The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  An image of his older brother, taken only days before he disappeared, flashed into his mind. The little boy with the dark hair and rosy cheeks was holding the model train he had just received as a Christmas present up to the camera. There he was again, frozen in time and into Bruce’s heart.

  ‘Oh damn!’ shouted Veronica More, as she watched the large plastic milk container burst on the stone floor of the kitchen. ‘Honestly, I’m so clumsy.’

  ‘You can say that again, dear. I’ll get the mop and clean it up, don’t worry.’

  ‘You’re a darling. Listen that’s all the milk we had. I’ll take a walk along to the shop and get more. What with this snow and all, sure we better stock up in case we get cut off from Kinloch.’

  ‘Wouldn’t worry too much, dear. With all the dairy farms around here, I don’t think we’ll run out of milk too readily.’

  ‘Ah, but pasteurised is best now,’ she replied, smiling back at her husband.

  She quickly put on her walking boots and got ready to leave, just as her husband emerged with a mop and bucket.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to go?’

  ‘What, and stay here and mop the floor? No chance,’ she laughed.

  The air was cold and the snow crumpled under her boots as she walked down the path. When she turned to look back at the house, there was no face at the window. Instead of turning left for the village, she followed her husband’s footprints across the field.

  *

  They were waved through the terminal at Machrie Airport; no security checks necessary for these VIP visitors. Outside, a mismatched assortment of local taxis were scattered around the car park, waiting to take the Shannon International party to Kersivay House. The family could have provided a much grander fleet of vehicles for the journey to Blaan but Ailsa had insisted that it was good for public relations to be seen to help local businesses and no one had seen fit to gainsay her.

  Bruce shivered as he walked along the narrow ribbon of cleared pathway towards the nearest vehicle. He had seen a few light dustings of snow here over the years, but when he looked out across the fields towards Kinloch it was clear that this was no mere covering.

  As the driver took his bag, he watched Bergner cross the snowy car park towards him.

  ‘Bruce, it’s good you could make it,’ he said in his singsong Scandinavian accent.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? This is a habit of a bloody lifetime for me, let me assure you. Apart from the unnecessary welcome, what do you want?’

  ‘I know you are aware that there have been slight difficulties in Blaan over the last twenty-four hours – some unpleasantness.’

  ‘Rather more than that, I would have said.’

  ‘Yes. Well, let us not stray into the realm of speculation. As you know, I only like to deal in fact.’

  ‘Really? How refreshing to hear that. When I was reading the last accounts, I could have sworn they were a work of fantasy.’

  ‘Perhaps an inability to grasp a balance sheet correctly,’ replied Bergner with a sneer. ‘If you would like me to have someone with greater understanding go through things with you, please just let me know.’

  ‘If you’ve just come over to take cheap shots, then please fuck off, burger boy.’

  ‘No, what I have to say to you before we get to Blaan is very serious. About your daughter, in fact.’

  Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Well, as far as her physical well-being is concerned, yes. As you are more than aware, her mental state is less so.’

  ‘Be careful, old boy. Don’t cross the line. Not unless you want to celebrate the new year in Kinloch hospital, that is.’

  ‘I am only talking to you out of concern for the girl. I am informed that the events of the last few hours have disturbed her greatly. Remember, she is as aware of what took place here fifty years ago as you are.’

  ‘I don’t need any advice about my own daughter,’ replied Bruce, wondering if now was the right time to tell Bergner about the alleged exploits of his own teenage daughter.

  ‘No, indeed. Though I must tell you that, as a board, we feel it would be better if you took her back to London. This AGM promises to be the most important in the history of the company. We cannot be distracted by Nadia’s histrionics.’

  ‘You mean that’s what you and my cousin Maxwell think,’ said Bruce, his breath billowing in the cold air. ‘Nadia is a shareholder in Shannon International – a Shannon herself. As far as I’m concerned, she has more right to attend the AGM than you. Now fuck off.’

