Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  Choices, my dear, choices. Her mother’s mantra echoed in her head louder and louder. She hadn’t worried about it in her twenties; now she was in her late thirties, it was already beginning to haunt her.

  She thought of the Bremner family. On the surface, they were farmers, living a quiet rural life on a tranquil island. But what had their lives really consisted of? Already, the discovery of documents from as far back as the early days of the Second World War indicated that they were involved in some way with Nazi Germany. The contradiction was breathtaking. Soon, she realised, this case would be passed on to another department, probably the Security Service. But it fascinated her. Her job was to make the best of the resources at her disposal and to do her best until she and her colleagues were relieved of responsibility. She intended to do so.

  The phone on her bedside table rang. ‘Hello, Symington,’ she replied, almost forgetting that she was in a hotel and not a police office.

  ‘Oh, sorry to disturb you,’ said the woman at the reception desk. ‘I’ve got someone on the line from your headquarters. Says it’s urgent. Will I put him through?’

  ‘Yes, yes, please,’ replied Symington, slightly irritated that the woman hadn’t seen fit to ask for a name. But, she reasoned, she couldn’t expect the staff of the Gairsay Hotel to conform with Police Scotland communication guidelines. She waited for the call to be connected.

  ‘Very good show, ma’am . . . apart from that bit at the end.’ The voice made her freeze. ‘You’re still looking as fit as you did ten years ago.’

  ‘I’m going to have this call traced, you bastard.’

  ‘We both know that’s not going to happen. You could have had me strung up by the balls a long time ago, if you’d wanted. But we’ve still got our little secret, haven’t we?’

  ‘This is a public line – anyone could be listening.’ She was dismayed to note that her hands were shaking.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the thing. I want you to answer my calls on your mobile, otherwise I’ll have to think up new ways of getting in touch. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Why on earth do you want to speak to me? I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  ‘I don’t know. Seeing you again – in the flesh, so to speak – has brought it all back. Made my heart flutter. You haven’t forgotten our little deal, have you? I used to look forward to our meetings.’

  ‘I’m not so wet behind the ears now, I can assure you.’

  There was laughter on the other end of the phone. ‘It wasn’t your ears I was thinking about, love. Now, be a good girl and shut up. I’m going to call you tonight, about seven, okay? We’ll be meeting up again very soon. I’ve always loved it up there in Scotland.’

  The line went dead. Symington continued to listen for a few moments, worried that she would hear the click of another receiver being put down, but only the dial tone sounded in her ear.

  She fell back on the bed and stared at the fire alarm on the ceiling, feelings of disgust and dread her only companions.

  13

  Kinloch, 1945

  ‘Sir, we’ve had a report of wreckage found on the beach at Glensaarn. A fisherman found it. He’s here now.’

  ‘Give me a few moments then bring him to my office,’ said Urquhart to the young constable, striding past him and through the main room, where two secretaries were bashing away on their typewriters. He almost jumped in surprise when he caught sight of someone sitting in his chair.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I-I was just waiting to see what you wanted me to do,’ said Torquil McColl, jumping out of the chair.

  ‘You can start by not discussing what we do here with your father. He just stopped me in the street and harangued me about your duties. I warn you, I won’t put up with any interference, and if it means your finding somewhere else to spend your time, so be it.’

  ‘S-sorry, sir. He asked me what I’d been doing. I-I didn’t see the harm—’

  ‘Well, you see the harm now! Wait for me at the bar office. Someone is coming to see me.’

  Blushing furiously, McColl left the office, shutting the door quietly behind him. Urquhart removed his trilby and placed it on the hat stand. He hadn’t bothered to bring his raincoat and was dismayed to see a dark cloud obscuring the sun as he stared down Kinloch’s Main Street through the thick panes of his office window.

  ‘Come in,’ he called, on hearing a tentative knock at his door.

  The door opened slowly to reveal a tall, thin man in a navy-blue fisherman’s jumper, a pair of filthy dungarees, and a flat cap pulled down low over his eyes. ‘Your constable jeest asked me tae knock,’ he said, removing the cap to reveal a tanned face with inquisitive, slanted eyes.

