The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  Scott watched as other vehicles edged into the side of the road in order to let the large machine past and get on with its job. They sat well back, waiting until things got moving.

  ‘Your man fae the council tells me that once we’re over this hill it should be plain sailing tae Blaan,’ said Scott, shivering in the vehicle alongside three uniformed cops. ‘I want a couple of you tae go up and tell that lot what’s happening.’

  ‘Would it not be better if you went, sergeant?’ asked a fresh-faced constable.

  ‘Aye, it might be, right enough. But mind, I’ve done my fair share o’ standing out in the pissing wet and freezing cold over the years. It’s your turn – get on wae it!’

  He watched as the two cops, clad in thick uniform ski jackets, walked up the hill, slipping and sliding on the snow.

  ‘Here, son,’ he said to the young PC at the wheel of the Land Rover. ‘Dae you want a smoke?’

  ‘Eh, sergeant, smoking is prohibited in all of our vehicles now.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ replied Scott, lighting his cigarette. ‘Let me tell you something, son. See if you want tae survive in this job, learn tae bend the rules once in a while. Otherwise, trust me, you’ll go aff your napper.’ He took a long draw of the cigarette, his remaining guilty pleasure.

  Veronica returned to the manse in Blaan to discover a note from her husband, pinned to the fridge with a magnet.

  Gone out to help clear snow from the church drive. Stay here until I get back. Weather’s looking dreadful.

  She thought for a moment, then trudged out of the kitchen and along the hall, still in her soaking boots. The door to the Reverend More’s study was closed and she was surprised to find, when she turned the handle, that it was locked. She stood at the door for a moment, her head resting against the polished oak. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Suddenly she was falling, dropping through the air as though she had just jumped off a cliff. She slid down the door, barely able to breath. Now on the floor, she curled up into a ball, praying, desperate for the sensation to pass.

  As quickly as it had arrived, it was gone. She uncurled and sat on the floor, her back against the stout door. She held her hand out in front of her face. It trembled uncontrollably.

  She stayed there for a few minutes, breathing deeply, then got to her feet. Instead of making the cup of sweet tea her body yearned for, she changed into another thick jacket and left the manse by the front door.

  ‘Do you mind if I take a wander up and help the lads?’ said the young cop at the wheel of the Land Rover. His nose was curled against the smell of Scott’s cigarette.

  ‘You’re a’ powder puff, these days. See when I was your age, we had tae sit in polis boxes for hours on end wae three other guys smoking their lungs black. Och, you don’t know you’re living, man,’ said Scott, waving his colleague out of the van. He shook his head as he watched him take tentative, faltering steps up the hill towards the jam of vehicles.

  He wound down his window and flicked the butt of his fag out into the snow, watching it glow then fizzle out.

  As he was winding up the window, he felt suddenly breathless. It was as though something heavy had landed on his chest, hindering his breathing. He heard himself wheeze, then tried to cough it away. As he fought to regain his composure, a high-pitched whine modulated in his ears. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest and, despite the chill, felt beads of perspiration on his brow.

  As he struggled for breath, the taxis, yellow snowplough and distant figures on the glistening hill before him seemed to melt away. The world was white and still. He felt loneliness and fear grip his soul. He thrust his head into both hands in an attempt to banish the episode.

  ‘Why are you so sad?’ It was a child’s voice.

  ‘What the . . .’ gasped Scott, turning to look in the back of the vehicle. There, sitting behind him, was a little boy. He looked pale, but his cheeks were rosy, as though from the cold. Scott felt his head swim. He reached for the door handle, desperate to escape.

  ‘My name’s Archie Shannon,’ said the little boy, just as Scott fumbled open the door and fell out onto the soft snow. Only his lack of breath prevented him from screaming. The whining in his head was so loud it was making his eyes water. Scott wasn’t sure if the tears that were freezing on his face were caused by pain or fear.

  Panic was taking hold of him now. He grabbed at his tie, loosening it, trying desperately to breathe. He gulped at the freezing air, but nothing happened. I’m dying. The words echoed around his head.

  Through his pain and terror he heard footsteps coming towards him, getting louder than the whining noise in his head. He wanted to run, to escape. At that moment, even the thought of death seemed better than this hell he was experiencing. He was frozen to this spot – but by fear, not the powdery snow.

