The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  As he drove out of Kinloch and took the road to Blaan, Crichton’s words reverberated in his head again.

  ‘I hate to tell you, but before these things get better, they can often get worse. So, if the hallucinations become more real, or you start to feel more anxious, my advice is to visit your GP, regardless of the consequences. Fingers crossed you’ll be fine, though,’ he said, ending his dire warning on a bright note.

  ‘Aye, fine. Nae bother tae me, Andy,’ Scott said under his breath, keeping his eyes on the road as the snow became heavier. ‘Here’s me off tae stare at another poor deid bastard.’

  The pub in Notting Hill Gate was busy with revellers who had just about got over Christmas and were now getting warmed up for New Year’s Eve.

  Amidst the smart suits and party frocks, the laughter, song and high spirits, sat a man at a table on his own, swilling the last drops of an expensive whisky in a small glass. He checked the time on his watch then sighed, looking up towards the side door of the hostelry.

  He felt the phone vibrate in the pocket of his jacket.

  Dad, please call me – something has happened. We need to talk!

  He put the phone back, shaking his head. ‘Not now, darling,’ he said beneath his breath, lifting his glass towards the barman who acknowledged his request for another drink with a smile and nod.

  As he scanned the room once more, he marvelled at how sophisticated young women looked these days compared to his youth in the eighties. They even appeared to be physically different; tall, thin and elegant, not the bustling girls with the big hair he had been used to then. Maybe it was just his age and the realisation that he could no longer turn the heads of beautiful young women – unless they knew how much money he had, that was. He was entering middle age kicking, screaming and hating every minute of it.

  He was momentarily mesmerised by the shapely behind of a dark-haired beauty as she bent forwards to pick up the bag at her feet, but his thoughts soon reverted back to the real reason he was here: the meeting with the man who could change his life.

  He gave the barman another twenty-pound note and told him to keep the change. Just as he was taking his first sip of Springbank malt whisky, the face he had been looking for appeared through the huddle of drinkers.

  ‘Where have you been, you bugger?’ he said, standing to greet his visitor, raising his voice in order to be heard over the din of the pub.

  ‘Traffic in this city,’ replied the newcomer. ‘Makes Boston look like a village. So this is your favourite watering hole? Nice,’ he said, looking around the crowded bar and smiling at the dark-haired girl, who smiled back magnificently, showing a full set of snow-white teeth and fetching dimples.

  That was the trouble with being an aging womaniser, thought Bruce. Eventually the day comes when the come-to-bed eyes flutter at someone else. In this case, that someone else was Trenton Casely.

  ‘Time for that later, Trenton, baby. I want to know how much money you’re going to make me, first.’

  ‘Well, as to that, it all depends how much Shannon International holdings you can get me, buddy.’

  ‘Oh, I think it’s fair to say that we’ll be looking at a controlling share.’

  ‘You’re talking fifty-one per cent?’

  ‘Got it in one, Trent. As long as you keep to your side of the bargain with my cousin, we’re home and dry.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I wanted to meet you tonight in person, Bruce,’ said Casely. ‘I want you to realise that once this ball starts rolling and we put in place what we’ve discussed, there is no way back.’ He lowered his voice, moving closer to Bruce. ‘This thing happens, or we stop happening – do you get me?’ He paused for a heartbeat, looking straight into Shannon’s eyes as he nodded in agreement. ‘Good – good. Just let me make a call, OK?’

  ‘Be my guest. In the meantime I’ll get us a couple of bottles of champagne and we’ll see if we can’t catch a few of the pretty fish in this little pool.’

  ‘That would be a most welcome diversion,’ replied Casely, eyeing the dark-haired girl again. I’m sure the champagne corks will be popping in New York too, once I’ve passed on the news.’

  Bruce watched him weave his way back towards the door, making time to brush against the girl, who beamed at him.

  ‘Prick,’ muttered Bruce. Go on, you get the girl, he thought. Perform all the bedroom gymnastics you desire – been there, done that, many, many times, my friend. Just make sure you can deliver on your side of the bargain.

