The Ghost of Helen Addison

by Charles E. McGarry

  In spite of all this auspicious enterprise Bill hinted at his quiet desperation. Somewhere along the way he and his wife had lost sight of the original purpose of their ambitions. He was an old man, for goodness’ sake. His pals had retired a decade ago. Yet here were he and Shona, childless and increasingly disconnected from each other, slaving away. And for what, exactly?

  Leo and Minto’s chat turned to the hotelier’s extensive wine cellar, which he promised his guest a tour of, before they were then interrupted by the influx of the usual evening suspects, two of them, anyway.

  Leo’s antennae detected one was a malt whisky bore and so, in an effort to avoid a conversation about ‘peatiness’, he quickly pretended to study a wall map of the Inner Hebrides while the man deliberated over the top shelf. Once he had been served, Leo attempted to return to his conversation with Minto, but the fellow interrupted with overbearing gregariousness. He introduced himself as Lex Dreghorn with a crushing handgrip, and immediately proceeded to dominate the conversation. He was approximately fifty years old, a handsome man, Leo grudgingly noted, who actually suited his baldness, with tanned, outdoors skin and sparkling blue eyes. He was dressed in a tired-looking pea jacket, and at his side was a bonny Border Collie, perhaps a conversation piece to draw the pretty ladies in. Dreghorn was someone who had cultivated his own self-mythology, readily informing the company that he was ‘easily bored’, or in some way nonconformist, adventurous or ruggedly individualistic. ‘No mortgage, no pension, no health insurance; all I have is the shirt on my back – but that’s the way I like it.’ He was a former Royal Navy sailor, and he told self-glorifying yarns of saloon bar disputes in various ports around the globe in which he was never the instigator, and always the victor.

  Leo guessed that Dreghorn was in fact a rather cynical man, a barfly wearied by the world’s failure to realise his greatness. Occasionally witty, but not as witty as he thought he was. He was indeed a failure, nowadays eking his living out of various illegal and barely legal practices.

  The pretty Polish waitress who had served Leo at dinner walked through the bar to fetch her coat.

  ‘Hey, beautiful!’ called out Dreghorn. ‘When are ye gonnae marry me?’

  The waitress flashed a smile as she walked out, to where a constable was waiting to accompany her to the staff quarters, which lay a couple of hundred yards down an unlit lane.

  ‘Boy, does she love the bold Lex!’ Dreghorn confided conspiratorially in the third person. ‘Well, she’s got to, I suppose.’ He grinned.

  Leo doubted that she did, in fact, have to.

  Dreghorn was accompanied by a local labourer by the name of Robbie McKee, a phlegmatic man aged approximately thirty with a big dome of prematurely receding black hair. He had unshaven, fleshy jowls, a pug nose and an upturned chin. He had hands the size of hams, strong arms and a powerful chest, but a beer gut flopped over his beltless jeans. He wore a faintly medicated air and Leo wondered if he was ninepence short of a shilling, yet there was an anxious edge to him which was a little unsettling. He smelled strongly of testosterone and too many cigarettes. His and Dreghorn’s clothes were soiled from some manual job. McKee had let Dreghorn buy him a pint of heavy, with which he had washed down a pill from a little vial he carried.

  Next to arrive was the type of individual Leo generally detested: a posh Anglicised Scot, who was dressed in trews, a tweed hunting jacket and a canary-yellow flat cap. He removed this last item to reveal thinning blond hair that barely covered his skull, which, like Leo’s, was on the large side. His small grey eyes were rather closely set. His chin and belly had been expanded by too much good wine and rich food, and this, combined with his shortish stature, lent him a portly bearing.

  Leo refused to be cowed by these Crawfords and Torquils from Edinburgh, with their Hooray Henry accents, their unconscious sense of entitlement and their big, tartan-clad arses which had got fat on the back of the Act of Union and the slave trade.

  ‘Hello, Fordyce Greatorix,’ said Posh Boy, offering his hand.

  Fordyce? Bloody hell!

  ‘Leo Moran,’ Leo replied tepidly, performing a perfunctory handshake.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you. Always grand to see a new face up here. Can I get you a dram?’

  Leo, whose glass was empty, was blindsided by the offer, and couldn’t think of a reason to refuse it. ‘That’s most kind. I’ll have a J&B and soda with you, thank you.’

