Their Final Act

by Alex Walters

  Jane suspected that Munro's voice might have seen better days – she'd have to try to hear some of her recordings – but she was still a remarkable singer. It was as if she somehow managed to get inside the song, as if she were singing words she'd written. As if she were singing about herself and her own experiences, rather than something that had happened hundreds of years before. Yet there was a strangeness to it, especially on an evening like this when everything felt so unworldly, as if Netty Munro was calling to them from another place or time.

  After the first couple of verses, Dowling joined in on the harmonies, her voice unexpectedly higher than Munro's. The effect was even eerier, the two voices much more than the sum of their individual parts, the notes intermingling with the guitar accompaniment to create an oddly choral sound.

  When the song ended, there was silence for a moment, disturbed only by the faint chirrups of the night's last birdsong. It was as if no one knew how to react. Applause seemed almost inappropriate, too trivial. But finally Alicia clapped and Jane felt able to join in. Munro smiled and gave a mock bow, holding out her arm to acknowledge Dowling's contribution.

  Then the smile faded from Munro's face. 'Are you all right, Elizabeth?'

  Jane turned to see that tears were streaming down Elizabeth's cheeks. The expression on her face, though, was very different from that of the sobbing Alicia earlier. Alicia had looked distressed, anxious, perhaps even afraid. There was no sign of distress in Elizabeth's eyes. Instead, she looked furious with the world around her.

  Munro had placed her guitar against the railing around the veranda and was rising to her feet, but Elizabeth had already left the table and was heading back into the house.

  At the last moment, she stopped and turned back to face the group still gathered round the table. 'That bastard,' she said. 'That bastard father. He killed her.' She took a breath, as if struggling to hold back more tears. 'She should have killed the bastard. She should have killed him.'

  16

  'So what’s this, Alec? Date night?'

  McKay was studying the whitebait on the end of his fork as if it might be a clue in some ongoing enquiry. 'Just thought it would be good for us to get together on neutral ground.'

  'I can't remember the last time you took me out to dinner.' Chrissie looked around her at the small bistro. 'Decent place too. You come into some money?'

  'Hardly. What with paying rent on top of a mortgage.' He regretted the words even before he'd finished speaking. Smart move, Alec, he thought. Give Chrissie some ammunition right from the start. He could feel this was already beginning to drift the same way as every other time they'd been together over the last couple of years.

  'That what this is all about then,' she said. 'You trying to get back into the marital home to save a few quid on rent.'

  He was tempted to say it was more than a few quid. But he bit back the words. Otherwise, they really would get locked back in the same old tit for tat. 'Don't be daft. I'm not trying to do anything. I just thought it was time we had an ordinary conversation.'

  'There's the couples counselling,' she pointed out. 'We're making some progress there.'

  'I'm not disagreeing,' he said, though his view of the counselling was still more negative than hers. He'd learnt not to say that too often though. 'But that's – well, it's an artificial set-up, isn't it? It has to be. The whole point of it is to talk about things we wouldn't talk about day to day. I don't want to talk about any of that stuff tonight.'

  'You don't want to discuss Lizzie?'

  He felt as if he were being led gently into a trap. In the counselling sessions, they tended to focus on little other than Lizzie. The truth was that tonight he wanted to talk about almost anything else. But he could hardly say he didn't want to discuss the daughter who'd died, alone in London, in what might have been an accident or might have been suicide. 'That's not the issue,' he said finally. 'But we're adults. Middle-aged. We have our own lives and futures.'

  'Unlike Lizzie.'

  He took a breath. 'Chrissie, don't. I'm not trying to downplay what happened to Lizzie or deny we need to deal with it. But we're better talking about that when we've got a professional there to help us through it. Tonight, I just wanted us to get back to the small talk we used to have.'

  'Did we used to have small talk?'

  'You know fine well we did. We used to make each other laugh.'

  For the first time that evening, she allowed him a faint smile. 'Aye, I suppose we did, once upon a time.'