  Bruce sat back in his chair and signalled to the barman again. Soon he would be a billionaire in his own right. He could do as he pleased and not have to listen to his patronising cousin, or hang on the petticoat tails of his overbearing mother. And he would never have to visit that bloody house on the cliff again.

  ‘Yeah, shag that bint to your heart’s content, Trent, my boy. See if I give a toss,’ he whispered to himself, then let more of the fine malt whisky do its job.

  7

  ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am,’ Scott said hesitantly, as he shook the hand of his new superior.

  ‘You too, DS Scott. As I said to DCI Daley, I feel as though I know you already.’

  ‘Eh, aye, well, it doesnae dae to be putting too much faith in they files, ma’am. A lot of that stuff was written by your predecessor, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘We’ll draw a line under that, shall we,’ replied Symington with a weak smile.

  Daley was busy directing uniformed cops as they sealed the roadway on either side of the corpse, now being lifted into the back of a private ambulance by the forensic team. Snow already covered the scene, cloaking the officers and road alike as they worked in the beams of police car headlights.

  ‘This is all we need,’ muttered Scott, as he brushed more snow from the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I’ve never seen snow here before.’

  ‘Really?’ remarked Symington. ‘I thought Scotland was snow central – well, as far as the UK is concerned.’

  ‘No’ here, apparently. Something tae dae with the Gulf Stream and it being a peninsula, ma’am.’

  ‘Quite the meteorologist!’

  ‘No, not me, ma’am,’ said Scott, looking heavenward. ‘Cannae say I know much about they meteors an’ asteroids an’ that.’

  ‘No, meteorologist, as in the weather,’ she replied. She was about to expand upon this when Daley reappeared in a flurry of snow.

  ‘That’s everything secured and the remains in the SOCO ambulance, ma’am. I’ve detailed three constables to stay here. Two of them will draw firearms from Kinloch. We’ll have our rural boys patrol the village tonight until we can get something more substantial organised tomorrow. I’ll need to call on reinforcements from division, ma’am.’

  ‘Quite the baptism of fire for me,’ observed Symington, raising her brow. ‘Two bodies in one night. I have to say, I didn’t expect this.’

  ‘At least I’m no’ on a boat,’ said Scott.

  ‘I agree with the steps you’ve taken, DCI Daley, but I’d like someone with a bit of clout up at the house tonight. You’ll have your hands full getting things moving at the office.’ She looked at Scott. ‘I want you to stay at Kersivay House tonight, DS Scott. Everything has to be kid gloves as far as this is concerned. I’ve already had the ACC on the phone.’

  ‘Like you said ma’am, where there’s wealth, there are any number of potential problems,’ said Daley.

  ‘Yes, though I hadn’t envisaged anything of this magnitude.’

  ‘Don’t let anything surprise you doon here, ma’am,’ said Scott. ‘Fortunately, I never got the chance tae take my case oot the back o’ the car in Kinloch, so I’m good tae go.’

  ‘Good. I’ll get back up there and tell the Shannons what’s been going on. You come with me, DS Scott. I’ll see you back in Kinloch, DCI Daley.’

  ‘No’ another pompous bastard,’ said Scott as he watched her walking towards her car.

  ‘Don’t think so, Bri,’ replied Daley. ‘She’s got
something about her.’

  ‘Aye, a crown on her shoulder and a gold band on her bunnet. That place up on the hill gies me the creeps. I wisnae fixing on spending the night there wae the Addams family!’

  ‘All part of life’s rich tapestry, Brian. I’d better go and get things moving down the road.’

  Scott watched Daley walk away into the snow and shivered. Right now, he thought, I would give my left bollock for a dram. He sighed and followed his new superintendent.

  Veronica More woke with a start, her chest tight with anxiety from the nightmare.

  Her husband wasn’t in their bed, so she squinted at the bedside alarm clock, which read 03:22 in bold red letters. She stretched and decided that she needed a cup of chamomile tea to calm her nerves – not that the nightmare was new to her. She had the same one almost every night.