  ‘Two large J&Bs and soda if you please, Bill, and one for yourself, and whatever these chaps are having,’ said Fordyce, with a pleasant smile.

  In fact Fordyce, who was the hotel’s resident bachelor whom DI Lang had mentioned, proved to be a perfect gentleman: beautifully mannered, diffident and happy to take a back seat in the conversation. He enjoyed the company, and was fastidious in making eye contact with all present when he did speak, even the humble yeoman McKee.

  Gosh, he seems a really nice, straightforward bloke, thought Leo guiltily, twenty minutes or so after the man’s arrival. He inwardly chastised himself for his prejudiced initial reaction. You’re the snob, Leo Moran – an inverted one. He tuned back into the conversation, grimacing as he endured Dreghorn’s chat, which had evolved into a particularly boring tale about how he had been ‘the best physical specimen his petty officer had ever seen’. Once he had finished, Leo managed to turn proceedings around to the murder, and subtly enquired as to who, if anyone, the assembled suspected.

  Fordyce was for once eager to speak. ‘Oh, it wouldn’t have been anyone local, old man. Folk round here are decent; fine, fine people. We’re a lovely, peaceful community up here in Loch Dhonn – just ask any of these chaps. No, whoever did this . . . unspeakable thing was an interloper. Some madman who came across our little corner of paradise and shattered it with their wickedness.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ agreed Minto.

  ‘But the police must have their suspects?’ suggested Leo.

  ‘The lassie’s boyfriend is in the jail,’ said Dreghorn, gesturing towards the gantry at a framed photograph of a smiling youth with a buzz cut holding a massive trout.

  ‘He’s not in the jail,’ protested Minto. ‘He was released without charge. He’s staying at his mother’s in Glasgow, attending the police station voluntarily.’

  ‘And it wasn’t Craig,’ interjected Fordyce firmly. ‘That poor young man wouldn’t have harmed a hair on Helen’s head. The stoutest of fellows!’

  ‘Well, the cops must be interviewing him for something,’ remarked Dreghorn, with a sly, suggestive look on his face.

  ‘Is he the only suspect?’ asked Leo, liking Dreghorn less and less as the evening unfolded.

  ‘I heard they paid thon James Millar another visit,’ said Dreghorn.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Leo, feigning ignorance.

  ‘A bloody freak o’ nature, that’s what he is.’

  ‘Lex, I really must protest,’ said Fordyce. ‘James is a rattling good chap, a gentle soul who’s had more to cope with than any man ever ought. He’s not a freak by any stretch of the imagination.’

  ‘What – biding a’ the way up at yon Witch’s Cauldron on his ain like Ben Gunn?’

  ‘It takes all sorts,’ proposed Minto.

  ‘The Witch’s Cauldron?’ enquired Leo.

  ‘It’s a hollow, a natural shelter further up Glen Fallasky,’ explained Fordyce. ‘Poor James is something of a hermit. His wife died tragically some years ago, and he has never been the same. He became more and more withdrawn. He took to camping out in all weathers, in remote places. The laird – Lady Audubon-MacArthur – took pity on him and permitted him to build a blackhouse on her land. James is accomplished at drystane dyking, and he constructed it with his own hands, from local materials. He has lived there ever since, and only ventures down here on occasion, during daylight at any rate. It was he who found poor Helen’s body.’

  ‘And there’s Bosco,’ snorted Dreghorn. ‘If the polis are looking for a prime suspect they’d better start talking to
him.’

  ‘Who’s Bosco?’ asked Leo.

  ‘The Grey Lady’s footman,’ said Minto.

  ‘The Grey Lady?’

  ‘That’s what we call the laird,’ said Dreghorn. ‘Another bloody oddity if ye ask me. Keeps herself to herself, don’t you know, does her ladyship.’

  ‘Now, Lex, that’s not fair, Lady Audubon-MacArthur is a fine woman,’ started Fordyce, but Dreghorn blustered on, ignoring him.

  ‘She owns a’ the land above the clachan, a’ the way to the Fallasky–Oban road. And plenty mair besides. She stays up in the big hoose; ye’ll see the gates on yer way south. She seldom deigns to pay us peasants doon here a visit, is that no’ right, Robbie?’

