‘Yes, boss,’ said Scott, already drifting away.
12
1925
Now that the American mobsters had gone below to suffer seasickness out of the storm, first mate Sammy McMichael felt it safe to return to the wheelhouse. He was now sporting a large bruise where a solid storm lantern had careered off its hook and collided with his face. He looked into the darkness through the tiny windows as his skipper also squinted determinedly into the tumult. The noise of sea and wind was deafening as the little puffer lurched from one massive wave to the next.
‘Glad you’re here, Sammy!’ shouted Donaldson. ‘I could fair do with another pair o’ eyes.’ Just as he said it, a massive wave engulfed the whole vessel, crashing into the wheelhouse and engendering a creaking from the hull that sounded loud despite the wail of the storm.
‘Where do you think we are, skipper?’ said Sammy.
‘Too damn near the Barrel Rocks and Thomson’s Point for my liking. I’m hoping they’ve been able to raise the light.’
To his right Sammy thought he could see a pinprick flash on and off. ‘That’ll be the Ailsa Craig light,’ he roared.
‘I bloody well hope it is, because if it’s no’ we’ll likely end up sailing doon Kinloch Main Street before long.’
‘We should never have done this!’
‘Aye, fair enough for you to say that now, but in two weeks when you’ve no money to put food on the table and nothing to scrape together for a dram or three, you’d have been crying foul. Aye, and I’d have been the target of your righteous anger.’
Sammy nodded his head solemnly as the little vessel breasted another great wave.
‘And anyway, I’ve been out in worse than this many a time and got us back safely into port.’
‘You have that,’ replied Sammy, though both men knew it was a lie. He cupped his hand round his eyes the better to see any light that would guide them between the ragged point and the deadly rocks.
‘If we see anything it’ll have to be soon. I cannae be just sure where we are, but judging by the light on Ailsa Craig I think I’m right.’
Sammy picked up a pair of old binoculars encased in a box under the brass compass. He put them to his eyes, desperate to see anything that could indicate their position. He was a local man – from Dalintober – and knew this coast like the back of his hand, but in this weather every sailor was on a strange tide.
‘At least we don’t have to worry about the Yanks,’ shouted Donaldson.
‘They’re too ill to be a bother. Though I’ll be glad tae see the back o’ them, skipper, and that’s no’ a lie.’
‘We just pick up the casks o’ whisky, let them do their business and bide a while in the cove tae let this storm blow over. You know what like it is; tomorrow the sun will likely be splitting the sky and the sea a millpond.’
‘I’ve got something!’ Sammy pointed ahead.
Donaldson followed his line of sight. ‘Well done, Sammy, my boy! That’ll be Thomson’s Point. We’ll give it a wide berth then sail back in near the coast to avoid the Barrel Rocks. Man, I know where I am now. I could do this in my sleep, storm or no bloody storm!’
Outside the wheelhouse, despite the thunder of waves and the roaring gale, Jeremiah’s bell tolled of its own accord; but whether in celebration or warning, only the Almighty knew.
Brain Scott left DS Potts in the car and ascended the steps to Jim Daley’s front door, on which he knocked loudly by force of habit as all police officers are wont to do.
‘Brian! What a nice surprise,’ said Liz, opening the door to let him in. ‘I’m just taking the wee man to nursery. Jim’s in the lounge.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Scott, kneeling down to pat James junior on the head, messing up his hair. ‘How are you, young fella, eh?’
‘Hello, Muncle Brian.’ The child gave him a hug.
‘You behave at that nursery – nae high jinks, mind.’ Scott smiled, said goodbye to Liz and made his way down the hall. He leaned his head round the corner of the door. ‘Are you decent, big man?’
‘I heard you. Anyway, do you think I parade about here in the scud when nobody’s about?’
‘As we both know, some folks have right strange habits, Jimmy.’
‘Take a seat, Bri.’
Scott did as he was asked and flopped down on a large recliner. ‘I was wondering, what wae you coming back on Monday and all, would you fancy a wee warm-up?’
‘A warm-up?’
