Well of the Winds

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’ll need you to sign the release papers. This is obviously a matter for the Royal Navy. We’ll send an ambulance for the remains.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary, sir. The body was washed up on the beach, so it remains a civilian matter until my investigations are at an end . . . which they’re not, incidentally.’

  The commodore settled back in his chair, lit a cigarette and poured himself a whisky, without offering one to Urquhart. ‘Now listen, Inspector. I need you to pay very close attention here.’

  Urquhart bridled at the man’s condescending tone, but nodded.

  ‘This conflict is reaching its conclusion. You’re ex-army, you know the form. This is a naval matter, pure and simple. I don’t care if this chap’s body landed on the church steeple over there’ – he waved his cigarette at the window – ‘you’ll sign the body over to me immediately or you’ll be back walking the beat before the next bloody tide comes in.’

  Rather than feeling intimidated by the commodore’s sudden burst of ill temper and the threat to his career prospects, Urquhart felt a surge of excitement. ‘As you say, sir, I’m ex-army, but I’m now a police officer – a civilian police officer. The rules and regulations surrounding this situation are crystal clear. The body was found on a beach within my jurisdiction and, as such, will remain in the care of Argyll Constabulary until my enquiries are complete. As you know, a post mortem will be required as soon as possible. This will be performed by our man as soon as he arrives from Oban.’

  ‘Nonsense! Hand over this body, or, I swear, Inspector, I’ll have a detachment of Royal Marines go to the bloody hospital and get it!’

  ‘And I’ll have them arrested. I’ve informed you of the situation, Commodore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do . . . as I’m sure you do, yourself.’

  ‘I heard you were a bolshie bugger. Well, you’ll hear more about this directly. I’m going to call your chief constable.’ He reached for the Bakelite phone on his desk.

  ‘Your prerogative, sir.’ Urquhart turned on his heel and left the commodore’s office, placing his trilby firmly back on his head and resolving not to go back to the station until after the PM had taken place.

  They can’t give me an order if they don’t know where I am, he thought, a grin spreading across his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so invigorated.

  He wondered about this naval officer, who he’d just watched drain a glass of whisky, then pour himself another large measure. Despite his bluster, he’d looked nervous. Urquhart stored that thought at the back of his mind.

  As he walked along the seafront at Kinloch, he observed the usual comings and goings of vessels on the loch. Whether they were the tiny local fishing boats or the colossal warships, they seemed to share a determination of purpose. He was amazed that there were so few instances of collisions in the crowded bay, but the fishermen, the Royal Navy and the merchant seamen seemed to rub along very well.

  The sun was beaming down from a blue sky obscured only fleetingly by the odd high cloud. Even the breeze was warm, and the population of the town were taking advantage of the good weather. A young mother, pushing a Silver Cross pram, her hair pinned up beneath a paisley-pattern scarf, smiled demurely at him as she walked past. A group of small boys were kicking a worn leather football along the promenade, socks round their ankles, skinny white legs in long grey shorts yet to catch the colour of the summer sun. A man in a kilt, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun with a folded newspaper, was staring out to sea under the red, white and blue bunting that was stretched between a series of tall poles spaced along the sea wall. As the gulls screeched and tumbled, it was almost impossible to imagine the brutal life-and-death conflict that still raged around the globe.

  At the head of the loch, snaking from the shore to the island, he could see the long causeway, proud of the waves now at low tide. The wreck of the U-boat was surrounded by tiny figures, busy dismantling it so that it could be taken away and examined by the Admiralty in London.

  He reached into his pocket, feeling the cool silver casing of one of the lighters he’d discovered amongst the crew’s belongings. He could feel the shape of the eagle holding the swastika. Why would dead Germans sailors – military and merchant – be in possession of these same items? He should have alerted the commodore to the coincidence, but something in his gut told him that it would have been the wrong thing to do.

  He heard the click of segs behind him, and turned to see the kilted man striding towards him.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘Nice tae see you again.’ He shook the policeman’s hand enthusiastically.

  ‘Sorry, you have me at a disadvantage . . . I don’t think we have met.’