  The taciturn McKee grunted in vague agreement, then said, ‘They say she’s a spaewife,’ in a strange, guttural voice.

  ‘So, what about this Bosco individual?’

  ‘He’s a Malteser,’ said McKee.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It means he’s from Malta.’ Dreghorn laughed loudly and derisively.

  Leo swallowed his pride along with a gulp of whisky soda, choosing not to correct the error. Despite his buying an unreciprocated round of drinks and his best attempt at the pally Columbo routine, the wiseacre Dreghorn had already chosen to dislike this Glaswegian intruder, concerned that he might in some way pose a threat to his position as local character-in-chief.

  ‘But he doesnae speak a word,’ Dreghorn continued. ‘He’s corned beef, a mute. Aged about forty-five. They say he’s shagging her ladyship.’ Fordyce groaned. ‘A big, strapping heifer he is too . . . could snap a wee lassie like Helen Addison in two.’

  ‘Lex, please!’

  ‘Oh, come on, Fordyce. Don’t say ye havenae wondered. Him being sent away to Glasgow just after Helen was killed. Awfy suspicious, don’t ye think?’

  ‘Lex, you don’t have a shred of evidence against him. Not a shred. This is all conjecture, and I don’t think it’s helping things at all.’

  ‘Ach, a’ I can say is that the next time I see Bosco I’m gonnae hand him a pencil and a piece o’ paper. And if he doesnae start writing, telling me where he was that night, I’ll need to go to work on him wi’ old southpaw,’ announced Dreghorn, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand. ‘And while I’m on the subject, I’ll pay thon Millar a visit too. Find out what he was doing daundering around at that time o’ night.’

  ‘James often goes out walking at night when there’s nobody around,’ said Fordyce.

  ‘Hardly normal behaviour, is it?’

  Eventually the conversation lulled, and the impecunious Dreghorn and McKee, realising that neither Leo nor Fordyce was going to fund their drinking campaign any longer, sloped off home.

  Bill Minto retired to bed, happy to entrust the bar to Leo and Fordyce, both of whom had begun to slur their words. They partook of a couple of whisky macs as a nightcap, and Leo’s final addition to his chitty was for a Montecristo No. 1 which he had liberated from the humidor. The next day he would dimly recall lecturing his new and politely forbearing drinking buddy about the essence of the class system, before Fordyce had bid him goodnight and then stumbled off, pleasantly greeting a suit of armour he had mistaken for a hotel employee before ascending the stairs.

  Leo, who had borrowed Fordyce’s topcoat, smiled to himself, then stepped outside to trim and light his cigar, the cold, misty air suggesting to him how drunk he was. He noticed a squad car parked up ahead, the hunched silhouettes of two coppers inside, sipping from a flask of hot coffee. Leo nodded vaguely in their direction, then walked round the hotel’s gravel apron so that he could get a view of the loch. The waning gibbous moon and a couple of police arc lamps lit his way. The rear of the building faced the loch, the bar’s locked glass doors leading onto a grand terrace with a stone balustrade and high arches of white-painted metal lacework which clung to the hotel’s granite walls. Leo savoured the thick, sweet-flavoured tobacco and decided to stroll down some worn steps to a lawn, which was dotted with classical statues, and then through some trees towards the water, which was still a good few hundred yards away. He paused at a charming Victorian folly which was covered in moss. His smoke had gone out so he relit it, bent down to bury the match in a patch of soil, then straightened up and looked skywards.

  The ghost of Helen Addison sat on the parapet of the folly, her nightdress translucent in the moonlight. She smiled down at him.

  II

  GLASGOW

  4

  THE day after Leo had awoken from his first vision, Stephanie had visited him at home.

  She breezed in gallusly, small but self-assured, glowing with beauty and experience, her chin set at its permanently pugnacious angle. She was wearing a fragrance he had almost certainly never heard of, a stylish faux-fur coat, and new, multi-toned hair. It occurred to Leo that he wasn’t actually sure of her natural colouring.

  ‘How’s the man flu?’

  ‘It was a wretched bout, but the worst of it has passed and I believe I will see out the winter after all. I’m not given to complaining, but I am left with a persistent rasping cough – a consequence of too many cigarettes in my youth – and I am also stricken by a peculiar insomnia which afflicts me towards the end of an illness, despite my fatigue. Only a good deal of alcohol can coax me off to sleep.’

