by Greg Keen
‘Means nothing to me,’ said the woman. ‘But then I’ve only been here for a year. Alec would be your best bet.’
‘Alec?’
‘Our head barman. He’s lived in ’Rossan since God was a boy.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
‘Hold the line and I’ll see if he’s available.’
I was treated to a folk song about the heartbreaking difficulty of catching herrings for a while. Halfway through the second verse, the music was interrupted.
‘Alec Norris speaking.’
If I’d wanted a regionally appropriate accent, this was my man.
‘I’m trying to trace an old friend of mine and the hotel manager thought you might be able to help.’ No response from Alec, who clearly wasn’t much of a talker. ‘Her name’s April Thomson,’ I added.
‘Why d’you want tae find her?’
‘Old times’ sake,’ I said. ‘We used to see a lot of each other forty years ago, when she lived in London.’
There was a bit more silence. Had it not been for the background sounds, I’d have assumed we’d been disconnected. Just when I was about to ask if he had heard of April, Alec spoke again.
‘Would that be Peachy Thomson’s girl?’
‘Maybe. Does she still live in the town?’
‘Not for years.’
‘Might Peachy know where she is?’
‘Havenae a clue.’
‘Could you ask Peachy? Or, better still, give me her telephone number?’
‘Peachy’s April’s father,’ said Alec. ‘And he’s a terrible Wee Free, so we never see him in here.’
‘How about his number?’ I asked, wondering what the hell a Wee Free was. ‘Would he be in the book?’
‘There’s only one book Peachy cares about,’ Alec said, ‘and it’s no’ the Yellow Pages.’
‘Are we talking the Bible?’ I asked.
‘We are,’ he confirmed.
‘Have you got his address, at least?’
‘Twenty-eight Hill Road,’ said Alec, who I bet could have told me the address of virtually everyone in town. ‘Although I wouldnae waste your time writing to him, son. Not if you’re expecting a reply.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Peachy doesnae talk to people unless he’s no other option. He’s no’ much of a letter-writer either.’
‘He’s a recluse?’
‘That’d be one way of putting it. Anything else I can help you with? Only I’ve a bit of a queue at the bar . . .’
‘Just one thing; is Peachy his real name?’
‘He was christened Alistair,’ said Alec, and then the line went dead. Either he had hung up on me, or this time we really had been abruptly disconnected.
I knew which my money was on.
After calling the Bannock Hotel, I’d spent an hour navigating the web in ever-decreasing circles. No sign of April Thomson – at least not the one I was looking for. Usually I pitch up at the local pub in person. As Saltrossan was over five hundred miles away, a phone call had been my only option. If it had yielded no results, I’d have given up the search. Following my chat with Alec, I wasn’t sure which course to take.
I tried Alistair Thomson with directory enquiries. No listing, but I confirmed his address online easily enough. It looked as though the only way to make contact would be to visit Saltrossan and knock on the old boy’s door.
A thousand-mile round trip to be told to piss off, or that April had taken a course in nail technology and emigrated to Canada, wasn’t appealing. But what else was I going to do? It was four days before I was due to leave for Manchester. It would take no longer than half an hour to pack and, other than bidding Soho a long goodbye, there wasn’t much else to occupy my time. In the end I flipped a fifty-pence piece.
It came down heads.
THIRTY-TWO
The Caledonian Sleeper chugged out of Euston just before midnight. The bed in my berth wasn’t much larger than a coffin. Had I been stretched out on a king-size mattress, it would have made little difference. My mind hummed with unanswerable questions, ranging from whether Odeerie had been right about my not being able to hack it in Manchester, to whether I would ever forget the sight of Harry Parr’s body.
The last time I looked at my Timex it was 2.15 a.m. Five minutes later a steward knocked on my door to announce that we were approaching Glasgow Central. The hands on my watch had unaccountably advanced four hours. I ordered a black coffee, cleaned my teeth, and had a wash at the basin. It was fair to say that I wasn’t feeling too sensational when the train pulled to a gentle halt.