‘Aye. I’ve got to go and see these buddies at a place called Rowan Tree Cottage. Thought you might like tae come and take charge, get back in the swing o’ things, like.’
‘I don’t know the first thing about the case.’
‘Och, I’ll fill you in on the way. It’s no’ much o’ a case at the moment, it has tae be said. But there’s something nagging at me – you know what it’s like, Jimmy.’
‘I do.’
‘Right, get yourself oot o’ they jogging troosers and intae something more respectable and we’ll get going.’
Daley smiled. He knew Scott was right, but the thought of being a policeman again seemed odd, somehow. There was no reason why he shouldn’t accompany his old friend on an inquiry – after all, he’d done that more times than he could remember. Symington had returned his warrant card, and there were only a couple of days left before he returned to work officially. He nodded to Scott and went to change.
Scott looked about the room as he waited. Liz had already tidied the place up and it looked more like a home again, rather than the refuge from the world it had appeared in her absence. In a way he was glad she was back, while in another he wished she’d made a decent life with someone else and left Daley alone for good. He wasn’t at all sure that his friend felt the same way about his wife as he had for so many years, and Scott feared another fracture in their relationship could prove too much for the big man.
Idly, he checked his phone and played a new game he’d found where a snake chased around a maze trying to eat up little dots. It reminded him of his youth in the arcades in Glasgow. He’d never been good at these games then and he was worse now, but at least it passed the time.
‘Right, that’s me good to go,’ said Daley, appearing in a suit that looked as though it had been made for another, much larger man. Scott eyed him up and down.
‘I think you’ll need tae go an’ get some new threads, Jimmy.’
‘Why?’
‘That bloody suit’s hanging off you! It’s like these adverts in the paper, you know? The fat bloke and the thin bloke after he’s lost the weight.’
‘You mean “before and after”?’
‘Aye, though in this case it’s “before and way before”!’
‘Huh. First time I’ve felt comfy in a suit for years.’
‘I could see it in your face, but what wae you slobbing aboot in these jogging bottoms and sweatshirts, I never realised how thin you’d got.’
‘It’s the same way I felt when you stopped drinking.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, it was like being with a stranger, you know?’ Daley’s face was unreadable.
‘Away!’
‘Come on, I’m only kidding.’
With Scott still smarting at the comment he thought bore some truth despite Daley’s shrugging it off as a joke, the pair made their way back to the car.
‘You get in the back, Potts. Let the DCI in the front wae me.’
‘I’m fine in the back, Brian.’
‘Since when? You hate being in the back of cars. What’s changed?’
‘A lot.’
With that they headed off to find Rowan Tree Cottage, Scott explaining what he’d discovered as they went.
13
Annie looked miserable sitting in front of the owners of the County Hotel. They’d arrived unexpectedly, and now she was sitting in the cramped back office as they looked through various accounts and till receipts.
‘We’ve had a great couple o’ weeks: tw
o hame darts matches and a wedding last Saturday. The place was going like a fair, so it was.’
Mrs Ramsay looked at her sadly ‘Aye, but there’s not enough weeks like that, Annie. You must see it yourself: takings have gone down steadily over the last few years.’
‘I can see it right enough. But sure, every place is jeest the same – in the licensed trade, I mean.’
Mr Ramsay, who had once sported a fine crop of wavy auburn hair, now only had a thinned grey tonsure. He peered at the accounts through half-moon spectacles, shaking his head and making his jowly face wobble. ‘It’s not just the drop in income, Annie. And before you get all overheated, it’s nothing to do with your management of the place. You know how grateful we are.’ Annie waited for him to continue, but suddenly he seemed lost for words.
His wife came to his rescue. ‘What Eric is trying to say is that he’s sorry you found out the way you did – what our intentions were, I mean. But we’re not getting any younger, Annie, and the simple truth is we want to retire – find somewhere warm to enjoy our last few years.’
‘Rita has the right of it there,’ said Mr Ramsay. ‘We’re planning a move to Florida. Once we maximise what we can from the hotel and sell our other business interests, well, we should have enough to go and buy a modest place there and live reasonably comfortably.’
