Does Your Mother Know?

by Maureen Jennings

“It is. Sometimes referred to as the Western Isles.”

  I got the tone but ignored it. “Hold on a minute. You’re saying that Joan Morris was in an accident here in Scotland?”

  “Yes, it occurred on Friday night but was not discovered until early this morning.” I heard a beep on his phone that indicated another call had come in. “Excuse me a moment, Ma’am.”

  He put me on hold and I waited, drumming my fingers. The telephone table was underneath the window, and I could see out onto Princes Street, where the double-decker buses were plying up and down and normal people went about their normal business.

  “Back. Sorry about that, we’re awful busy just now.” He didn’t explain why, but he was obviously in a hurry to get off the phone.

  “How did you get my name?”

  “The car was hired and she had left a next-of-kin name and phone number on the waiver. I telephoned and was told you could be reached at the hotel.”

  “So you already know I’m with the Canadian police?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I did know that.”

  But you weren’t going to give me the time of day, were you?

  “Was anybody injured in the accident?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, there was a fatality. The passenger.”

  “Good Lord! What passenger?”

  “The person’s name was Sarah MacDonald.”

  “Who was she?”

  There was another beep.

  “Just a minute.” He put me on hold before I could protest. He was longer this time getting back and my annoyance was mounting. I reached for one of the tourist brochures on the desk to see if there was a map of the Western Isles.

  “Sorry, Ma’am. You were saying?”

  “I asked who was Sarah MacDonald, the woman who was killed.”

  “I don’t know the point of that question, Ma’am.”

  “Surely my point is obvious. Was she a hitchhiker? A Canadian?”

  “Och no, she is a resident of Lewis, Ma’am. Lived here all her life.”

  “And she was a passenger in a car that supposedly my mother was driving?”

  “No supposed about it, Ma’am. We have witnesses who saw Mrs. MacDonald get into the car and Miss Morris was the driver.”

  I took a deep breath. “Are you at liberty to give me more details?”

  More sound of papers shuffling, or maybe he was just turning the pages of the Scotsman.

  “It appears that the driver lost control of the vehicle at a sharp curve in the road and the vehicle went over the side. The passenger was thrown out and killed. The drop is quite steep.”

  “And now Joan Morris has left the scene and you can’t find her?”

  “That is so, Ma’am. Have you been in contact with her?”

  “I didn’t even know she was in Scotland. It’s bizarre.”

  “She did no tell you she was taking a trip?”

  “No.”

  “Would she be visiting relatives or friends here?”

  “No. She has no family that I know of. ”

  He didn’t say anything, but even over the silence I could tell he didn’t believe me. How could anybody not know such basic facts about their own mother? But it was true. Joan had insisted her family was dead, and even though as I grew older I begged her to tell me about her past, she refused. Let sleeping dogs lie with their own bones. Joan had a quaint way of turning a saying, but it was clear what she meant and she had never broken down, even when mired deep in the maudlin molasses of booze.

  “Well, if she does get in touch with you, Ma’am, please have her call me at the number I gave you. Do you still have it written down?”

  “Yes. But Inspector Harris, one question: was there alcohol involved?”

  “We will be getting a report from the coroner, but the two women were together in a local hotel and, according to the bar-keepers, they were both drinking substantially.”

  I wasn’t surprised, of course, but even so, a stab of disappointment hit me in the gut. So much for building bridges.

  “Right! Did you search the area? Perhaps... is it possible she’s injured and unconscious somewhere in the vicinity?”

  “The car came to rest partway down the hill. Mrs. MacDonald was flung out, which was why she died. She wasna wearing a seat belt. Of course, we’ve done a search, but so far there is no sign of a body. We have to assume Miss Morris has gone somewhere under her own steam.”

  “If she does contact me, of course I’ll have her call you. And perhaps likewise you will let me know further developments. I’m here at the conference until Monday.”

  “One of my lads asked about going on that one. I told him there were better ways to spend our money. Higher wages, for instance.” The beep came again and I beat him to it.

  “You have another call.”

  He said goodbye and we hung up. So she had finally done it, the ultimate self-destructive act. She’d come close many times before, but this was without a doubt the worst. The least charge that would be brought against her would be vehicular homicide. Add drunk driving and leaving the scene, and she could be facing some serious incarceration time. For a moment I felt like a kid again, not knowing what to do or how this latest escapade was going to affect my life. I went back to the telephone to call Paula, which is what I always did, but the phone rang first, and I picked up the receiver at once.

  A woman with an English accent said, “May I speak with Miss Christine Morris, please? It’s concerning Mrs. Joan Morris.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Speaking,” I said to the caller. “Miss Morris, my name is Emily Waring. I have a bedand-breakfast establishment here in Portree on the Isle of Skye. One of our guests is Mrs. Joan Morris, who is, I believe, your mother.”

  She had an arch British way of speaking that sounded artificial to my ears, as if it were lately acquired. But then, what did I know? She could be a duchess who found running a B&B more lucrative than keeping up the manor.

  “Yes, Joan Morris is my mother.”