The Saltrossan train left from Glasgow Queen Street. I threw my bag into the back of a minicab and instructed the driver to take me there. En route, I asked him what the Wee Frees were. Apparently the Free Church had broken away from the Church of Scotland in the nineteenth century because they thought the clergy were having too much mince with their tatties. Since then there had been succession of subdivisions, each more austere than the last. Nowadays the Wee Frees didn’t just take it easy on the mince; they didn’t have the tatties either.
Argyle and Bute’s tourist board described the scenery on the third leg of my trip as breathtaking. As far as I’m concerned, when you’ve seen one mountain range you’ve seen them all, and when it comes to lochs you can throw away the quay. That wasn’t the opinion of my fellow travellers, most of whom squealed with delight every two minutes and fired off SLRs like Kalashnikovs.
A couple of miniatures from the drinks trolley lulled me into a deep sleep. I awoke with a start to find myself alone in the carriage. Panic that I might have overshot was dispelled by an announcement that the next station was Saltrossan. I popped a Polo mint into my mouth and ran my fingers through my dishevelled hair. Important to make a good first impression on the locals.
According to the bus timetable outside the station, a Coastal Hoppa was due in three minutes’ time. When it arrived, the only other passenger was a dapper chap in his sixties, wearing a dark-blue suit and a canary-coloured tie. On the seat next to him was a pet carrier from which came a persistent series of hisses and scratches. Judging by the plasters on the gent’s fingers, the carrier’s occupant hadn’t entered it willingly.
After ten minutes bumping down a narrow road, the three of us arrived. If you like your seaside towns on the bijou side, with most of the houses painted a cheerful pink, then Saltrossan would be hard to beat. Its small harbour had a few boats bobbing about in it, and the high street was refreshingly free of franchised coffee outlets.
The Bannock Hotel was constructed from slabs of Highland granite, and dominated the cosier buildings like a Victorian headmaster in a school line-up. Its oak-panelled lobby smelled of Mansion polish and was decorated with framed photographs of glum-looking men brandishing dead fish. I rang the brass bell. A tall woman in her early fifties emerged from a door underneath a print of The Stag at Bay.
‘Welcome to the Bannock,’ she said brightly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I should have a reservation. The name’s Kenny Gabriel.’
‘The chap who’s trying to track down his friend?’ I admitted I was. ‘I’m Katherine Pike,’ she said. ‘We spoke on the phone.’
We shook hands. Katherine had bobbed blonde hair and large hooped earrings. Her dark-blue dress looked as though it hadn’t been bought in one of the local boutiques. Not unless Saltrossan had an unlikely taste for haute couture.
‘Was Alec any help?’ she asked.
‘He was, as a matter of fact. Is he working today?’
‘In the lounge bar,’ she said, while consulting a computer screen. ‘We have you down for a single night with breakfast. Would you like dinner in the restaurant?’
‘Can I play it by ear?’
‘Certainly. Although we’re busy tonight, so if your friend’s joining you it might be an idea to make a reservation by four o’clock.’
‘I think that’s unlikely,’ I said.
‘You haven’t managed to get in touch wit
h her?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What a shame,’ she said, handing me a key card. ‘Although I’m sure, if it’s meant to be, then it’s meant to be. You’re in room 211 on the second floor. The lift’s a bit of an antique, so the stairs might be your best bet.’
‘Actually, I thought I’d pop in and see Alec first.’
‘Good luck,’ Katherine said.
The bar held around twenty customers, divided into two camps. Congregated around a glass-fronted bookcase was an irritation of middle-aged men in waxed jackets, several of whom were clutching Ordnance Survey maps. All had walking boots on and one even sported a deerstalker hat. It was obvious from the yammering that they were English.
Gathered under the implacable gaze of a stuffed otter were the locals. Each had a pint glass in front of him. Half a dozen bags of crisps had been ripped open and their contents plundered. A fifty-year-old in a beanie hat puffed determinedly on an electronic cigarette. His companions stared at each other or into space, as though witnesses to a recent natural disaster.