‘Our David and his family have been out there for eleven years now, as you know. I miss not seeing my grandchildren.’ Rita Ramsay looked every bit the granny, a plump face under a nest of neat grey curly hair.
‘Right. I see,’ said Annie, head downturned.
‘Of course, we’ll make sure you get the redundancy money you’re due. And it goes without saying that we’ll give you a glowing reference,’ added Mrs Ramsay quickly.
‘A manageress of your calibre will find another position in no time – you’ll likely make money on the deal, eh?’ her husband said unconvincingly.
Annie shook her head. ‘Dae yous know how long I’ve been here?’
‘Since my father’s time, I’m sure,’ said Eric Ramsay.
‘That’s right, aye, and I used tae work wae your grandfaither, tae. He liked tae keep his hand in behind the bar noo and again. Taught me the ropes, so he did.’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘You see, this place has been my life – aye, and the life o’ a good few others, let me tell you. I know fine that fashions change, but you wait: folk will soon get fed up jeest staring at their televisions drinking cheap wine fae the supermarket, and start coming oot for a meal and a few drinks again. All this stay-at-home stuff is jeest a passing phase.’
‘Even if it is, we still want to go to Florida, Annie. And at the moment, the way business is now and with the hotel in desperate need of refurbishment, we wouldn’t get what we need,’ said Mrs Ramsay.
‘Turning the place into well-appointed flats and selling them off one by one means we’ll make much more. I hope you understand.’ Eric Ramsay closed a ledger, and patted its leather cover in an almost ceremonial way that said – to Annie at least – that’s it, it’s over.
There was silence in the room for a few moments, during which the Ramsays looked at each other uncomfortably, while Annie blew her nose loudly into a white hanky.
‘So, when is this all going tae happen, then?’
‘We’ve some functions on the books that take us through the Christmas period and into the New Year. Hopefully we’ll make a bob or two then. So, to answer your question, we intend to close the hotel in February. Bloody awful time of year, anyway – certainly in this trade.’
‘But we’ve got three weddings booked for the summer,’ protested Annie.
‘Yes. I’ve spoken to the parties involved and told them they’ll have to find other venues. They were all very understanding, if a little upset, being locals, of course.’
Annie stood, sniffed, and looked between her bosses. ‘Well then, there’s nothin’ tae be said, obviously. I’ll need tae get oot an’ find myself another job. Though at my age it’s no’ going tae be as easy as you think it will be, that’s for certain sure.’
‘We were rather hoping you could stay on and see us through until closure,’ said Mr Ramsay.
‘Aye, and I was rather hoping yous widna close the place and leave me oot o’ a job. If you want a captain tae go doon with the ship, yous can look elsewhere – maybe dae a bit o’ work yourselves. I canna guarantee whoot kind o’ welcome you’ll get, mind you. No, fair’s fair. Yous have made up your minds to dae whoot’s best for yous, and noo I’ll dae the same.’ ‘If you leave, you risk your redundancy payment, Annie. I think it’s only fair to warn you.’ Eric Ramsay’s face reddened as his wife glared at him.
‘If you don’t mind, I have a hotel tae run – for the time being, at least.’ Annie turned on her heel and left the room, blinking back tears as she went.
‘Well done, Eric. Another fine example of your diplomacy. If she goes, what will we do over Christmas?’
‘She won’t leave. I know Annie of old, her bark’s always been worse than her bite. Anyway, she’ll see sense about the money. At her age, she’ll struggle to find a job – certainly one that pays as well.’
‘That’s if she doesn’t take us to court over constructive dismissal.’
The drive to Rowan Tree Cottage – or the black croft, as Hamish had it – took Scott longer than he’d expected. The coast road to Blaan was a hilly single track. The view, though, was magnificent. The sun was shining and the air had turned cold. The storms over the last couple of days seemed like a distant memory as the three policemen looked across to the southern tip of the Isle of Arran, with the mound of Ailsa Craig standing solid in front of the distant blue line that was the Ayrshire coast. The sea, though, looked cold and dark, as if brooding quietly after days of angry turbulence.