  ‘Aye, sorry. I know who you are, but you don’t mind me fae Adam.’ The man was in his late middle years, clean-shaven with a mop of thick hair, greying now but still showing flashes of the red of his youth. His complexion was florid, and Urquhart could smell the sweet aroma of whisky on his breath. ‘I’m Dugald Kerr. I’ve a wee farm near Blaan. I’m in Kinloch for supplies. You won’t remember, but I was part of the town’s welcoming committee when you first arrived with us.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ replied Urquhart, somewhat disingenuously, as all he could recall of that day was a cloying tiredness as he shook the hands of a seemingly endless number of people he didn’t know, their faces swimming in front of him. The journey to Kinloch by bus from Perth had been a long one, and he hadn’t expected such a welcome.

  ‘Yes, I mind the provost availed us o’ some of his excellent whisky, of which I had too much, considering I was up for milking bright and early the next day . . . well, no’ very bright, if I’m honest.’

  Urquhart laughed politely, and was about to make his excuses when Kerr grabbed his arm.

  ‘Could I have a wee word with you in private, so tae speak?’

  ‘Is it police business, Mr Kerr? You’ll understand I’m quite busy at the moment.’

  Kerr leaned his head forward conspiratorially, making Urquhart wince at the alcohol on his breath. ‘I’m a bit worried that we’re no’ all pulling in the same direction, if you know whoot I mean?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Put it like this, Inspector. I think there’s some folk aboot that would be quite happy if we were losing the war.’ He stood back, a concerned look on his face.

  ‘What makes you think this?’

  ‘Everyone has their ain ideas, Inspector. No’ all of them coincide, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘If you suspect any wrongdoing, Mr Kerr, you’re duty-bound to make it known to the authorities. Are you saying you wish to make a complaint against a particular individual? Because if you do, it’s a serious one.’

  ‘Complaint? That sounds very formal. Mair like pointing you in the right direction, if you know whoot I mean.’

  ‘Well, if you want to get something off your chest, please feel free. I’m all ears.’ Urquhart was beginning to suspect that Kerr had consumed more whisky than was good for him, but his natural inclination was to be courteous.

  ‘If you’ve time, I would like tae meet you for a dram in the County Hotel this evening, aboot five. Trust me, Inspector, I think it will be worth your while.’

  Before Urquhart could think of an excuse, Kerr had wished him good day and was striding off down the promenade.

  18

  Chief Superintendent Symington stepped out of the police car and dashed to the front door of Achnamara farmhouse, as anxious to speak to her officers as she was to get out of the rain and wind.

  ‘DS Scott!’ she called.

  ‘Doon here, ma’am. I’ll be with you in two seconds.’

  Two women in white investigation suits walked past her, acknowledging her authority with silent nods as they did so.

  ‘Right, ma’am. That’s the last o’ the investigation team oot o’ the building. The boss’s none too happy. He sa
ys he’ll meet you at the hotel. I’ve got tae say, I cannae get my heid roon it, neither.’

  ‘Quite simple, Brian. We’ve been asked to secure the building and await a party of officers from Special Branch. Everything we have has to be passed on to them. Too big for us, I’m told.’

  ‘And they’ve just realised that?’

  ‘I think it’s taken time, but they’ve made up their minds now, rather quickly.’

  ‘And how dae they think they’re going tae get here? It’s still blowing a hoolie oot there.’

  ‘I suppose they’ll have to sit it out, just as we’ll have to before we can get back to the mainland. A paid break on an idyllic Scottish island, what more could you ask for?’

  ‘Typical, isn’t it? The moment I stop drinking, I’m marooned on this rock, no’ even able tae enjoy a dram or three.’

  Symington bit her lip. ‘If the house is clear, I want you to do something, DS Scott.’

  ‘What? I mean . . . aye, nae bother, ma’am. Just say the word.’

  ‘I want you to take this and photograph every document you can down there, got it?’

  ‘Aye, I think so, but—’

  ‘Call it a little insurance, Brian. Don’t worry, you’re merely acting on orders from me.’