  'We could do that again, you know, Chrissie. We could get back there.'

  'You reckon?'

  'I reckon it's worth a shot.'

  'I'm not sure this is neutral territory anyway,' she said. 'This is more your stamping ground than mine these days.' Since he'd moved out of the house he'd shared with Chrissie, McKay had been renting a small bungalow in Rosemarkie on the Black Isle, just a few hundred metres from where they were sitting. 'You in here often then?'

  'Chance would be a fine thing,' he said. 'Last time I was in here, I was offering a consoling coffee to Jackie Galloway's grieving widow.' Galloway had been one of the victims in a major murder enquiry a few months earlier.

  'You always went for the older woman, Alec. Present company excepted.'

  For the first time, McKay felt able to smile back. 'She's still living there up on the High Street. By all accounts having the time of her life now she's got rid of that bastard Galloway.'

  'There's a lot to be said for dumping your bastard husband, I hear.' Her face was deadpan, but, perhaps for the first time in recent years, McKay felt comfortable that she really was just joking.

  'So I've heard.' McKay gestured towards his starter with his fork. 'This whitebait's excellent. How's your soup?' Chrissie had ordered the Cullen Skink, the smoked haddock soup ubiquitous in these parts.

  'Really good,' she said. 'One of the best I've had. Not bad having a place like this on your doorstep. Impressive location too.' Crofters Bistro was set on the seafront overlooking Rosemarkie Beach, with a fine view of the Moray Firth. The sun was low in the sky behind the building, casting long shadows across the water, the Eastern sky already turning a deeper blue.

  'Aye, not bad. Romantic,' he added, chancing his arm.

  'I suppose it might be in the right company.' She gave him another smile. 'We'll have to see.'

  'Do you want another glass of wine?'

  'Why not?' Chrissie had been dropped off here by her sister, and had already planned to get a taxi back into town. 'If you want some more we could get a bottle.'

  'Let's go mad.' He lifted his head to catch the eye of the waiter.

  'As long as you're not trying to get me drunk, Alec McKay.' She was already looking happier and more relaxed than he could remember seeing her.

  'Like I say, I'm living in reduced circumstances. I can't afford what it would cost to get you drunk.'

  She laughed, and he wondered how long it had been since he'd heard that sound. They'd always got on well together, he thought. Best friends as well as lovers. She hadn't even worried too much about the amount of time he devoted to the job, which was what destroyed many police marriages. She'd known what she was marrying, and although she'd occasionally grumbled at the long hours and late nights, she'd never really resented it. It had only been after Lizzie's death that things had changed. That had brought them up short, made them reflect on what parental failings might have led their daughter to leave home and to die alone in a far-off city. They'd both felt guilty, and they'd each sought to offload their guilt onto the other. And neither of them had been able to talk about it.

  The waiter came and brought them the requested bottle of red wine, and then their main courses. Outside, the twilight was thickening, and they could see the lights of Fort George and Ardersier on the other side of the firth. Chrissie was right, McKay thought. In the appropriate company, this place was romantic, true enough.

  'Long while since I've had chips as good as these,' Chrissie said. It wasn't e
xactly the romantic utterance that McKay might have hoped for, but at least it showed she was enjoying herself. 'How's yours?'

  'Terrific.' They still weren't really into the season and it was midweek, but the restaurant was almost full. This was something else he'd missed, he realised. The company. Not just Chrissie – though mainly Chrissie – but the whole experience of being out in a crowd of people. He'd been to the pub a few times since he'd been staying there. They were welcoming, but the locals knew who he was after the Galloway enquiry, so he was always treated with a degree of wariness. They weren't exactly unfriendly but they tended not to be very forthcoming either, so too often he'd found himself sitting alone in a corner nursing a pint. Though maybe, he reflected, that was just because he'd always been an inhospitable bastard.

  Tonight, though, was going well. Better so far than he'd hoped.