Scott followed the directions Sergeant Shaw had written down and DS Potts was calling out as they went. Soon they came to a tumbledown gate to which was nailed a rough wooden sign with ‘Rowan Tree Cottage’ daubed in white paint across it. Potts opened the gate to allow Scott to drive on to the rutted lane ahead. As he closed it, he was doubtful that the construction would have been able to stop any but the least determined sheep or cow, but nonetheless he made sure it was secure before jumping back into the car.
They bumped along what was more like two tracks worn in a field underpinned by some gravel than a legitimate lane, Scott cursing as the car lurched from side to side over large potholes or the odd small boulder. Soon the ground dropped away before them and the track meandered on towards a distant cottage perched before a rocky promontory, a line of shingle beach to its side, and seaweed backed up in an impromptu wall in front of it.
‘Nae wonder Hamish calls it the black croft. I can smell that seaweed fae here,’ said Scott as the car bumped through another pothole.
Daley screwed up his face as they came to a halt beside the remains of an ancient Transit van and a pick-up that looked almost as decrepit but at least had four wheels. As Potts made to get out of the car, Brian Scott waved him back inside.
‘Me and DCI Daley will deal wae this, son.’
As Potts watched them walk into a muddy yard, he shook his head. ‘Fucking great,’ he said to himself.
As Daley and Scott made their way to what they supposed was the front of the dwelling the stench of rotting seaweed was almost unbearable. Scott cursed further as his shoe squelched into what he identified as a cowpat, but could have been almost anything that was dark green, cloying and rancid. An old barrow sat by a rickety front door that had recently been painted blue, the only hint of colour in the place.
Scott knocked more loudly on the door than he had on Daley’s earlier that morning, while trying to rub whatever it was that had attached itself to his shoe off on a clump of grass growing at the bottom of a rusted roan pipe.
‘Here, maybe it’ll be like Frank MacDougall’s; mind, Jimmy? A wreck ootside and like a palace once you stepped o’er the door.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ rep
lied Daley. ‘Wait, I hear someone coming.’
Sure enough, the sound of keys turning in at least two locks and the ring of bolts being pulled open could be heard from within.
‘Why bother wae a’ that? A gust o’ wind could blow this thing in,’ whispered Scott.
The door opened to reveal a small wizen-faced woman who could have been any age between seventy and ninety, it was hard to tell. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she wore an old-fashioned apron patterned with faded flowers that covered her almost from scrawny neck to scraggy ankle. Her eyes, though, were of a piercing green, with threatening depths. She shifted her gaze between the detectives, her head angled up to face them. ‘What can I dae for you?’ she said with little warmth.
‘I’m DCI Daley, this is DI Scott. Can we come in, please, Mrs Doig?’
‘If yous must.’ She led them straight into a room that could have looked the same a hundred years ago, replete with storm lanterns, ancient furniture and a fire over which hung a blackened kettle. Dominating the room was a large, roughly made table under the window, around which were set five wooden chairs of various designs, none of them new. ‘Take a seat at the table, if yous want. If it’s aboot that auld truck, I don’t drive it, so there’s nae point asking me anything aboot the thing.’
Scott sniffed the air and could still smell the rotting seaweed outside, now overlaid by the smell of cooking fish and a musty overtone that made him want to sneeze. He was about to speak, but Daley beat him to it.
‘You’re the mother of Alison Doig, I believe?’
‘Aye, I was until she ran off.’ The answer was flat, without emotion.
‘Ran off, you say?’ said Scott.
‘Aye, jeest so.’
‘But she was reported missing at the time – thirty-four years ago.’
‘You don’t need tae remind me how long ago it was; I was here, remember. The only reason she was reported missing was they buggers at the high school. She ran away, plain and simple. She even stole oor van.’ Her piercing eyes remained fixed on Scott, making him shiver involuntarily.
Jeremiah's Bell Page 8