The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  She raised her eyebrows and carried on arranging the flowers in the large vase. She’d often noticed her husband’s antipathy towards the Shannon family. He was a kind man who normally saw good in everyone, or at least tried to. His attitude towards the folk who did so much financially to keep the old church going seemed at odds with this. But, she pondered, who really knew anyone, even those closest to them? What fires in the heart were hidden beneath a smile, only hinted at by a chance remark or unguarded expression?

  She studied her husband again. Everyone had fires in their heart.

  Daley drove carefully along the road to Blaan. He had asked the council to try and keep the route clear and was pleased to see a large yellow gritting lorry out spreading salt on the highway, orange lights flashing. Large walls of white snow stood sentry on each side of the road, luminous in the moonlight.

  He and Dunn hadn’t spoken much since leaving Kinloch, just a few comments about the weather and how, for the time being at least, the snow had abated. The clouds had indeed parted, allowing the moon to cast a blue light over the hills, trees and fields of south Kintyre. Here and there, candles flickered in the windows of farmhouse cottages on the way to Blaan. According to the electricity company, there was no chance that the supply would be restored until the next day, and only then if no more snow fell. The whole country had been affected, stretching the emergency services all over Scotland to the limit.

  ‘It’s really beautiful,’ said Mary, looking out on the moonlit scene.

  ‘Yes, it is. Pity we’re up to our ears in blood and gore, as usual.’

  ‘Please don’t resign, Jim. Don’t leave the job . . .’

  ‘Eh, sorry. Wow, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything. I’m sure there’s time for you to reconsider.’

  ‘Yes, there is. But what’s the point?’

  ‘The point is that you’re a good detective and a good man. The police force needs more people like you, not fewer.’ She looked at him and touched his arm. ‘And I’ll miss you.’

  Daley could feel tears welling up in his eyes and he swallowed back the lump in his throat. He’d become used to wondering where his wife was or what she was doing over the years. In the last few months, however, and despite his best efforts, he had found it impossible to get the picture of Mary from his mind. He could feel her, touch her, even smell her, as he remembered their nights making love, the breeze moving the light curtains, wafting the scents of summer into the small bedroom of her cottage. Then, as had happened with his wife, darker visions plagued him. This girl, this beautiful woman, being wholly possessed, consumed, taken by another. Someone else’s hands on her smooth flesh, another tasting the sweetness on her lips as her body arched with pleasure.

  Now, here they were, alone together for the first time in months and she was telling him that she would miss him. This joy he felt was unexpected and bittersweet. ‘And what if I did stay? What then?’

  ‘You’d be doing a job you’re brilliant at, a job that needs to be done.’

  ‘And stopping you from missing me.’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  ‘Listen, Mary, I started thinking about leaving the police when Brian was lying in the hospital at death’s door. What’s happened since has done nothing to change my mind. I’m afraid that making sure that you won’t miss me is not a good enough reason to carry on. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said after a few moments. ‘I’m sorry I said anything.’

  ‘Don’t be like this!’ snapped Daley in frustration. ‘You must know how I feel about you. Surely you realise what it’s like for me.’

  ‘And what do you think it’s like for me? I see you all the time and I know you’ve been with her. I can sometimes even smell her on you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ he replied, realising even as he spoke that he experienced exactly the same feelings in reverse. ‘You see, that’s one of the reasons I need to go.’

  ‘This is all totally fucked up. Do you really believe that I love Angus?’

  ‘Well, I assumed . . .’

  ‘To assume is to make an ass of you and me. That’s what DS Scott says.’

  ‘Oh, I know what DS Scott says.’

  ‘Please, not here, not now, but soon, can we talk? Properly, I mean?’

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ asked Daley, slowing the car. Up ahead, on top of a hill, red and yellow flames stood out in the pale landscape.

  Scott and a string of locals trooped through the snow to the Old Kirk. It stood at the edge of the village, silhouetted against the snow and moonlight and surrounded by dark trees. Scott stared out across the bay; he could just make out the old promontory that thrust into the sea, where once a castle had stood. He had enjoyed talking to Jock about the history of the village; many a battle and much blood had been spilt in and around the fortress. It was being spilt again, thought Scott.