  “I do hope you won’t think my call an impertinence, Miss Morris, but I was rather anxious to speak to her.”

  “Has she left without paying the bill?”

  I was too abrupt.

  “Oh my goodness gracious, no. Nothing like that. She has rented the room until next Saturday and has paid in advance. It’s just that I had asked her if she would move to the room I have at the front of the house, the Rose room. It’s a very nice room but a little smaller. I have guests coming in from America to whom I had promised the Garden room some time ago. I did apprise Mrs. Morris of this fact and she was quite agreeable.”

  “Yes?” I said, wishing the hell she would get on with it.

  “She told me she was going on an excursion and would be back in plenty of time to move her things. However, she has not yet returned. I was frankly becoming a little concerned.”

  “And you do want the Americans to have the room they asked for?”

  Her voice became frosty. “That is only part of my concern, Miss Morris. If one of my guests says she is returning on a certain day and has not done so, I do begin to worry. Your mother is a visitor here. Anything could have happened.”

  And it has.

  “Of course. I appreciate your calling me. How did you get my number, by the way?”

  “I always take the precaution of asking for a next-of-kin reference. I telephoned the number in Canada that Mrs. Morris had given me and they directed me to your hotel.”

  Cindy, our receptionist, was going to be wondering what the hell was happening with all these people trying to reach me.

  “Did Mrs. Morris say where she was going on her excursion, by any chance?”

  “No, she did not. She said there was a possibility she would-n’t return the same day, but gave no indication it would be longer than that. I assumed she was touring.”

  “So she didn’t take any luggage with her?”

  “Well, I noticed she did take an overnight bag, but her large suitcase is here.”r />
  “Mrs. Waring, I should tell you that I have heard from the police, and it seems my mother has been involved in a car accident.”

  I heard her gasp on the other end of the line. “Dearie me. Where did it happen? Is she injured?”

  In the stress of the moment, I thought Mrs. Waring’s posh accent shifted down a little to Coronation Street.

  “The accident occurred on the Isle of Lewis, in the Hebrides. The police don’t know if she was injured, because unfortunately she has disappeared. It’s possible she is in a state of shock.”

  A euphemism for running like a scared fox from the consequences of her action.

  I swallowed a gulp of the Evian water, although I was starting to wish I could down the famous single malt the Scots loved so much.

  “I will have to give the police your address, Mrs. Waring. They might want to come and go through my mother’s luggage.”

  “Gracious me, that’s rather excessive isn’t it?”

  I thought she might as well know now as when the constable showed up. “Apparently, there was a passenger, a local woman. She was thrown from the car and killed. Leaving the scene of an accident when there is a fatality is a criminal offence.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I’m going to give you the telephone number of the inspector in charge of the case. If Mrs. Morris does show up will you call him or persuade her to do so? And I would appreciate it if you would let me know as well.”

  “Yes, of course. You must be positively ill with worry.”

  I didn’t answer. She gave a deprecatory cough. “Miss Morris, may I have your permission to move your mother’s things out of the Garden room and put them into the Rose room?”

  “Of course. And will you give me your telephone number?”

  I didn’t say, “If my mother is dead I’ll have to come and get her luggage,” but the statement hovered in the air like a miasma.

  I wrote down the number and address she gave me and we hung up.

  The management had thoughtfully left several pamphlets on the table for the benefit of the guests. I hadn’t felt much like looking at them earlier, but now I quickly sorted through until I found one that said The Hebrides on it. Good, there was a map nestled in the middle of all the advertisements. On an angled line north from Edinburgh, I located Skye. The town of Portree where Mrs. Waring had her B&B was on the east coast. Continuing in a northerly direction, I found the string of islands labelled Outer Hebrides. Lewis was the northernmost and largest of those islands and the west side, where the accident had occurred, faced the Atlantic.

  Dotted lines indicated you could get from Skye to Lewis by ferry or plane.

  I studied the map. Where was Joan going? Why was she driving on a dangerous, unfamiliar road so late at night?”

  Then I saw it. The Standing Stones of Callanish. A note said the megaliths rivalled the splendour of Stonehenge and were probably built about five thousand years ago. Although nobody knew for certain, it was likely the stones were erected as lunar or solar calendars.

  Well, that went along with psychodrumming and therapies that believed in “energies.” Is that where she was going? Would she be doing it at night? I shrugged to myself. All the better to commune with the spirits — both kinds, knowing Joan. It had been at least a month since I had talked to her. She might have been travelling all around Europe for all I knew, getting good energy from all the stone circles she could visit.

  However, the puzzling thing at the moment was her passenger. Why was this woman with her? Harris said she was a resident of Lewis. Was she a tour guide, or even another psychodrummer showing Joan the way? Poor woman. I’m sure somebody was grieving.

  I dialled Paula’s number. I needed to talk to her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Paula, it’s me.”

  “Chris!! What the hell’s happening? Is Joan in trouble again?”

  “Deep, deep doo-doo.”

  I ran through what I’d learned from Inspector Harris.

  “Are you going to the scene yourself?” she asked.