  ‘Whatever you say, ma’am,’ replied Scott, examining the smartphone he’d just been handed with no little trepidation. ‘I’m no’ the worrying kind, unless it comes tae technology.’

  ‘Here, just point and click. It has an automatic flash, so nothing can go wrong. Just try to make sure you frame each page.’

  ‘Are you sure? I’m giving you fair warning. Richard Branston, I’m not.’

  ‘Richard Branson?’

  ‘Naw, no’ that clown. I mean a wee mate o’ mine fae Partick. Wee Ritchie Branston, he’s a real star wae computers and the like.’

  ‘Just get on with it,’ she said, shaking her head but smiling nonetheless.

  ‘Nae bother,’ he replied, making his way down the hall. He paused and turned back to face her. ‘I wonder what happened?’

  ‘What happened with what?’

  ‘Well, you don’t send Special Branch up here without good reason. It’ll cost a fortune. I might be a dinosaur, but I know it’s accountants that are the real bosses these days. Oor boys would have had this wrapped up in jig time, tae, at no extra expense. They must know something we don’t, or something they don’t want us tae find oot.’

  Symington said nothing as she watched Scott open the door in the hall that led down to the cellar. Brian Scott wasn’t as daft as he made out, she thought to herself.

  The private ambulance with tinted windows pulled slowly away from the pavement of the Kensington street. Two men, one elderly, the other middle-aged, watched it go, their faces expressionless.

  Forensic officers in white suits with hoods were busy at the scene. Flanagan, the elder of the two, nodded, and a uniformed police officer lifted the crime scene tape to allow a postman to finally do his job and empty the post box only yards from the body.

  ‘Has anyone spoken to his wife?’ asked Iolo Harris, the younger of the two, his voice displaying traces of his roots in South Wales.

  ‘The police have been round to tell her that he’s a goner, but we’ll have to show face.’ Colin Flanagan shook his head. ‘Of all the people I expected to off themselves, Gissing was most certainly not one of them. Made a bloody good job of it, too. Hard to think this gesture hasn’t been contrived in order to send a message. What a fool.’

  ‘Maybe his wife found out about his, well, dalliances?’

  ‘If it’s taken her forty-odd years of married life to discover her husband was a philanderer, she hasn’t the brains she was born with. I know she’s got a drink problem, but she’s no fool. Double first from Cambridge, much better degree than Gissing.’

  Harris raised an eyebrow. ‘You learn something new every day.’

  Flanagan reached into the pocket of his thick overcoat and produced a pound coin. ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘Heads.’

  The older man spun the coin and caught it deftly in his left hand, covering the result with his right.

  ‘Don’t keep me in suspense, sir.’ Harris bounced up and down impatiently on the toes of his well-polished shoes.

  ‘Tails, I’m afraid, Iolo. Job’s yours, thank God.’

  ‘Brilliant. No time like the present, then,’ he replied, looking at his watch. ‘I hate early starts.’

  ‘I have even better news.’

  ‘Oh, great. Don’t tell me you want me to spend the bloody day with her by way of solidarity?’

  ‘No, much better than that. You’re to be Gissing’s successor. I want you at a briefing in my office at ten.’

  ‘Are you serious? I thought Parker was in line for that.’

  ‘He was. But you may have noticed that Tim didn’t get the chance to retire. He was in the middle of something, something that needs your deft touch. All bets are off, Iolo. Anyhow, time you were settling into something of a more permanent nature. You’re not in the first flush of youth any more, my boy.’

  ‘Cheers, sir.’ Harris sighed. ‘Anything else I should know about this before I face the grieving widow?’

  ‘No, perfectly straightforward. Get as much from her as you can, maybe take a poke about. Not every day one of our own shuffles off this mortal coil with a cyanide capsule.’

  ‘No. Does indicate premeditation, mind you. He’s clearly been thinking about it for some time.’

  ‘Yes. Right, I better be off . Got a meeting with the Under Secretary at the Home Office. Hopefully I’ll manage to avoid having to see that awful woman face to face.’