  She slid out of bed and wriggled her feet into her slippers, wondering where her husband was. Probably in his study, she reasoned, working on his Hogmanay sermon, or writing his book about the history of Blaan – his pet project. He was a night owl, so his not being in bed at this time was not unusual.

  As she padded down the stairs she noticed light escaping from under the door of the study. She was about to go in and ask Iggy if he would like a cup of tea when she heard him speaking in low tones, his familiar voice deep and resonant. She stood for a moment, listening, then walked into the kitchen, a frown on her face.

  When she returned to bed, despite the chamomile tea, she couldn’t get back to sleep. Veronica tugged at the little crucifix at her neck and stared into the darkness.

  Maxwell Shannon was dressed in a casual suit with an open-necked shirt. He had a floppy quiff of flaxen hair that, though he was now in his mid forties, made him seem younger – and a patronising attitude that belonged in another century.

  ‘I have two points to make, Sergeant Scott. Firstly, I should have been informed of this bloody skeleton’s appearance before my elderly aunt. Secondly, though I welcome the presence of your men in and around the grounds of the house, there is no need for you to spend the night on the premises. We have very able security people here with us. Isn’t that right, Neville?’ he said, nodding to a large man sitting in the chair behind him.

  ‘That is absolutely correct, sir,’ replied the man in a distinct Cockney accent. ‘There is no chance of anyone getting near Mr Shannon or the rest of the family, I can assure you, sergeant.’

  Scott hesitated for a moment, contemplating calling Daley and letting him know that the Shannon family had brought its own muscle, but decided against it at the last moment.

  ‘I have my orders, Mr Shannon. So, if you don’t mind, I’d just as rather you find me somewhere to lay my head,’ he said looking around the large ballroom they were in. ‘In a place this size, there cannae be a lack o’ space.’

  ‘It would surprise you, sergeant. There are a lot of people here for the meeting already, who all have to be catered for. However, I suppose it’s too late to change your orders at this time of night.’ He turned to the burly man behind him. ‘Neville, take the detective here to Percy, tell him he needs a corner for the night.’

  As Scott followed the large man from the room, Shannon called back to him. ‘You didn’t tell me why I wasn’t informed about the discovery of these remains – before my aunt, I mean.’

  Scott stopped and turned around. ‘I wasn’t here, sir. But it seems tae me – if I understand things correctly – this incident may have a connection to Mrs Shannon’s son who disappeared fifty years ago. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I would hope that answers your question, sir.’ Without another word, Scott turned on his heel.

  Daley looked out from his glass box within the CID suite at Kinloch Police Office.

  One search on the web had produced all he could ever want to know about the Shannons and their business. From humble beginnings in Blaan to the largest private company on the planet, it was a tale of success piled upon success.

  He happened upon some old newspaper reports about the abduction of Archie Shannon in the sixties. An inset picture showed the young boy with his mother – an attractive woman whom Daley recognised immediately. Ailsa had retained her elegance in old age, but had been a real looker when she was young.

  The story was a tragic one, ending in the death of her husband a few years after the disappearance of her son.

  As he wound his way through the search results he came upon details about the company’s massive mineral contracts in China and Russia. These contracts had insulated the company against the recent global financial meltdown; in fact, they had profited from it, managing to eat up some vulnerable blue chip companies as well as buying up large portions of international banks desperate for cash. All in all, it was a story of unmitigated, almost unprecedented, business success.

  He looked at a picture of Maxwell Shannon, interim boss while his father suffered from crippling ill-health. Even the image of him in the still photograph exuded an arrogant confidence.

  He found little about Ailsa, apart from a cookbook she had written in the seventies, no doubt contrived as a sop to keep her occupied while the Shannon men got down to the real business in hand. For some reason, Daley found this hard to reconcile with the woman he had met. He doubted that it had been easy to keep Ailsa Shannon in a box over the years.

