The Midnight Eye Files Collection

by William Meikle

  We left the lay-by and he followed me as we headed to the next town. I was going slowly again, due to the twists, turns and gradient of the glen, but wee Jim had no such bother...he drove the whole hill less than three feet from my back bumper. I almost did an emergency stop, just to let him hit me...the Land Rover could take it...but the damage would only make Doug cry...and I’d seen enough of that.

  Jim kept tight on my tail through Glencoe village until I parked in a huge, empty car park. No doubt in summer the space was full of coaches and tourists in too-loud, too-casual clothes, but now, in late spring, the concrete expanse looked sadly out of place amid the scenery. Jim pulled up beside me and I had another cigarette while he transferred his gear into the back of the Land Rover.

  “Don’t bother about giving me a hand,” he said sarcastically as he hauled a huge camera out of the boot of his car, “I can see you’re busy.”

  “I wouldn’t want to strain anything,” I replied, “There might be a highland lassie waiting for me at the end of the high road.”

  “In your dreams,” he said as he passed me with a large suitcase. “Word of your ineptitude with the women is bound to have stretched this far by now.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Aye, you’re fucking right there,” he said. He closed the Land Rover boot and cadged another cigarette from me. “Five years ago I got divorced. You’d have thought the smell of married man would have faded by now, but I cannae get a woman to have a second look at me.”

  “Never mind,” I said, “Where we’re going there’s plenty of sheep.”

  “Fucking countryside,” he said, and ground his cigarette out with a vengeance. “The sooner we get going, the sooner I can get back to the city and breathe some decent air. Are you coming?”

  “No, it’s just the way I’m standing,” I said, but I put out my own cigarette and headed for the driver’s door.

  “Shit, you’ve gone up in the world,” he said as he climbed into the passenger seat and took in the surroundings.

  “Clean living and abstemious behavior,” I said.

  He laughed.

  “Aye. That’ll be the fucking day.”

  For the next two hours he kept up a string of anecdotes mixed liberally with profanity. By the time we reached Kyle of Lochalsh and the new bridge across to Skye I felt grimy, like a laborer after a long hard shift.

  “So where exactly on the island are you headed?” I asked as we crossed the wide span, island hopping across to our destination. I was hoping it wouldn’t be too far. Even with the windows full open and the air conditioning on his after-shave was starting to overpower me.

  “Portree,” he said. “Some shit-hole of digs probably. That damn editor of mine is as tight as a duck’s arse...”

  And off he went again into another rant. Over the past two hours I had realized that Jim was nowhere near as good company when he was sober as he was when he was drunk. Or rather, when I was drunk. I resolved that I’d have a drink in my hand the next time I talked to him...if only to wash the foul taste from my mouth.

  At least the scenery was diverting. I’d never been on the island before, and each corner brought mountain views or seascapes, cliffs and rolling hills, untamed wilderness and immaculate farms. Even the occasional villages were neat and well-spaced out. The rain showers stopped completely as we passed through Broadford and we continued on the rest of the journey to Portree in glorious sunshine. It felt like a different planet, and I found myself wishing that I wasn’t working, that I could stop anywhere I wanted and just dawdle.

  Jim Morton however, seemed immune to the island’s charms.

  “Fucking peasants,” he said as we passed two men wheeling barrows of peat cuttings. “Nobody needs to live like this in the 21st Century. Next they’ll be telling us that they prefer it this way. No fucking way. Listen, Derek,” he said conspiratorially, “What do you say we find a wee pub tonight then get blootered, like in the auld days?”

  Actually the idea was appealing...but wee auld women who reminded me of my granny always made me feel guilty when I wasn’t actually working for my money.

  “I’ll maybe manage a pint or two if I can’t track my man down straight away,” I said, “But I might be back on the road straight away if things go right.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “This is Tcheuchtar-land. Nothing ever goes right here for folk from the city. It’s inbred into them to hate us.”