  ‘The Home Secretary?’

  ‘Who else?’ Flanagan headed for a sleek black Jaguar parked a few yards away. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face Harris. ‘Pack a bag once you’re done with Mrs Gissing, Iolo.’

  ‘Holiday?’ he replied with a mischievous smile.

  ‘Scotland.’

  ‘Bugger. I was hoping for Barbados.’

  Brian Scott was taking the air at the front door of the Gairsay Hotel. Mercifully, the rain had stopped and the wind had calmed down a little, though it still looked stormy. The sea in the bay was an almost luminous green, waves choppy and white-tipped.

  ‘Might get a ferry later,’ said a voice from behind, making him jump.

  ‘Aye, maybe. I don’t know what my gaffer has in mind, so I’m no’ sure if we’ll be on it even if there is one,’ Scott replied, smiling at the receptionist.

  ‘She’s checked you both out, so I think you’re on the way back to Kinloch, Sergeant.’

  Meanwhile, a dark-clad figure on an ancient bicycle was wobbling down the narrow road towards the hotel. The wind was buffeting the machine, making its rider hastily drag the handlebars from left to right, which sent the front wheel wavering.

  ‘What the fu—’ Scott’s words were stopped in his throat as the old woman stood on the pedals, facing him and raising her arm, hand outstretched, fingers pointing heavenwards.

  ‘Oh dear, she’s early on the go today, right enough.’

  ‘What’s that she’s shouting?’

  The receptionist cocked her head as the old woman’s voice carried back to them on the wind. ‘I think it’s Sieg Heil.’

  ‘She’s as mad as a box o’ frogs. Shouldnae be allowed oot.’

  ‘Oh, she’s harmless enough,’ said the receptionist benevolently, displaying the united loyalty the detective had noted in the islanders.

  ‘Harmless? She bloody knocked me o’er yesterday.’ Scott looked disgusted. ‘Ripped a big hole in my Ron Hills, tae.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘Running troosers. Cost a small fortune, tae. No’ tae mention the big scuff on my trainers and the gash on my knee. I’ll gie her bike . . . she should be confined tae Shanks’s Pony.’

  Scott heard a thudding noise overhead, initially thinking it might be the extractor fan outside the hotel kitchen. However, it was t
oo loud and too persistent. Soon, the dark shape of a twin-bladed Chinook appeared in the sky above the bay, banking left, headed straight for Gairsay.

  ‘They’re keen, up in a helicopter in this wind,’ observed his companion above the thud of the rotor blades.

  ‘They’ll be fine in that big thing,’ said Scott.

  As the noise became almost deafening, the helicopter hovered above them, then slowly descended to the field in front of the hotel, tilting slightly the nearer to the ground it came.

  Soon, the helicopter had landed, and once the rotor blades had stilled, a door in the side of the aircraft opened and a line of men in flight suits stepped onto terra firma.

  Symington had also heard the commotion. She knew that the Special Branch team were arriving, but given the strong wind, she hadn’t thought they would manage to get to Gairsay until later in the day.

  She stared out of the window of her room, counting ten figures as they walked across the field and into the hotel’s car park. Though they were all wearing flight suits, they had removed their helmets and handed them to the flight crew as they’d left the Chinook.

  She felt a tightness in her chest. The nearer he got, the more familiar he became. She could see him stopping to take in the scene; he was looking straight up at the hotel.

  Symington took an involuntary step backwards. She was finding it hard to swallow, and she was perturbed that her legs were shaking so much she had to sit on her bed.

  She looked at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Her face was deathly pale, and bore an expression that scared her. She almost cried out when a loud knock sounded at the door. ‘Who is it?’ she asked tremulously.

  ‘Only me, ma’am,’ said Scott cheerfully. ‘That’s Special Branch here. Good news, eh? Didnae think they’d manage up in this weather. That’s us off the hook.’

  ‘Give me a few moments, please, Brian.’ She tried to compose herself. ‘I’ll catch you in the dining room in about fifteen minutes,’ she continued, trying to sound as natural as possible.