soon as the smartphone buzzed in his hand. ‘Hans, sorry to call. We have a potential problem.’
‘Don’t we always have potential problems? It is the way of the world for people in our profession. Tell me, what have we to cope with now?’
‘T2304. If you don’t remember, I’ll give you time to look it up.’
Hans repeated the reference slowly, and sighed. ‘For this, you do not have to aid my failing memory. Bremner, yes?’
‘Yes, absolutely. Very impressive, old boy. They have been compromised – compromised in the worst possible way.’
‘Are they in custody?’
‘No, thank heavens. Not yet, anyhow. But they had to bail at very short notice – literally minutes. The whole property is under scrutiny now by the local police. A unit is on the way. Some damage has already been done.’
‘Tell me it’s not Feldstein.’
‘Yes, I’m rather sad to say that it is.’
Gissing could hear his caller breathing heavily, but he didn’t want to interrupt his thinking, so waited patiently.
‘Let us hope that they followed the agreed protocols. Do you think they have?’
‘My information is negative in that regard. My operative will do his best to consolidate certain . . . certain delicate information. But, as you know, to keep those on the ground interested and not to raise further suspicions, we’ll have to follow our own compromise protocols. I’m sure you know what I mean.’
‘Then we better hope that the Bremners are found soon, and by the right people. I don’t need to remind you of their particular relevance. Your intelligence services, are they mobilised?’
‘Yes, as discreetly as possible, and the CIA have been informed. We’re all aware of the significance here.’
‘How were we caught off guard so quickly, in this, of all cases?’ The German’s voice had an edge of impatience.
‘Pure chance. Before we could get boots on the ground, some local plod had stumbled on the whole sorry mess.’
‘Timothy, it is vital that we resolve this to our mutual satisfaction. A scandal of this nature could destroy all that has been worked for, especially in the current climate, and the EU is a fiasco as it is. Keep me informed. An alternative outcome, well, it doesn’t bear contemplation. The only blessing we have is that the future is, at least, secure. We all know what the potential consequences are here.’
Before Gissing could reply, the line went dead. Oh, to be in the bloody Cotswolds right now, he thought to himself. He placed the smartphone in his pocket and reached across the desk. ‘Get me Section Three at MI6,’ he barked.
‘First of all, Hamish, how do you know about Gairsay?’
‘Och, you know fine nothing’s a secret for long roon aboot here. It jeest brought something back tae mind. When I heard aboot it, you understand.’
Daley looked at the old man as he took a sip of the beer he’d just bought him. More wrinkles, he thought. More loose flesh on his neck. For a man who seemed always to have a tan, he was paler than the detective had seen him. It had been a long winter, of that there was no doubt. ‘What was brought back to mind?’
‘My faither had a wee lobster boat during the war. Ach, there was so much activity in Kinloch then, you wouldna recognise the place – full o’ sailors and that. I canna mind much o’ it noo – save for the chocolate ye used tae get fae some o’ the servicemen. The auld man got tae know a few o’ the senior blokes – officers – who had a taste for lobster. Aye, an’ they weren’t feart tae put their hands in their pockets, war or no war.’
‘So your father was as resourceful as you?’
‘He always kept us fed and watered, wae a roof o’er oor heads, tae. They were hard days, Mr Daley. We expected tae see Nazi soldiers in jackboots marching up Main Street at any time.’
‘I’m sure that wouldn’t have gone down well here.’
‘No, nor would it. The Kinloch folk wid have taken tae the hills. We wouldna have collaborated wae the enemy, and that’s a fact. They’d have bitten off mair than they could chew.’
Daley saw the look on the old fisherman’s face, and somehow didn’t doubt that the wartime population of Kinloch would have been hard to subdue, if the current residents were anything to go by. ‘So just what did your father do?’
‘There was a German sub went doon on the causeway, you know, at the island thonder.’ Hamish took another sip of his pint. ‘I can mind it, a horrible business. Well, tae cut a long story short, for some reason, the local police inspector got tae looking intae this. Don’t ask me why, I wid have thought it was a military matter.’