  I thought he was going to go off on another one of his rants, but instead he banged hard on the dashboard.

  “Stop. Stop here.”

  I did an emergency stop in the middle of the road...my old instructor would have been proud...and luckily there was no other traffic around.

  “I knew it. I knew the bastard would shaft me,” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “That is,” he replied, pointing at a sign on the road.

  ‘The Highland Guest House...first right.’

  “That’s my digs. Tartan, shortbread and nylon sheets...no entry after 9.00 p.m. I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

  I pulled over to the side of the road, and Jim was still muttering as he unloaded his kit from the Land Rover.

  “Give me a hand with this,” he said. “I don’t know why I have to carry all this shit around anyway...I’m a reporter, no’ a fucking photographer.”

  I got out and took his suitcase, following him up the drive to the guesthouse. It was obviously a private house that doubled as a Bed and Breakfast establishment during the tourist season...a modern, square bungalow surrounded by lawn and concrete. It looked about as inviting as Barlinnie Prison on a wet Sunday.

  A tiny white dog, no bigger than a rat, ran down the driveway, yapping at us until Jim growled at it, sending it scurrying away, yelping.

  “Did some bad man frighten you?” someone said, and suddenly I pitied Jim. I knew what was coming even before the landlady came round the corner of the house. She was built like a battleship...most of her weight in her bow, a bosom of massive proportions that was heading towards us at speed. The floral pattern on her cleaning pinafore was so bright it could dazzle passing motorists, and her unnatural looking blue hair had been scraped so tightly back from her ears that her skin seemed stretched, like a full bin-liner. She cradled the dog in the crook of her elbow, where it sat and smirked at us.

  “Yes?” she said, in a voice that meant “No”.

  “I’ve got a room booked,” Jim said. He tried out-staring her, but she’d had decades of practice with ‘difficult’ customers, and he looked away first.

  “I don’t suppose you’re Mr. and Mrs. Conway from Prestatten,” she said, looking us up and down.

  “We might be travelling incognito,” I made the mistake of saying. All it earned me was a look that would have withered any lesser man.

  “The only other booking I’ve got is for a single gentleman. A man from the newspapers,” she said proudly.

  Jim took his time with his reply.

  “That would be me,” he said, “Single, and from the papers...but unfortunately no gentleman.”

  “It’s only a single,” she said, looking suspiciously at me, “And I don’t hold with all that modern hanky-panky.”

  I couldn’t resist it.

  “But we’re researching how hospitable the islands are to the pink community. You wouldn’t want a bad review, would you?”

  You could see the conflict building in her. After ten seconds or so I gave her a break...I didn’t want to be around if she exploded.

  “Actually, I’m not staying...I was just helping him with his luggage. He’s not very strong you see...limp wrists, if you catch my drift?”

  She looked down her nose at me. I’d suddenly acquired the status of hired-help, and was no longer worthy of her attention.

  “Come with me,” she said to Jim in a voice that brooked no argument, and turned away towards the house.

  I left Jim in the driveway with his luggage. He looked suddenly su
nken and forlorn.

  “That drink is looking awfully inviting round about now,” he said. “If you’re still around, I’ll be in one of the pubs in the center in less than half an hour.”

  “I’ll ask for the foul-mouthed Glasgwegian,” I said.

  He laughed aloud

  “That narrows the field to only a couple of hundred thousand then.”

  He was still laughing as I drove away.

  Two

  The town center was half a mile further along the road. This early in the year, with spring barely sprung, there were few tourists around and the place had the air of expectancy...just waiting for the tourists...and their money...to bring some bustle. It did mean that I found a parking space with no problem, which was just as well, as I needed three car lengths maneuvering room to park inside the narrow bays provided.

  I set off in search of the ‘Auld Kelpie’.