  Bruce cursed as he settled himself into the back seat of the taxi. Why was he so stubborn? He’d just spurned a free pass out of this awful place. Then he remembered: he had things to do at Kersivay House – important things. This would be the most important meeting in the history of the company. But not in the way that arsehole Burger thought. He smiled to himself as the taxi pulled slowly away.

  The tracks stopped by the burn at the end of the low field. Veronica scanned the scene before her but all she could see was virgin snow.

  Where did you go? she asked herself. She felt her chest tighten. Why am I so worried? What can I possibly think my husband has been doing? ‘Stop being so stupid,’ she whispered to herself, then walked back in the direction of the village to buy milk.

  11

  Snow was now falling heavily in Kinloch. Daley watched it pile up on Main Street, where a crowd of people had gathered. In most places he’d been, people cursed this weather; not so in Kinloch. Because of the Atlantic Drift from the warm waters of the Gulf Stream, snow was a rare commodity in this part of Scotland. The town’s populace revelled in it.

  The lights in the office dimmed for a split second before returning to normal. The door of his glass box burst open, revealing Superintendent Symington, brushing snow from her thick uniform jacket.

  ‘Good morning, DCI Daley. If this continues, it will complicate things tremendously.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. If there’s one thing we’re not set up for here, it’s the white stuff. I can give you an update on things if you’d like.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m here. I’ve decided to stay on for a couple of days. Until we get this Shannon International meeting over with, at any rate. You’ll still be in charge of enquiries, of course.’

  Daley smiled as he offered her a seat. ‘Not a problem, ma’am. Your late predecessor was a great man for taking an overview, but never missed a chance to grab the helm when he thought things were favourable enough.’

  ‘I’m not like that, I assure you,’ she replied. ‘You didn’t like him, did you?’

  ‘Honestly? No, I didn’t like him at all.’

  ‘Yet – I’ve read the files – you and he worked together for years, in one way or another.’

  ‘Well, in my case, familiarity definitely led to contempt.’ Daley opened up an image on his computer, leaving the conversation about John Donald behind. ‘This is the journalist accompanying our dead photographer, Brockie,’ he said, turning the screen to face his superior. A dark-haired man in his late thirties stared back at them. ‘He started off in a regional paper in Aberdeenshire then did a bit of radio. Moved to the tabloids five years ago; after that, freelance. Our rural patrol found their vehicle parked at the side of the road just outside Blaan. Nothing much to report about it, other than it was located just across the field from where our skeleton was discovered.’

  ‘How could they know about that?’

  ‘The way this force is now, ma’am, every bugger and their friend seem to be leaking stuff to the press. I’d rather find the whereabouts of this Grant guy than worry about who’s telling what to whom. That’s the job of the top brass. I’m just concerned about criminals out of uniform. I’ve had enough of the other kind.’

  ‘Point taken, DCI Daley.’

  ‘In addition to this, there were a number of break-ins last night in and around Kinloch.’

  ‘Not unusual these days.’

  ‘It is
here, ma’am. Everyone knows everybody else. Miscreants soon discover the error of their ways – real community policing in action.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she said, looking doubtfully at Daley. ‘So, any theories about any of this?’

  ‘As far as Grant and Brockie are concerned, not really. We have teams of officers out looking. The snow isn’t making life easier on that front. I’ll need to draw down more manpower from division, ma’am.’

  ‘OK, I’ll deal with that. And the break-ins?’

  ‘Nothing solid, but I’ll let you know. I think we’ll have to be very careful with our friends at Kersivay House, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I have a detachment of the Support Unit on their way. They’ll take over duties guarding the house and free up your personnel. The Shannons have friends in high places.’

  ‘I’ve no doubts about that. It’s their enemies I’m worried about.’

  Moments after Daley spoke, the lights in Kinloch Police Office flickered and went out. After a few seconds power was restored, but this time from the station’s emergency generators.

  Daley called the emergency number he had for the electricity supplier. It soon became clear that the whole of south Kintyre was without power.