  He looked through the window to the room beyond. The process he’d witnessed too many times was gearing up once more. Up went the clear-boards with photographs of the dead and the places they’d been found; the same spidery writing in red pen clinically labelling these gruesome images; the same buzz as detectives and uniformed cops began to analyse the death of another poor soul.

  For an instant, Daley thought about trying to work out the body count of the dead he’d had to deal with since becoming a policeman, but quickly decided against it. The simple answer was that it was far too many.

  Hopefully – most probably, in fact – this would be his last murder inquiry. And then what? It saddened him that he was worried about leaving this parade of corpses, for want of something else to do. Surely he was worth more than this? Surely he could do something that didn’t involve dealing with the very worst humanity could dish up? The questions echoed in his mind until a knock at his door thrust him back into the present.

  ‘May I come in, sir?’ asked DC Mary Dunn.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he replied, sitting up straighter and pulling in his stomach. Since Liz and James Daley Junior had moved back to Kinloch, his working relationship with his young DC and ex-lover had been strained. He had done his best to be as professional as possible, treating her like any other officer under his command. There was no doubt, however, that losing her from his life had cast a shadow he had not expected. He had been so devoted to Liz, and for so long, that he found the ache of missing another as strange as it was heart-wrenching. Though he was loath to admit it, it was one of the reasons he had refused to reconsider his resignation.

  ‘I know this is a bad time, sir,’ she said, now sitting across the desk from Daley.

  ‘I think you’ll find that when it comes to our job, it’s always a bad time.’ He gave her a neutral smile.

  ‘I need some time off.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Just a couple of days, sir. I know that I have a few left from my allocation.’

  Daley suddenly remembered the trip to Paris with the young doctor she’d been seeing since they split up. He also remembered his insane jealousy and how hard it had been to hide it from Liz.

  ‘It’s not a good time, you know, considering what’s just happened. I have a new boss, I have to keep things straight.’

  ‘I have a hospital appointment,’ she said, staring at him with a detached expression.

  ‘Oh, yes, right. Well, not a problem. When do you want to go?’

  ‘It’s in Glasgow, so if I could have the fifth and sixth off, that should be fine.’

  ‘OK,’ said Daley, making a n
ote of her request. ‘How are you, anyway? I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to . . .’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, as she got up and walked towards the door. ‘How’s James? And Mrs Daley, of course?’ Without waiting for an answer, she left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘This is the only room available,’ said Percy, somewhat petulantly. ‘Just a box room, really, but all we have.’

  ‘Aye, thanks, mate,’ replied Scott, peering into the little room once Percy had switched on the light. ‘Mr Shannon wasn’t keen I was given a room at all.’

  ‘That English bastard! Honestly, I don’t know what’s happened to this family,’ he continued. ‘Bloody dandies and public schoolboys. Nothing like the way things used to be, you know.’

  ‘So you’ve been here for a long time?’

  ‘I’ve devoted my life to this shit,’ spat the old man. ‘No thanks, piss-poor wages, while they get richer and richer. I tell you, I’m not surprised things are coming home to roost.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I say. Poor wee Archie, he was a nice little boy.’

  Scott studied the old man. His face was creased with wrinkles; thin glasses perched on a nose tinged purple, which, along with the smell of fresh whisky, marked out Percy as a heavy drinker.

  Doesnae make you a bad person, thought Scott. ‘What’s the scoop wae the door over there?’ he asked, pointing to the room opposite, which was adorned with a wreath of red roses.

  ‘Ah, that’s the boy’s bedroom. Puts a wreath there every year. She’s kept it the same for fifty years, not moved as much as a lamp. We keep it clean and aired, of course. Bloody shame,’ said Percy. ‘I was fond of him.’

  ‘Would you mind if I had a look? Bearing in mind what’s been going on and all,’ asked Scott.

  ‘Eh, well, I suppose it won’t do any harm. If the bones they’ve found are his, well, things will change.’

  ‘Fifty years is a long time tae be wondering,’ said Scott, as he watched the old caretaker fiddle with a set of keys.