‘And?’
‘There was something aboot Gairsay. My faither had tae take this inspector oot on his boat a few times. I canna mind the bloke’s name noo.’
‘William Urquhart?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s it,’ replied Hamish with a grin. ‘I should’ve known you’d be ahead o’ me, as usual.’ He sucked thoughtfully at his unlit pipe.
‘So, what did your father and this Urquhart get up to?’
‘Well, that’s what I can’t jeest mind. I know one thing for sure, right enough. He held a grudge against a family on Gairsay for the rest o’ his life. I mind – och, years later – every time we sailed past them, he’d spit oot the wheelhoose.’
‘Who were they, do you remember?’ asked Daley, already knowing the answer.
‘I mind that, no bother. The Bremner family, that’s who he couldna stand. Don’t ask me why, for he’d never talk aboot it. But I never saw him take such a dislike tae anybody, and he was an easygoing man, my faither.’
Daley took a bite of his roll and thought about Inspector Urquhart and his journal.
The boat was small and cramped. The young skipper peered out through the squall that had blown up out of nowhere. He hated jobs like this. He was more used to taking tourists on little jaunts in the height of summer. Sailing down the west coast of Ireland in these seas was a treacherous business, especially considering his small vessel was overloaded. Still, the money was good, and he always needed money. Don’t ask any questions. The man in Belfast had said that more than once. But he was worried about the old woman. She looked frail, and the rough weather had made her sick. She was standing at the back of the tiny wheelhouse, glad, he thought, to be out of the cramped cabin below deck. A man – perhaps her grandson – had his arm wrapped around her, speaking to her softly in a language he didn’t understand, but reckoned was German. An elderly man – maybe this old woman’s son, he thought, certainly too young to be her husband – stood apart from them. He stared out at the squall, his eyes keen in a sharp face, displaying no emotion, no sign of fear, or any compassion for the woman.
‘We don’t have too far to go,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Maybe another half an hour, though this squall might hold us back a bit. Pity we had to lay up for so long.’
<
br /> ‘Okay, cheers. We’ll be fine. Just get us there as quickly as you can.’
The skipper was surprised by the broad Scottish accent. He’d expected him to sound like the old woman, who had encouraged him to keep them safe on the high seas. ‘The high seas’; it was such an old-fashioned term. He watched her nestle into the chest of her comforter.
Come to think of it, he’d only exchanged a few words with the elder passenger, who was still staring out to sea blankly, almost as though he had accepted that their lives were in danger and the thought was of no consequence. The skipper hadn’t thought to wonder about how he’d spoken – no discernible accent, from what he could remember. He felt sorry for them; their safety was a great burden on his shoulders.
He gripped the wheel and looked through the window; the wiper was working hard but afforded him barely any view at all.
The boat ploughed on through the heavy sea.
Daley breathed in the salty air as he walked back to Kinloch Police Office. He always found it strange that there seemed to be one particular day – at the beginning of spring and again of autumn – that you could feel the season ahead. As he neared the top of the brae, he swore he could feel the first gentle intimations of summer: a slight change in the light, the scent of grass, birdsong. Today was that day.
He longed to put the darkness of winter behind him. It had been the worst of his life. Never the most carefree of men, he’d plumbed – was still plumbing – the depths of his being. All the old certainties were gone or had morphed into something he didn’t recognise. The last time he’d felt anything like this was when his parents had died.
He could feel Mary’s warm skin next to his, he could hear her breathing as she slept, he could feel her caress. Her scent filled his head, as though she was actually there, not rotting in a cold grave on a Glasgow hillside.
Sergeant Shaw was busy talking to a youth at the front desk as he entered the office. Before Daley reached the door that would take him to the CID suite, Shaw called to him. ‘Just had a message from Gairsay, sir. Chief Superintendent Symington will be holding a press conference at three. Thought you’d want to watch it.’
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