  ‘Yes, sit down, please, Mr?’ said Urquhart, pulling the visitor’s chair out from the desk. ‘I think I’ve met you before.’

  ‘Jeest call me Ranald, Inspector. Everyone else does. I fish around these parts. I’m here aboot the wrecked vessel I seen at the Largiebank thonder, jeest on the shore at Glensaarn.’

  ‘When did you come across this?’

  ‘Oh, no mair than a couple o’ hours ago. I didna know whether tae come tae the polis or report it direct tae the navy. Tommy Deans – you know, the harbour master – says I should come tae you, in the first instance, anyhow.’

  ‘Yes, well, he had the right of it there. I’ll inform the Royal Navy if it concerns them. I want you to take me to where you found this wreckage. We can get there by road, yes?’

  ‘Och, aye,’ replied Ranald. ‘We’ll jeest have tae loup o’er the dunes once we get there, but you’ll be used tae louping o’er things, I shouldna wonder, Inspector.’

  ‘Good. I’ll organise a car.’ Urquhart put his head round the door and called down the corridor, ‘McColl, McColl! Find me a vehicle.’

  His young charge scurried from the bar office in search of transport.

  ‘If you want a wee fill o’ baccy, I’ve plenty in my pouch,’ said the fisherman, setting a match to a briar pipe clenched between his teeth.

  ‘No, thanks, I’ll stick to the coffin nails.’ Urquhart produced a packet of Craven ‘A’ from his pocket and took out a cigarette. ‘Let’s see if we can make any sense of this wreckage.’

  The fisherman nodded and sent a puff of blue smoke heavenwards, his eyes crinkling in a smile. ‘I’ll leave that tae you, Inspector.’

  Brian Scott opened his bag and rummaged through his underwear. He pulled out a pair of garish lime-green running shoes with fluorescent yellow stripes and examined them carefully with a leery eye. Next, he found a pair of grey jogging pants and a sweatshirt.

  In minutes he’d donned the sports garb and was stretching his legs the way the instructor at the Kirkintilloch gym had shown him.

  As he was leaving the room, he caught sight of himself in the wardrobe mirror and almost burst out laughing, but then recalled the horrors of the DTs and the anxiety he’d felt, and smiled at his reflection, reassuring himself. After decades of self-destructive boozing he was now on the right track.

  He trotted along the corridor and downstairs, then past the reception desk and out of the hotel onto the main road. He bounced on his toes for a few seconds, coughed, and set off at a gentle running pace.

  It was a bright day on Gairsay, with a hint of springtime warmth. He jogged past a row of cottages, then the village hall, and was soon out in the countryside, heading the two miles or so to the southern tip of the island.

  He was impressed by how fresh he felt. He was breathing easily as his feet thudded along the tarmac road, which rose slightly as he passed the entrance to the gardens for which Gairsay was well known. He could smell the soil and the sea, and birds were twittering in the hedgerows. Despite a slight throb in his right knee – a throwback to an old football injury – he ploughed on, getting more and more into his stride.

  This is the life, he thought to himself. He glanced up at the wind turbines towering over the island and turning languidly in the light breeze. They rotated just enough to mean that the island was self-su
fficient when it came to the provision of electricity, even making a little capital on a surplus exported to the national grid.

  In his wildest imaginings, DS Brian Scott had never thought he’d become a convert to fitness and good living. But, as his heart thudded in his chest and he fought to keep his breathing steady, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d happened upon the secret to a happy, contented life, and he resolved to encourage Jim to take up a similar fitness regime. There was little doubt that the overweight, depressed DCI was in need of some attention and TLC.

  As he turned a corner, he was unable to avoid colliding with a dark figure who emerged from the hedgerow, sending him crashing painfully to the ground on his tender knee. Struggling to his feet, swearing and gasping for air, the hot stench of alcohol replaced the healthy scents of land and sea.

  ‘You need tae listen tae me,’ said a voice in his left ear. ‘If you don’t listen, you don’t learn – that’s whoot my auld faither used tae say tae me.’