  Scott shivered as he left the County Hotel. He’d had a shower and change of clothes and felt more like himself. The cellar man had been cleaning the hotel’s beer lines, filling the lobby with the glorious smell of alcohol, making his longing for a drink even more acute.

  He remembered the young boy from the night before; he had been so real, so terrifying. Surely, if everyone knew the real dangers of boozing, no one would drink at all. The very thought of it, though, seduced him like an old lover. The calming, cosseting effect of a drink was a hard one to replace. He sighed.

  Across the road, he noticed the lights in a shop flicker out. As he looked down Main Street he saw that every emporium was now in darkness.

  ‘That’ll be the power off, sergeant,’ said a burly local in a boiler suit. ‘The last time we had a bad snow like this it was oot for near two weeks. The toon was fair starving.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure you all got by.’

  ‘You would be surprised. They had tae put big vans oot in the street. You know, serving pie an’ beans and the like. Hoor o’ a cauld it was.’

  ‘Did they run oot o’ drink?’

  ‘Well, things were bad, but that would have jeest been tragic. See ye later.’ The man plodded on through the snow.

  ‘Aye, tragic right enough,’ said Scott.

  He heard his name and turned around. Annie was standing in the doorway of the hotel.

  ‘Brian! Can I have a wee word wae you?’

  ‘Aye, what is it, dear,’ he replied, trudging back on the snowy pavement.

  ‘I’ve jeest had a message fae my cousin Jessie. She runs the Black Wherry in Blaan.’

  ‘Och aye, that wee hotel. I passed it this morning on the way back tae the toon.’

  ‘Aye, well, she’s jeest had a message fae Blaan Taxis. They canna get up Durie Hill cos o’ the snow.’

  ‘Ach, tell them tae send another taxi tae tow it up.’

  ‘Noo, that’s no’ as easy as you’d think, seein’ as there only is the one Blaan taxi. I think Big Johnnie calls it Blaan Taxis tae sound mair important. You know fine how conceited folk can be.’ She stopped as the phone rang in her pocket. ‘Hello, County Hotel, the general manager speaking,’ she said, in affected tones.

  ‘What were you sayin’ aboot conceited?’

  She waved her hand to shut him up, listened for a few minutes, then ended the call. ‘That was her again. There’s no way anyone’s getting up that hill until the snowplough’s been through.’

  ‘I wish them luck, but I’ve got mair things on my mind today, Annie.’

  ‘Oh, I daresay. But you know they Shannons, they’ll no’ take too kindly aboot being stuck in the snow.’

  ‘Sir, I have Constable Pollock on the phone from Blaan,’ said Sergeant Shaw, speaking on Daley’s internal line.

  ‘Oh, if it’s about the road, tell him that DS Scott has just told me,’ replied Daley, watching Scott, wet with melted snow, drying his hair with a towel.

  ‘No, sir. I think it’s something else. He sounds quite shaken up to be honest.’

  Daley asked Shaw to put the call through; presently he heard the wind gusting on the other end of the line.

  ‘Willie, it’s Jim Daley, what’s up?’

  ‘You better get here as quickly as possible, sir. I think I’ve found our missing journalist and it’s not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Dead, I take it, Willie?’

  ‘Oh, aye, sir. As dead as dead can be.’

  Bruce pulled himself out of the taxi and looked up the steep hill. His car was in the middle of the convoy heading for Kersivay House. Near the prow of the hill, he could see a taxi sloughed sideways in the road, a number of individuals trying to push the vehicle back out of a drift. They were having little luck, by the look of things, as plumes of freezing breath faded into the grey sky.

  He looked back down the hill to the flat plain beyond. To his left, the grey sea was dull beneath a sky hanging heavy with snow. To his right, darker clouds were unburdening themselves over Kinloch.