The wooden bar to my left protruded into the room like the prow of a galleon. The bloke polishing glasses behind it was about five foot three and couldn’t have weighed more than seven stone wet through. He wore heavy black glasses and what was either a wig or the worst haircut in Saltrossan.
‘Are you Alec?’ I asked.
‘Aye,’ he said holding a glass up and inspecting it for blemishes.
‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel. We spoke yesterday.’
‘You must be keen to have a word with Peachy to be here so soon.’
‘I am, but I wouldn’t mind having a shot of one of those before I do.’ Behind Alec was an impressive collection of whisky bottles. ‘Which d’you recommend?’ I asked.
‘All of them,’ he replied.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we each have a double of your favourite on me?’
Alec made eye contact for the first time. He draped the tea towel around his scrawny neck and placed the glass on a shelf above the bar.
‘I’ll take a glass of Ledchig with you.’
The bottle he uncorked was labelled LEDAIG. Either Alec’s pronunciation was deeply Gaelic or his dentures were slipping. He poured a pair of generous doubles and slid one across the bar.
‘Not bad,’ I said after taking a sip. Alec gave me a look. ‘Superb,’ I corrected myself. ‘I’m planning to visit Peachy later on. Got any tips?’
‘Dinnae bother.’
‘Any others?’
Alec considered the question. ‘You’d do well to be straight with the man. Otherwise yer arse’ll be out the door so fast it’ll no’ touch the pavement. Always assuming that you get your arse in the door, that is.’
‘You said that Peachy’s religious.’
‘A lot of folks in ’Rossan are.’
‘He wasn’t always that way, though?’
‘Peachy used to be a regular in here. That was before Mary left, mind.’
‘His wife?’ Alec nodded. ‘When did that happen?’
‘Eighty-one. Eighty-two, maybe.’
‘How did Peachy take it?’
‘Hard. Quit his job and hit the bottle.’
‘But then he found the Lord?’
Alec knocked back his whisky. He peered into the glass like a bereaved man.
‘Another?’ I suggested.
‘You’re a gentleman. Will you being taking one yerself?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
Judging by what I’d heard about Peachy, it wouldn’t be sensible to turn up half-cut on Scotch, however superlative the calibre. Alec poured himself another dram, and added a dribble of water from a jug on the bar. ‘Lets the taste out,’ he explained.
‘You were telling me about Peachy and his issues with alcohol,’ I reminded him.
‘They were a bit more than issues, son. Peachy wis a mean drunk and then some.’
‘Until he found Jesus?’
Alec nodded. ‘Drinking and fighting one weekend; singing his heart out in the kirk the next.’
‘What about April?’
‘She came back a few years before Peachy and Mary split. Just for a day or two.’
‘Did she have any friends?’
‘Not really. April kept herself to herself even when she was a wee girl. She never seemed to fit in round here.’ Alec glanced in the direction of the braying tourists. ‘Not everybody does,’ he said.
‘What happened to her?’
‘Peachy and Mary said that she’d gone back to London for good. And that was that. People mind their business in ’Rossan.’
‘And Mary? Where did she go when she left Peachy?’
‘Havenae a clue.’
The only other thing I needed to get out of Alec were directions to Peachy’s house. He produced a tourist map and circled Hill Road with a stump of pencil.
‘Ten minutes’ walk for a young pup like yerself.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
I instructed Alec to pour himself another and stick the bill on my room. He had the cork out of the bottle before I’d reached the door.
Hill Road was on a steep incline leading out of Saltrossan. Its houses were stolid granite terraces put up between the wars. Most were well maintained with spotless nets and immaculate doorsteps. Number twenty-eight was tidier than most.
I rapped twice using the brass knocker. No response. I gave it a minute before trying again. April’s dad would be in his late seventies by now and probably not as sprightly as when he’d been a two-fisted drinker. Someone approached the door. Two bolts were thrown and it opened to reveal Peachy Thomson.