  It wasn’t hard to find. It sat on a jetty down the south side of the old harbor, wedged in between a fish restaurant and a craft shop. Its frontage was that of an ancient black and white building that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a traditional English village, but which seemed oddly incongruous in the Scottish Highlands. Its austerity was especially highlighted as it sat amongst a row of cottages painted in violent pinks, yellows and blues, as if a child had been let loose with a paint pot.

  The pub had leaded windows, the glass so thick and warped it would have been impossible to see in, even if there hadn’t been centuries of accumulated grime. I was surprised when I pushed the door and found it locked. I peered through the clearest pane of glass I could find, but the lights were off. I knocked, on the door, then on the window, which was usually enough to get someone’s attention in a pub, but no one came, and the door stayed locked.

  I checked my watch...it was just after three o’clock. By the side of the oak door I finally discovered a small glass panel with a piece of paper inside that told me ‘winter’ opening hours were 12:00 to 3:00 and 5:30 to 11:00. Even then, I was only a couple of minutes late. I would have expected some allowance for drinking up time...even out here in Jim Morton’s ‘fucking countryside’. I was beginning to share his sentiments.

  Above the door, the old pub sign swung in the breeze, the creaking following me like laughter back along the harbor where I found a public phone box, and rang my cellular number. Doug answered on the second ring.

  “You left it in your drawer,” he said reproachfully.

  In truth I was just glad it was Doug that answered...the phone could have been anywhere. I’d started carrying one not long after the Amulet case, mainly so that Doug could keep in touch with me when he needed to talk, but it had the same magic as elusive packets of cigarettes. It hid from me, at every available opportunity, and after a while I just gave up looking for it. Now that Doug was working in the office, I had even less need for it.

  “Keep your eye on it,” I told him. “And if it tries to escape, shoot it.”

  I told him what was going on, and he told me who I was looking for.

  “The man you’re after is John Mason. Thirty-six years old, and former accountant for Glasgow City Council,” Doug said. “That was until this time last year.”

  “Let me guess,” I said pre-empting him. “He went to Skye and never came back.”

  “Not much of a deduction, Sherlock, his mother told us that.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one. But have you got anything else for me?”

  “Do you need anything else?” he said.

  I thought about that for a bit. I could get him to chase up on Jim Morton’s story for me, but I couldn’t see what good that would do me.

  “Have you still got that check?” I asked

  “Yep. It’s sitting here.”

  Which told me all I needed to know. The old Doug would have had it in the bank by now, with an itemized spreadsheet set up to monitor its spending.

  “You haven’t been out all day,” I said softly. It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t answer for a while.

  “I’ve been busy,” he said petulantly.

  I let it lie. Once I got back to the office I was going to have to do something to get Doug out of himself. But for now, at least I knew he was safe.

  “I’ll try the “Auld Kelpie” again at five-thirty,” I said. “I might even be back late tonight. But don’t wait for me. And lock-up when you go...I’ve got my spare keys with me.”

  Again he was silent for a while, before finally giving me a quiet “Okay”.

  I promised to phone him if anything happened, then I wandered across the Town Square to the bar of ‘The Portree Hotel’. I passed the Land Rover, which looked conspicuous, sitting in a large empty area of tarmac. Back in the city I’d have been nervous about leaving it out in such a public spot, but somehow this place felt ‘safe’. For all I knew there were drug dens and brothels behind every window of the square, but it felt like a bygone world. It was like a costume drama, one where people left their doors unlocked, where neighbors looked out for each other, and where policeman were still allowed to administer their own punishment on recalcitrant youth.

  The bar of the Portree Hotel reinforced my sense of ‘elsewhere’.

  In cities you have young persons bars, business men’s’ bars, working men’s’ bars, gay bars, each with their own clientele, each nicely segregated. But in a small town there wasn’t room for that. In bars on the islands the rich and poor, laborer and landowner, elderly and youthful, all rubbed shoulders together.