  The scene at sea was cold but magnificent. Despite the survival suits they were wearing, the three police officers shivered as the powerful RIB left the loch and entered the sound. Daley watched Mary brace herself in her seat as the vessel’s trim altered. The bow rose into the air and, as they passed the large island at the head of the loch, Newell eased the throttle forwards.

  The sky had the colour and luminosity of pearls as they forged through the slow swell of the sea. To their right, the land lay like a white ribbon; hills, cliffs and promontories softened by the thick carapace of snow. It was a scene he knew well but didn’t recognise. Even the smells and sounds were different: the tang of ocean was there, but somehow diluted. Though the gulls still soared through a pale, seemingly infinite sky, their cries were muted, no longer echoing from the high sea cliffs under their white blanket.

  Daley felt the cold sting at his eyes. Symington looked straight and confident in her yellow survival suit. Her sallow skin reflected the red of her lifejacket as she turned her head to and fro, taking in all before her. Beside her, Mary hunched into her seat. For an instant, he saw vividly a vision of he and Scott making desperate attempts to grab her flailing hand as she disappeared under the tumult at Corryvreckan. Her auburn hair was tied into a ponytail, which swayed in time with the motion of the boat. Daley sighed, remembering her long hair brushing his face as she eased herself onto him when they made love.

  ‘Another fifteen minutes!’ shouted Newell through the vessel’s loud intercom. Daley looked at the sea and sky, at a buoy they were passing, bright red against a white backdrop; at anything, in fact, other than Mary.

  Soon, he recognised the long sweep around Paterson’s point; they were nearing Blaan. Newell slowed the RIB’s progress, the hull easing back into the slick ocean as he turned the vessel towards the white loom of the coast.

  ‘That’s the beach we’re after,’ he called, pointing towards a thin stretch of dull sand and rocky shore.

  Daley squinted into the distance. Already, his senses were pricking; his experience, his feel for the job that had been such a huge part of his life, told him something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

  ‘Sergeant, Sergeant Scott, are you OK?’ He saw the face of the cop who had driven him here. Suddenly he could breathe again, the noise faded and he felt the chill of the snow all around him.

  ‘Aye, aye, son.’ He was gulping down air now. ‘I tried tae get oot o’ the bloody Land Rover and slipped – I’ve winded myself, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re soaking, Sergeant,’ said the constable, brushing snow from his colleague’s jacket. ‘Here, take my hand, we better get you up out of this.’

  Scott felt himself being dragged, unsteadily, to his feet. He was cold and wet, but he was still alive. ‘I’m fine, son. These bloody shoes. Nae use for this weather.’

  ‘There’s a problem up ahead, Sergeant.’

  ‘What kind o’ problem?’

  ‘The snowplough is making good progress and the first taxi is back on the road. We wanted to get the convoy moving but one of the Shannon party is missing.’

  ‘What the fuck dae you mean?’

  �
�Nobody can find him. His wife’s going frantic. He went to help push the cab out of the ditch and he’s vanished.

  ‘Who, who’s vanished?’

  ‘His name is Bergner, I think. He’s some kind of boss. Everything’s quite confused up there, Sergeant.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Scott, already slipping and sliding up the hill. ‘We better find oot what’s going on.’

  13

  Daley paddled, ankle deep, through the freezing water, having jumped from Newell’s RIB. Constable Pollock and another uniformed officer were standing on the beach a few yards from him, their backs turned away from the grisly scene behind them.

  The dead man was in a kneeling position, his arms spread wide, each hand tied to posts driven deep into the sand. Daley walked closer, slowly, narrowing his eyes, trying to take in the bare minimum visual information required in order to make any kind of assessment. The sounds and smells he normally associated with being on or near the sea were obscured by the sickening smell of fresh blood. This stretch of beach, bordered by snow-covered hills and trees, looked like a Christmas card but smelled like a butcher’s shop.

  ‘You don’t want to get too close, sir,’ said Pollock, now at Daley’s side.