  He thought of his daughter; beautiful, but so sad, so vulnerable. He remembered her screams when she was a child. The doctors had assured him that she was merely troubled by nightmares, which would pass. They rolled out the old maxims: don’t let her eat cheese before bed; don’t tell her scary stories, or let her watch anything that may unsettle her on television; don’t let her have sugary drinks, or anything containing caffeine.

  They had been wrong. He knew it when he watched her stare blankly into space, fully awake, then start screaming at the top of her voice – this was no nightmare. In her hysteria, she scratched his face and bit her tongue. Slowly, as he held her, she would begin to calm, sobbing quietly into his shoulder.

  Eventually she had been diagnosed with frontal lobe disorder, a disorder of the brain that caused hallucinations. These visions were often dark, violent and terrifying, but seemed mercifully short in their duration. Drugs and counselling had helped; but every time that look of terror passed across the face of his little girl, his heart broke.

  Then, when she was eight, her mother, his wife, died.

  Some people said it was as a result of a broken heart; others that the stress of seeing a child so afflicted by this vile condition was too much for her to take and she had just lost the will to live.

  The Shannon PR machine had roared into action, ensuring that the press, or anyone outside the family, would never know that the cause of Hermione Shannon’s death had been a pint of vodka and two bottles of sleeping pills.

  He cursed himself for his inability to cope. In the main, unable to handle his feelings and her condition, he had left the upbringing of his troubled daughter to her nanny and his mother. In effect, his little girl had lost two parents: her mother to the embrace of death; her father to women, booze, designer drugs and parties.

  He felt the shame and guilt wash over him. He had failed his daughter, his mother and his dead father.

  It was time for redemption. It was time for Bruce to put things right.

  12

  Daley had to think quickly. There had been another murder in Blaan, but with the road blocked by snow he faced the problem of how to get to the locus of the death as quickly as possible.

  A snowplough had been despatched to Durie Hill, followed by DS Scott in a Land Rover to ease the passage of the Shannon party once the road was clear. After the events of the last few hours, it was clear that Blaan had become an increasingly dangerous place to be. Scott and two constables were to be responsible for the Shannons’ safety until the party reached the relative sanctuary of Kersivay House.

  Daley tried in vain to conjure up the police helicopter before being forced to consider another option. He called James Newell, who told him that he would be glad
to take investigating officers round Paterson’s Point by sea in his large RIB, currently the only way to get to Blaan.

  Daley walked out into the busy CID office. ‘Who can be spared from the Brockie murder team?’ He was surprised to hear a familiar voice reply.

  ‘Me, sir. I’ve been checking Brockie’s personal records. I’m stuck until the phone company get back to us,’ said DC Dunn.

  ‘Yes, well, OK, then,’ replied Daley. ‘We’ll have to take Newell’s RIB to the locus.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. It’s snowing, but I think the sea’s quite calm. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I don’t expect to have to fight for my life every time I go out in a boat.’

  ‘OK, point taken. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’ Daley returned to his glass box where Symington was still seated, reading a file about the murdered photographer on a laptop.

  ‘Do you think that’s wise, DCI Daley?’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, is what wise?’ Daley was searching his desk for his mobile phone.

  ‘I know you saved DC Dunn’s life during a previous sea journey.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, the prospect of going back out doesn’t seem to worry her.’

  ‘I also know about your relationship with her.’

  Daley stopped what he was doing. ‘Ma’am, I don’t know what you’ve read or been told about that. Our “relationship”, as you call it, has been over for some time. As you know, I’m back with my wife and working my notice.’

  ‘In other words, butt out.’

  ‘In other words, yes.’

  ‘I’d like to come too.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Don’t worry DCI Daley, I’m not going to tread on your toes. I want to be at Kersivay House. I can see we’re going to be in for a difficult time.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And we all have our orders,’ she said, without further explanation.

  Though the convoy of taxis carrying the Shannon International party was only five miles out of Kinloch, it took the police officers in their Land Rover almost an hour to reach Durie Hill, following the large yellow snowplough as it worked its way through the drifting snow.