  ‘If you don’t bugger off, you’ll no’ have tae worry aboot what your auld faither said tae you,’ replied Scott. ‘You’ll have my trainers up your—’

  Before he could finish his sentence, what was now clearly an old woman leaned closer, almost making him retch at the stink of her unwashed body. ‘I saw her, aye, plain as day. I wiz only a wean, but I mind it like it was yesterday.’

  ‘Saw who? What the hell are you on aboot?’

  Without warning, the old woman stood to attention and raised her right hand in the air, fingers flattened. ‘Jawohl, mein Führer,’ she shouted, using the index finger of her left hand to imitate a moustache.

  ‘Bugger me, I’m glad I never had tae spend much time here,’ said Scott, his breathing almost back to normal. ‘I’d have had tae get my liver wrung oot wae a mangle. Come on, you. Back tae the village and sober up.’ He took the woman gently by the arm and tried to lead her back down the road towards the village.

  ‘You will never take me alive,’ she shouted in mock German and, with surprising strength, shook herself free of his grip, clambered over a narrow ditch and ran off.

  ‘Aye, right. Well, you’re on your own, dear.’ Scott waved at her in a gesture of exasperated resignation. ‘If you want tae bolt aboot drunk as a laird, that’s up tae you.’

  Having lost his momentum, the detective turned on his heel and walked, hands in his pockets, in the direction of the hotel. ‘There but for the grace of God go I,’ he muttered as he overheard the old woman giggling drunkenly at him from the field. A strong gust of wind tugged at his sweatshirt, and he shivered as a dark cloud blocked out the sun.

  Kinloch, 1945

  The old Austin motor car struggled to the top of the hill, Urquhart willing it on. The fisherman Ranald was beside him in the front, while young Torquil McColl was squeezed into the tight bucket seat behind them.

  As they began to putter more easily down the other side, Ranald grabbed Urquhart by the sleeve. ‘Doon at the bottom o’ the hill, thonder. You can pull the jalopy in at the side o’ the road. We’ll head o’er they dunes and I’ll show you where I found the wreckage.’

  Before long, the three of them were wading through soft sand and rough grass to the top of the dune. Urquhart winced at the pain in his thigh, but carried on, following the fisherman and his young charge, who had taken the lead.

  ‘Still there,’ observed Ranald, as Urquhart joined him. He was pointing to a scatter of what appeared to be discoloured driftwood that lapped at the white sand of the small bay. ‘I reckoned the tide would wash it further ontae the beach. If we take a breenge doon, you can take a look for yoursel’, Inspector.’

  On closer inspection, the wood was painted dark grey. Urquhart took off his shoes and socks, rolled up the legs of his trousers, and waded into the cold water. He caught hold of a splintered plank and brought it back to the shore. A coil of white paint overlaid the grey, and before he could make an observation, McColl exclaimed excitedly, ‘Sir, that’s the bottom half of a number three. It must be a Royal Naval vessel, s-surely.’

  Urquhart looked along the shoreline. Similar pieces of wreckage were visible for about a hundred yards. ‘I don’t think it’s Royal Navy; the lettering doesn’t look as it should. Right, McColl, get your shoes off and collect as much as you can and bring it up the beach,’ he ordered, noting the rainbow-coloured slick of oil glistening on the water’s surface.

  Urquhart caught the whiff of pipe tobacco on the air and looked further down the beach to where Ranald was standing, a cloud of smoke evaporating into the breeze. ‘I would take a wander o’er here, Inspector, if I was you,’ he called.

  As Urquhart joined the fisherman, he gestured towards some rocks at the water’s edge. ‘What would that be floating there?’

  ‘I’ll dae the honours this time,’ said Ranald, stepping into the surf in his sea boots, seemingly untroubled at the water slopping into them. He bent down and tugged at the dark shape in the water. Soon, the face-down body of a uniformed man was revealed.

  Urquhart knelt down and turned the dead man over. The man’s eyes were brown and staring, his face was burned black on one side, and his right hand was a bloodied stump. ‘German merchant navy.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ said Ranald, removing his cap in a gesture of respect.

  The policeman rummaged through the pockets of the corpse’s uniform until he extracted a cigarette case and another smaller metal object from the left trouser pocket.