  “No way. The department paid for this conference, I’m enjoying it, and I don’t feel like bending my life out of shape again because of Joan. I’m sure she’s going to show up at the nearest bar.”

  “Will you be able to concentrate?”

  “Come on, Paula. You know me. Concentration is my middle name.”

  “Oops, sorry I asked.”

  I heard somebody in the background calling Paula’s name.

  “Coming,” she called. “God, Chris, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. We have a planning meeting ten minutes ago. Yet another new piece of software they want us to try.”

  “How’s work?”

  “Okay, good, busy. Everybody’s looking forward to you getting started.”

  I doubted that, but even her saying so gave me a pinch of homesickness. Paula was the one who’d talked me into applying for the job as a criminal profiler at the OPP centre in Orillia. I did get the position, more correctly called a Behavioural Science Analyst, but I’d been there only a week when Jim suggested I attend the Edinburgh conference. Somebody else had been slated to go but had come down with a pregnancy. I was really the only one who could take her place.

  “Say hello to all those eager folks then. Give Big Al a hug. Tell him I’m better.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course. The Scottish air is bracing. Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Chris, don’t bullshit me. How’re you doing?”

  “Better, truly I am. I’m only thinking about Sondra once every hour instead of every two minutes.”

  “Good. There’s been no new news on that front. The press have gone scragging after some other target.” Another call in the background. “Shit. I’ve got to go. Call me immediately with the latest, do you hear?”

  We hung up and I went back to gazing out of the window, which I seemed to be doing a lot lately. The famous castle loomed over the city from its black crags, and even from here I could see it was speckled with tourists. I’d done a quick skim of the guidebook on the flight over, and I knew this castle wasn’t quite as bloodstained as most. Nevertheless, the sombre grey walls and protective battlements were reminders of a much grimmer past, when life was cheap and destiny was determined by the reigning powers. Usually, I find history keeps our petty pace of daily living in perspective, but this afternoon I wasn’t comforted. In spite of my defiant words to Paula, I was a tad preoccupied. Frankly, I didn’t really believe Joan was dead. There had been too many times before when she’d vanished from sight only to surface with a new boyfriend in a new town. When I was quite young, these disappearances threw me into hysteria, although then the absence might last only a night or two. Since we had no family to turn to, I was usually left with a neighbour (resentful/judgemental, kind to me/indifferent to me). By the time I was fifteen, I’d become inured to these separations, and I moved in with Paula’s family, the Jacksons. It was Joan’s turn to have hysterics. She accused Alice Jackson of trying to replace her in my affections. Too late for that. I refused to talk to her or come home, and after weeks of drink-induced maudlin tears, Joan finally gave up and left me in peace. I pretended the Jackson family was my own flesh and blood, and they were generous enough not to make an issue of it.

  As if on cue, a shadow had drifted across the sun and the sky was quickly looking overcast, threatening rain. I went back to the telephone and called Inspector Harris, who answered right away.

  Something of what I was feeling (righteously pissed off) must have come through in my voice, because he wasn’t as supercilious as before. On occasion, it helps to have attitude. I told him about the call from the B&B lady and gave him the address and phone number.

  “As a matter of fact, I was about to telephone you meself. We have found a small suitcase and a handbag that must belong to Miss Morris. Her passport is inside, along with her driver’s licence and Visa card.”

  “Was there any money?”

  “Forty pound
s sterling and some loose change. Some Scottish coins and a Canadian dollar coin.”

  “A loonie.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “That’s what we call them. From the moment they were minted they’ve been called loonies. It’s from the loon on the reverse side. It’s a national bird.”

  “Ay. Well I should say then, we found one loonie in the change purse and the rest were of Scottish denomination, not called anything other than pees.”

  I could tell he was trying to make nice.

  “We missed both the handbag and the suitcase at first because the boot, as we call it, was quite crushed into the back seat. We had a hard time prising it open.”

  “I wanted to ask you something, Inspector. You said the road drops off at the crash site. Is it near the sea? Could she have drowned?”

  A call came through and beeped him, but this time he ignored it.

  “Ay. I’m afraid we canna rule that out. She would have to walk off a wee space, but it isn’t totally out of the question. If that’s the case, given the tide, it will take a while for a body to be delivered up.”

  Another beep summoned him. A busy man indeed.

  I sighed and made my decision. “Inspector Harris, do you have any objection if I come to see you in person?”

  “Och, no. Not at all. You’re in the business as it were, and obviously you know your mother better than we do. You might be able to shed some light on where she’s got to.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “The fastest way is to fly into Stornoway. Unfortunately, there isna a flight now until tomorrow. But one comes over at four o’clock. They’re running planes on Sunday these days, God forbid. Do you want the telephone number for the airport?”

  “That’s okay. I can look it up. You’ve got a call waiting.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t bear the cost of your flight, Miss Morris. It will have to be on your shilling, or should I say, your loonie?” The man was positively morphing into a comedian by the minute. “I can arrange to have somebody pick you up at the airport.”

  “Thanks.”

  After he hung up I phoned the airport and booked on the only flight that left for the island, four-ten the next afternoon.