  They finished the meal, declined desserts but ordered coffee with a single malt for each of them. McKay sipped gently at the whisky and said, 'Sorry you came?'

  She was still smiling, which he took as a good sign. 'I nearly didn't, you know. I'd told myself I wouldn't meet you outside the counselling sessions until I was sure I was ready. And I wasn't at all sure yet. Then, when you phoned and left that message – my first instinct was still to say no. Then I had a chat about it with Ellie.' This was Chrissie's younger sister. 'She said we needed our heads banging together. She said it was clear as day to her that we were desperate to get back together, but were too proud to admit it.'

  'And was that true? In your case, I mean.' McKay wasn't at all sure this was the right question, but it was too late to withdraw it.

  She was silent for a moment. 'Was it true in yours?'

  'Aye. And I'm a stubborn old bastard. Took me a lot to pick up that phone, you know.'

  She nodded. 'Aye, I know. And, yes, it was the same with me. I mean, desperate might be overstating it. I don't want you getting ideas above your station. But Ellie was right.'

  'You reckon this might be the start of something then?'

  'I think it just might if you play your cards right, Alec McKay.'

  'I won't be taking anything for granted.' He held up his empty glass. 'One more for the road.'

  'Better not. I don't want you to have to carry me. You're too old for that.'

  'Thanks for that.' He paused. 'You could come and have a drink back at the bungalow, you know. I've a decent bottle in the cupboard.'

  She was silent for a moment, watching him, and he half expected she was going to say no. But finally she said, 'Go on then. I haven't seen this palatial residence of yours.'

  'I'll have to give you the grand tour. If you've thirty seconds to spare.' He hadn't really expected that Chrissie would be prepared to visit the place, but he'd given it a rare tidy-up just in case.

  He paid the bill and they stepped out into the night. It was still unexpectedly warm for so early in the year, and the light lingered even though the sun had long set behind the Black Isle. They walked along the seafront then paused to gaze across the firth at the line of lights on the far shore. The tide was low, and the beach stretched out below them.

  'I see that Hamilton woman was acquitted,' Chrissie said. 'That was along here, wasn't it?'

  'At the far end. Where the café is.'

  'That going cause any trouble for you? Her getting off and all.'

  'I hope not. It was Not Proven. Everybody knows she did it. It was clever lawyers got her off. But fair play, maybe she'd suffered enough.'

  'Aye. There is that.'

  'Anyway, I didn't invite you out to talk shop.'

  'Maybe you should do it more often, Alec. You bottle that stuff up too much.'

  They were leaning on the railing overlooking the beach. McKay turned to her. 'You reckon I'll get the chance then? To talk about it more often, I mean. With you.'

  She was silent for a moment, then laughed. 'I reckon that's where we're heading, you numpty. Don't you?'

  It was McKay's turn to be silent. Then he leaned forward and, somehow, the next moment they were kissing. Like teenagers, McKay thought. Like fucking teenagers.

  17

  Ginny Horton finally felt she was getting back into some sort of a rhythm. The dark mornings were long past so she found it much easier to drag herself out of bed for a decent run before getting ready for work. Her partner Isla was planning to work from home today, so Horton had left her sleeping peacefully in their bed. She'd felt a brief pang of regret as she'd stepped out into the chill air, but her mood had brightened immediately at the sight of the low morning sun glittering on the dewdrops.

  She'd always found it difficult to keep up her running through the winter, though she tried to maintain the discipline. It was just that much harder to force yourself out of the house into a chill black morning or a wet dark evening. This winter had been much worse though. She'd spent those dark months fearful of leaving the house, worried about the presence of her stepfather in the area. Thankfully, all that was behind her, though the experience had been traumatic.

  Isla had persuaded her she needed to get back into the routine. 'You know it makes you feel better,' she’d said. 'If you sit in here scared of every shadow you'll never get back into it. Just get up, get out and start running again.'