  Stephanie would never tell him, but she always enjoyed Leo’s rich, resonant, educated West of Scotland baritone. While his voice was subtly authoritative, hers was husky and consequently quite sexy.

  ‘Well, after that speech I think you’ll be glad to hear I’ve brought you some medicine.’ She held up a litre bottle of J&B, then tossed it towards Leo, who just managed to clutch it to his breast.

  ‘Thank you. Most kind.’

  She shrugged off her coat and casually cast it onto one of Leo’s sofas, then followed her host into the dining room. She fetched two Waterford crystal tumblers from the sideboard.

  ‘Would you care for some supper?’

  ‘I’ve had my tea, thank you.’

  ‘Do you mind if I . . .’

  ‘Not at all.’

  He sat down at the table to finish his evening meal. She regarded the remains of tinned stew and tinned potatoes on his plate, which was illuminated rather absurdly by candlelight and accompanied by a half-eaten buttered slice of plain bread which sat by itself on a side plate. Her working-class-come-good unrestraint contrasted with this clerkish frugality, the impression of which was accentuated by the meagre coal fire glowing weakly in the grate.

  ‘Why don’t you splash out on some decent grub? The war’s over, didn’t you hear?’

  ‘Oh, believe me, Stephanie, I indulge myself most extravagantly from time to time.’ This was true. Leo’s spells of proletarian puritanism were merely occasional intervals between extended culinary binges, and he favoured acquiescence to the contradictions that nestle within every man’s soul. ‘You must have forgotten that I can be quite the gastronome, quite the bon vivant. Indeed, I recall this dreadful little usurer with whom I was once slightly acquainted. He was one of those vulgar nouveauriche types who measure people’s merit entirely by their income, and he let it be widely known that he was well remunerated by whichever counting house it was that employed him.’

  ‘You’re nouveau-riche yourself,’ observed Stephanie.

  ‘True, but I am not vulgar. Anyway, on one occasion he accused me of being a champagne socialist. I simply agreed with him, replying, “Indeed, why should the Tories get all the champagne?” He was quite dumbfounded. And yet, while I enjoy the finer things in life, I also believe that one must experience the humble, precisely in order to then properly appreciate the sublime. And so, for tonight, this is perfectly adequate, thank you very much. Particularly with a nice bit of piccalilli on the side.’

  Yet it was with feigned relish that he returned to his plate.

  ‘Bugger adequate, live a little,’ said Stephanie, walking towards the kitchen to fetch some ice. ‘You remind me of my late grandfather. You’d make a
good old-school Prod. You’re so puritanical.’

  She retrieved the ice tray from the freezer compartment in Leo’s refrigerator, and stopped to regard the plain white label of the empty tin that was lying on the counter: EEC Surplus. Stewed Beef in Gravy. Use by 09/92.

  ‘Yuck – that stuff’s years out of date!’ she exclaimed, when she returned to the dining room.

  Leo set aside his plate and cutlery with a clatter. ‘Stephanie, one of the few consolations of bachelorhood is that I get to eat precisely what I choose, when I choose. And anyway, I abhor waste while there are people starving in the world. And did you know the US Army estimates that tinned food is good for a hundred years?’

  ‘Why ration yourself, that’s what I say. We could all be dead tomorrow,’ Stephanie replied as she dropped the cubes into the glasses. She poured two shots of the whisky and squirted in some soda water from a siphon. She stood behind Leo and began massaging his shoulders. ‘For example, did you know that fucking is such an invigorating part of life?’

  Leo shrugged off her hands, resenting her teasing him. ‘I can assure you I am quite uninterested in your mad pilgrimage of the flesh,’ he declared, before downing half his Scotch and soda in one gulp.

  ‘It’s a pity you aren’t so temperate when it comes to the sauce.’

  ‘The greater the man, the greater the weakness.’

  ‘What’s so great about being a boozehound?’

  Leo didn’t respond.

  ‘I think you need to get out more. There’s an opening night at GoMA we should go to. It’s this mad minimalist video installation by this über art school grad. There’s a wicked Detroit techno DJ on after.’