  The man’s ribs, cut away from his spine, stuck out behind him like the wings of a bird. Over each shoulder, two dark lumps still oozed dark blood, though most of it had congealed, black in the sand. Daley realised these were the victim’s lungs.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, already recoiling from the sight of this latest horror. He turned. ‘Superintendent Symington, DC Dunn, stay back!’

  ‘Blood-eagled, sir. I’ve read about this in books, I never thought I’d come face to face with anything like it,’ said Pollock. ‘If the sick bastard who did this was being authentic, this poor soul will still have been conscious while it was being done.’

  ‘What? You aren’t serious.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s an old method of execution. Favoured by the Vikings and, some say, the druids. Horrific torture, agony then death, reserved for only their worst enemies.’ Pollock paused for a second. ‘Old Mr McLachlan, who has Leadie Farm over the hill, heard screams. Thought it was one of his cattle in trouble. By the time he got here, this was all there was to be found. The force doctor and SOCO have been informed. I just thought you’d like to be here first.’

  ‘Nobody move.’ The voice was calm and authoritative. ‘I want everyone to look back at their own footsteps before they walk anywhere. The prints of whoever is responsible for this monstrosity must be here on the beach, or in the snow up there,’ said Symington, seemingly unperturbed by the ruined figure in front of them.

  Daley looked back at the corpse. He should have given that order, made sure procedure was being properly adhered to. The dead man’s bloodied hair hung down above the pool of congealed blood, obscuring his features. But he was certain; they had found their missing journalist.

  A neat man of medium height met DS Scott behind the queue of taxis on the snowy hill. Blue exhaust fumes filled the cold air and the metallic rattle of diesel engines jarred.

  ‘Are you in charge?’

  ‘Aye, well, for the time being. Detective Sergeant Scott. I understand one of your party is missing?’

  ‘Yes, our Chief Executive is nowhere to be found. I’m Matthew Lynton, Chief Operating Officer of the company.’

  ‘A lot o’ chiefs where you come fae, Mr Lynton.’

  A tall, attractive woman ran towards them. ‘My husband, I saw him about ten minutes ago. He had to take a call of nature, so went over there,’ she said, pointing to a dry-stone wall at the side of the road.

  She walked through the snow, Scott and Lynton in tow, following a set of footprints Scott assumed were her husband’s. The man had reasonably large feet, so his tread was distinctive and easy to follow.

  The prints ended at the wall. Snow had clearly been disturbed where the missing man had climbed over it in an attempt to gain some privacy to answer his call of nature. Scott stared out at the field beyond; virgin snow, no sign of any footprints leading away from the road and none leading back from the wall to where the taxis were still idling. A fringe of frozen mud snaked down the hill, in the lea of the dyke, unaffected by the drifts. On the hard dirt, there was no chance of finding any footprints.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked the woman, in a foreign accent. ‘Where can he be?’

  Scott turned to the uniformed cop behind him. ‘I want you to go to each car and ask them if they have seen the missing man – sorry, what’s his name?’

  ‘Bergner, Lars Bergner,’ replied Lynton. Despite the situation, he appeared unruffled.

  Most of the Shannon party had retreated to the vehicles, ready to be driven to Blaan, but Scott could see another middle-aged man approaching. He was tall, his brown hair shot with grey. Though his face was lined, he was still handsome, in a lived-in kind of way. Scott recognised the face of someone who, like himself, was no stranger to the joys of alcohol. There was also something strangely familiar about him.

  ‘What’s up, Matthew?’ he asked, putting his arm around Mrs Bergner, who had started to cry.

  ‘Lars has disappeared.’

  ‘Your name is?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Bruce Shannon. If you’re a policeman, you’ll no doubt have made the acquaintance of my cousin, Maxwell, in the last twenty-four hours or so. Lucky you.’

  Scott realised why he found this man so familiar. He bore a striking resemblance to his odious relative, though with a different hair colour and less well-groomed mien – and with softer, more kindly features. He was also a few years his senior, Scott thought.

  ‘First of all, I want tae get these taxis moving, sir. Get you all over tae Blaan before this snow starts again.’ Scott thought for a second. ‘Obviously, I’ll get some men up here as quickly as possible to try and locate the whereabouts of Mr Bergner, but if some of you gentlemen would care tae stay behind and help us in the search, I’ll make sure more suitable clothing is brought for you from Kinloch.’