The guy must have been a handful in his heyday. He was six-three with shoulders that almost filled the doorframe. Short white hair lay thick on his scalp and his blue eyes had none of the rheum of old age. He was wearing a navy-blue suit and a tieless white shirt buttoned to the top.
‘What d’you want?’ he said.
‘Mr Thomson?’
‘Aye.’
‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel.’ Peachy stared at my outstretched hand. ‘I was a friend of your daughter’s when she lived in London . . .’
He stepped back and slammed the door. Under different circumstances I’d have left it at that. As things were, I got down on my knees and prised the letterbox open.
‘I appreciate this has come out of the blue, Mr Thomson. All I want to know is where April is living at the moment.’
No answer.
‘It isn’t anything sinister, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just interested in getting in touch with her for old times’ sake.’
No answer.
‘All I need is an address.’
No answer.
The metal flap was so tight that my thumbs began to cramp. I let it fall back into place and was blowing warm air into my cupped hands when the door opened as abruptly as it had been closed. The shock sent me sprawling backwards.
‘April’s not here,’ Peachy said.
‘Then tell me where I can reach her and I’ll be on my way.’
‘Sighthill Cemetery.’
‘What?’
‘She’s been dead thirty years.’
THIRTY-THREE
The smell of boiled cabbage hung in the front room. What furniture there was – primarily a three-piece suite, roll-top desk and battered sideboard – had been made in the seventies and the olive carpet was worn as smooth as a billiard table. On the mantelpiece, a Smiths Sectric silently ticked away the seconds of its owner’s life.
Peachy’s angular body was scrupulously erect in his chair; the springs in mine so shot that my knees almost touched my chest. He stared at the floor as though expecting something to materialise in the space between us. When it didn’t, he spoke.
‘So you knew April in London?’
‘That’s right, Mr Thomson.’
‘How close were the two of you?’
‘Very, but it was a platonic relationship.’
> Peachy grunted. ‘If ye were so friendly, why didn’t ye keep in touch?’ he asked.
‘April left town suddenly without leaving a forwarding address. Recently I came across an old photograph. I was curious to see how she was.’
Fortunately, I’d taken Alec’s advice about being straight with Peachy. It might have been a highly edited version of the truth, but it was still the truth. Otherwise I wouldn’t have had a hope of maintaining eye contact with him.
‘And you’ve come all the way tae ’Rossan tae visit someone ye havenae seen in over thirty years,’ he said. ‘Ye’ll forgive me for finding that a little strange, Mr . . .’
‘Gabriel,’ I said. There didn’t seem much point in asking him to call me Kenny and I sure as hell wasn’t going to risk calling him Peachy.
‘Like the angel?’ he asked.
‘Like the angel,’ I said.
‘How did you get my address?’
‘I’m staying at the Bannock Hotel. The head barman pointed me in the right direction.’
‘Alec McGovern?’
‘That’s right.’
Peachy shook his head. ‘Silly auld fool never could hold his tongue. He’s no right tae meddle in other folks’ business.’
‘All I wanted was to find out what happened to April.’
‘Well, now ye know.’
Apart from I didn’t. Not the full story, anyway. The other thing I didn’t know was why Peachy had invited me into his house. Having told me his daughter was dead, he could simply have slammed the door again. And yet here we were. Not getting on famously, perhaps, but talking nevertheless.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mr Thomson,’ I said, ‘but how did April die?’
Peachy’s eyes focused on a plain wooden cross hanging above the fireplace.
‘Like a hoor,’ he said, quietly. ‘She lived like one and she died like one.’
‘April was a waitress when I knew her.’
‘Are ye sure about that?’
‘Positive.’
‘Well, folk change.’
‘Even so, I find it hard to imagine . . .’
Peachy’s glare withered my sentence. ‘She turned her face from the Lord,’ he said. ‘Ye cannae blame me for what I did.’