  ‘He’ll no’ be smoking any mair,’ observed Ranald quietly, taking a contemplative draw at his pipe.

  Urquhart laid the cigarette case on the sand and turned the other item over in his hand. It was slim, silver in colour, with a black swastika embossed on a red roundel.

  ‘Why wid a German merchant sailor have something like that?’ asked the fisherman.

  ‘Good question,’ replied Urquhart, raising his head to look out to sea. ‘And what would he be doing here?’ He rubbed his chin. ‘That’s Gairsay, isn’t it?’ he asked, pointing straight ahead.

  ‘Indeed it is, Inspector. A fine wee island.’

  Urquhart had the feeling in the pit of his stomach that all was far from being right – and he hated that feeling.

  By the time Scott made it back to the hotel, winter appeared to have returned to the island of Gairsay. The light rain that had started to fall was now lashing against the window in large drops, blown there by a strong wind. As he looked out at the bay, the sea had turned from an inviting blue to a forbidding grey, the tips of the waves blown into white horses by the strong south-westerly.

  ‘Did you enjoy your run?’ asked the receptionist.

  ‘Aye, what I got o’ it,’ replied Scott. ‘That auld woman that keeps getting flung oot o’ here accosted me on the road. Well, knocked me doon, to be mair accurate.’

  ‘Oh, old Glenhanity. I’m sorry she spoiled your run.’

  ‘Glenwhat?’

  ‘Glenhanity. That’s the farm she grew up on. Folk here often get named after the places where they live – usually the man of the house, but women who never get married, too.’

  ‘Well, she’s married tae the booze, that yin,’ said Scott, examining the rip in his jogging trousers.

  ‘She’s had a hard life, though. Her dad died during the war, and when her mother remarried she didn’t choose too well, if you know what I mean. Her stepfather was a horrible man, and when he died she looked after her mother for years. By the time she went, well, Glenhanity was too old to make a life for herself. Sad, really.’

  ‘She’ll no’ find any solace in the bottle,’ said Scott.

  ‘You’re not a drinker, I see.’

  ‘Aye, well, no’ recently.’ He smiled at the woman, then took the stairs back up to his room.

  He was about to open his door when he spotted Symington in the corridor. ‘Ma’am, how’s it going?’

  She stopped and looked distractedly at Scott. ‘Oh, fine, fine,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you sure? You’re looking a wee bit pale
again, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ This reply was terse. ‘We need to have a meeting. I’ll see you in the incident room in half an hour.’

  Scott raised his eyebrows as he watched her stride down the corridor. ‘Who stole your scone?’ he muttered under his breath, fumbling with the key to his room.

  14

  As Daley opened the door to his bungalow high on the hill above Kinloch, his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He stepped inside, glad to be out of the rain. ‘Symington’ flashed on the screen, so he put down his briefcase and answered the call. ‘Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?’

  ‘The weather’s taken a turn for the worse here, Jim. They tell me they’ve had to cancel the bloody ferry, just as the ACC was about to arrive, too.’ Daley could hear the irritation in her voice. ‘Typical.’

  ‘How’s things? Have our team found anything?’

  ‘Yes, it seems so. I don’t think I’ve spoken to as many executive officers in such a short space of time in my career. It gets more bizarre by the minute.’

  ‘They’ve confirmed that the body is that of Mrs Bremner senior. The Irish Coastguard have organised a search of the area. It doesn’t look good for the rest of the family, ma’am.’

  She paused for a heartbeat before replying. ‘No. And the team here have unearthed some unusual stuff, to say the least. A list of names, Nazis, they tell me, who escaped Germany at the end of the war and were never heard of again. Seems we could have stumbled on something significant.’

  ‘Seems so, ma’am.’

  ‘Listen, Jim. I want you to find out as much about the Bremners as you can. Take it right back to when they arrived on Gairsay. It’s impossible to get anything done here: the broadband is patchy, and goodness knows how bad things will get now there’s a storm on the way. I’ll arrange for the locals to be questioned, of course.’ She made her excuses and ended the call abruptly. Daley thought he’d heard the buzz of another mobile in the background.