  Shannon nodded. ‘Yes, count me in. It’s not as though I’ve got anything better to do.’

  ‘I really must get to Kersivay House,’ remarked Lynton. ‘There is so much to do. I really don’t know what’s going to happen if we can’t find Lars. This is unbelievable!’

  Scott looked up at the sky. The clouds were dark, but with a luminous quality that foretold more snow. He took the phone from his pocket and pressed the screen.

  Daley admired the no-nonsense way that Symington had dealt with the horrific scene before them. Overhead, he could see a yellow helicopter circling, looking for a place to land. Finally, help was on the way. Soon SOCO officers would be able to do their job and the ruined corpse of Colin Grant would be afforded some dignity.

  ‘Sir, can I have a word?’ It was DC Dunn, her normally pale features rosy in the cold. ‘I’ve had a message from the station. One of the Shannon party has gone missing.’ She related the details of Lars Bergner’s disappearance to Daley, who listened intently, then let out a long sigh.

  ‘Ma’am. We have another problem.’

  As he told Superintendent Symington of this latest woe, the buzzing from the helicopter grew in volume as it came in to land behind the beach.

  ‘OK, DCI Daley,’ said Symington. ‘You take the chopper back to Kinloch. I’ll liaise with SOCO, then base myself at Kersivay House. I’m going to have to get HQ onto this. What the fuck is going on?’

  Daley looked back at Grant’s body. ‘I wish I knew, ma’am. I think we’ll have to lock the place down once those taxis arrive, until we can try and make some kind of sense of what we’re facing.’ He looked across the small bay. Tiny flakes of snow were starting to fall again, settling in the matted hair of Colin Grant.

  ‘I agree. DC Dunn, you stay with me. The murders and this missing man will be your priority, DCI Daley. I’ll make sure everything at Kersivay House is secured.’

  ‘What about the press, ma’am? They’re on this already because of Brockie and
Grant. When they discover the details of this little horror, things will erupt.

  ‘We’ll just have to worry about that when it happens. To think, I thought coming here from Leeds would be a walk in the park.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ replied Daley. ‘Trust me.’

  Two men in white suits were making their way across the snow and down onto the beach. Daley followed their tracks back up the hill and was soon in the yellow helicopter, being whisked back to Kinloch. Despite the death and horror that was again enveloping him, he thought about Mary, wrapped up against the cold, only feet away from Grant’s mutilated body: beauty side by side with visceral ugliness.

  It was chilling how seemingly tiny choices, decisions taken without a moment’s thought, could shape one’s life, or hasten its end. When Colin Grant embarked upon his trip to spy on the Shannon family, could he have ever imagined that he would lose his life in such pain?

  Daley had seen this all-too often; the sudden, violent termination of existence, springing from the mundane. He had never really been comfortable flying. Large planes were the easiest; smaller aircraft, particularly helicopters made him feel very uneasy.

  Not for the first time, DCI Jim Daley wondered how and when his own end would come.

  The hut, tucked in a cleft in the rolling hills that overlooked Blaan, was small and stank of damp and age. He stared out over the village, towards the cliff from which Kersivay House glared at the ocean beyond.

  Snow covered everything: thorn bushes, fences and walls bore a white coat, softening them, blurring the lines and boundaries of the fields he knew so well. A small burn trickled nearby, following the tilt of the glen down to the sea. He had played here with his brothers, so many years ago. They whittled little boats from pieces of wood and watched to see whose would sink first, the melting spring snow swelling the burn into a torrent of white water.

  But spring was far away today. He decided to make his way back down the path to his cottage in the village before it got any deeper. He was cold, but that cold made him feel alive. His body was beginning to fail now – whose didn’t at nearly eighty-five – but his mind was still sharp. As he took one last look down the glen, on this, the last day of the old year, words formed in his head. The habits of a lifetime spent writing hadn’t disappeared with retirement. Still the prose came, words to make sense of what was before him, the urge to put pen to paper – or in his case, fingers to the stiff keys of the old typewriter that sat in his study at home. For the last eight years he had ignored these mental promptings and tried to settle down to retirement.