  Even at three-thirty on a spring afternoon the place was more than half-full. A huddle of old men surrounded an open fire, although they produced more smoke than it did. Nearer the bar five youths, scarcely old enough to be out of school, were laying attack to a fruit machine, excited that it had given them a payout that was in all likelihood a tenth of what they’d put in. Three middle-aged women sat at a table surrounded by plastic shopping bags, smoking menthol cigarettes and throwing vodka down their throats as if they were in a rush. A very old man sat at a corner table, a half-pint of beer and a whisky in front of him. He was fast asleep, and at his feet his equally old dog lifted its head, looked at me, and went back to rooting for fleas.

  Jim Morton was in the far corner, working a table of what looked to be fishermen if their ruddy, weather-beaten skin and waterproof clothes were anything to go by. He gave me a wave as I went to the bar, and I waved back, trying to indicate that he was a passing acquaintance, that I recognized him, and that I wasn’t interested in talking to him.

  The barman noticed though.

  “Do you know him?” he asked as he poured me a beer. “The fella from the papers?”

  “No. I never met him before today. I gave him a lift this morning,” I said. “His motor broke down.”

  “Might have been better if you left him by the side of the road,” he said. “His language even shocked the fishing crews.”

  I grunted, and took the beer. If Jim started making a scene it would be better for me to fade into the background and not draw any undue attention. I took myself off to a quiet corner, disengaged my brain, and watched the world go by.

  If you ever want to observe human behavior, you can do worse than choose a busy bar as your vantage point. Over the next hour I sipped of my beer while the room filled, emptied and filled again as the bar did its job; relieved some people of their money; made some people happy, made some people sad.

  One of the three middle-aged women got weepy, and the other two consoled her by pouring yet more vodka into her. Then the weepy one went to retouch her makeup, and the other two started helping themselves to the contents of one of her shopping bags.

  The old men turned out to be studying racing form in a variety of newspapers. Every twenty minutes they’d leave the bar then return ten minutes later, some happy, some downcast. I guessed the bookmaker’s was nearby.

  The youths at the fruit machine won the jackpot, then spent ten minutes reloading it all back into the money eater.

&
nbsp; The old sleeping man shook himself awake, downed the beer and whisky quickly and left, but the dog stayed.

  After an hour or so a group of businessmen come in, obviously having already had a hearty lunch, and their loud irritating, conversation drove me out of my corner and back to the bar.

  “Another?” the barman asked. And I declined, feeling childishly proud of myself. I might be driving again soon...a long chance I knew, but one I needed to be prepared for.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m meeting somebody in the Auld Kelpie.”

  He gave me a strange look, and was about to say something, then thought better of it. The special little buzz I got when I was onto something swung into action, and I changed my mind about that other beer.

  “So what’s the Kelpie like? This is my first time in town.”

  The barman leaned over to give me the beer.

  “Let’s just say it’s a local’s bar,” he said. “Not like this place. The tourists come here. The Portree originals go there.”

  “And never the twain shall meet, eh?” I said.

  “Something like that. I hope you’ve got a thick skin...for you’ll not be made welcome.”

  “Is it because I’m a tourist? I heard they had a Glasgow man working there. John Mason? You must know him.”

  The barman’s face went white, and he suddenly had an urge to polish the beer taps...a job that slowly took him away from me. He was terrified...and so was I. When someone takes on that look, I know a case has just gone somewhere I don’t want to follow.

  “Best just to have a few more beers here, sir,” he said, “You’ll have a better time all round.” He moved off, obviously grateful that one of the young lads needed serving down the other end of the bar.

  I took my new beer off to the corner again.

  Jim Morton was still working the fishermen, but from the stony expressions of their faces I didn’t think he was getting anywhere. I had a feeling that my hopes of an early resolution to the case were fading fast and it looked increasingly like I had a long night ahead of me.

  I finished the beer too quickly...I knew the signs. If I had any more I’d be unlikely to stop before I passed out, or someone hit me. I needed food...something to soak up the beer. Luckily most towns in Scotland have the perfect answer for that...a fish and chip shop.