  The days rapidly lengthened up here, and as soon as the mornings were sufficiently light she followed Isla's advice. At first, she'd wondered how she'd ever managed to do it at all, let alone achieved the speeds and distances she'd been accustomed to. She started with short runs, just heading down to the army camp at Fort George, enjoying the mirror-like sheen of the Moray Firth in the early morning light and the taste of the cold air in her lungs.

  Within a few days, she could feel herself slipping back into her old routines, slowly building up her pace and stamina. The initial aches were receding, and she found she could do it after all. Soon she was planning longer and longer circuits.

  Her mind entered a different space when she ran. There was something about the rhythm, the sense of isolation, that allowed her thoughts to move into new channels. It was almost as if she wasn't thinking, as if she were surrendering herself to the unconscious. But she also knew it was often where her brain worked most effectively. Sometimes, if she was facing a particularly intractable issue at work, this would be where the solution would jump, unbidden, into her brain.

  She could feel herself entering that zone. The sky was cloudless and there was almost no wind, and she could see the landscape of the Black Isle opposite mirrored in the firth. She gradually picked up speed, heading past the fortifications of Fort George and then out along the coast towards Whiteness Point in what had become her usual circuit. She could complete it in the time needed to allow her to shower, dress, and grab a bite of breakfast before she headed into the office.

  This morning, she was feeling mildly guilty. They had a major enquiry kicking off and part of her wanted to be in the office early, getting things moving. Alec would almost certainly be there first thing – although that tended to be the case most mornings now he was living by himself – and would express mock-disapproval at her arrival.

  But she also knew she worked much more effectively if she'd been for a run. Her head felt clearer, her brain sharper. She knew too that it was important to maintain her routine. If she allowed it to slip, she'd struggle to get back on track again.

  As a compromise, she'd pulled herself out of bed even earlier than usual, giving herself an extra half hour. It had been the right decision, she concluded. She needed this. It was becoming a form of addiction, but at least it was healthier than the temptations coppers usually succumbed to.

  Her circuit took her along the edge of McDermott's Yard. It was a former fabrication yard, responsible for building and maintaining oil platforms during the boom. McDermott’s had closed years earlier as demand had declined, and the site had been empty ever since. It had been sold a couple of years earlier, with plans for its redevelopment, but nothing had so far materialised.

 
Even on a bright spring morning, there was something eerie about the place. Some of the buildings were still standing, and in some cases had not been fully cleared out. Old-fashioned computer monitors and office equipment were visible through the broken windows – as if the employees had simply risen from the desks and benches and simply walked away. She had no idea what ghosts might haunt the place, but it always felt to her as if something must be lurking in there.

  She was approaching along the edge of the yard when she saw the figure standing ahead of her. At first, her mind still reflecting on McDermott's ghosts, the sight unnerved her. A lone figure, motionless, slightly unreal in the early morning haze.

  As she drew closer, she saw the figure wasn't alone, but was accompanied by an equally motionless dog. Just an early morning dog walker. She didn't often encounter them on this stretch because she was generally out too early, but she sometimes saw them as she was returning back into the village.

  The man was elderly, dressed in a flat cap and a raincoat that looked too heavy for the weather. He raised his hand as if to command her to stop. In his other hand was a mobile phone.

  Her first thought was to ignore him. She didn't have the time to stop blethering with some old bloke about what a nice day it was or how lovely his dog might be. But something in the man's expression caught her attention. She slowed, allowing herself a moment to recover her breath. 'Are you okay?'

  The man held out the phone. 'I was trying to use this,' he said. 'My son bought it for me. Reckoned it was very straightforward. But I've not managed to get it working yet.'

  She took the phone from his hand. 'You'll need to turn it on first.'

  'Oh,' he said. 'What do you do?'

  She examined the phone and found the off/on switch. 'You press this.' She waited a moment while the screen came to life. 'Then you need a password.'

  'That'll be Scott,' the man said. 'That's my dog.' He gestured to the animal sitting beside him. 'Named after Sir Walter.'