  Despite his age and the conditions underfoot, Jock kept up a smart pace. He was tall and his long legs ate away the yards, leaving Scott breathing heavily.

  ‘You’re fair pecking, Brian,’ said Jock with a chuckle.

  ‘I must admit tae being a wee bit oot of condition. I’m going tae fix it though.’

  ‘I walk three miles every morning and play a round of golf in the afternoon. I’ve been doing it for years; nothing like it for a healthy constitution. Look at that lot,’ he said, jerking his thumb at the group of young men behind. ‘All got great guts and pudding faces. Half of them sit behind desks all week, while the other half lean against a wall watching cattle being milked by a machine. They all guzzle more beer than is good for them and eat like plough horses.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Scott replied. ‘Ever thought of the church as a second career? You’ve got the right voice for it. I can just see you haranguing the odd sinner from the pulpit.’

  ‘Funny you should say that. My late father was a man of the cloth. Och, different days they were, altogether.’

  They walked along the road, a dark ribbon in the snow. All was quiet, save for the chatter behind them and the crunch of their boots on the newly gritted roads.

  ‘Bugger me, but it’s cold,’ declared Scott.

  ‘Och, away with you. Bracing, that’s what it is. A few hymns and a prayer or two will soon warm you up.’

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been in a church.’

  ‘The Lord loves no one more than a sinner that repents.’

  Before long, they spotted candlelight flickering through the arched windows of the church and made their way down the gravel drive and out of the snow.

  Daley had parked the car in a lay-by and was staring up the hill at the fire. He knew that people in this area celebrated the coming of the New Year in many strange ways, many dating back hundreds of years. But there was something about the fire he didn’t like, something that set his instincts on edge.

  ‘How far away do you think that is?’ he asked Dunn.

  ‘I don’t know. A couple of miles or so, maybe a bit more? You’re surely not thinking of hiking up there to investigate?’

  ‘No, I’m not that keen,’ he laughed. ‘We’d get lost in the dark or end up stuck in a drift. I just think it’s strange, that’s all. When we get to Blaan I’ll get a hold of Willie Pollock, see if he can throw any light on it.’

  He turned to walk back to the car, but she stood still in front of him, staring up at his face.

  ‘Can you hold me? Just for a second?’

  For the briefest second, Daley hesitated, before reaching out to embrace her. He felt her shiver and rubbed his hand up and down her back to warm her.

  ‘Please stay, sir.’

  The church was warmer than outside, but not much. The light from the many candles shimmered, casting shadows on the good folk of Kinloch as they prepared to say goodbye to the old year and greet the next. Scott was surprised at the number of people who streamed in; from old, stooped men and women to young children, it was clear that the kirk was stil
l popular in Blaan.

  ‘A good turnout,’ said Jock, in what Scott assumed was intended as a whisper, but still resonated in the cold air. ‘That’s the minister’s bonny wife in the red dress.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Scott, remembering that she and her husband had found the small skeleton on the Rat Stone the day before.

  ‘Aye, bonny and young, Jock,’ said an old man, turning to address them from the pew in front. ‘No wonder the minister has a smile on his face every time I see him.’

  The woman beside lifted a mitted hand and slapped him on the back of the head. ‘Peter, did I no’ tell you not tae say a word aboot this, before we left the hoose? You’re obsessed wae that poor lassie. What the minister does is his ain affair.’

  ‘See “poor lassie”,’ he replied. ‘I don’t hear you referring tae Gertie or Peggy o’er there as lassies.’

  ‘That’s cos they’re no’. You’re jeest jealous o’ the man. I can see it a mile off. If a younger woman wid take you on, you’d be off like a shot. Is that no’ right, Jock?’

  ‘All I’ll say, Kathleen, is that the good Lord is first to take the righteous to his breast. So I think you’ll be keeping a hold of Peter here for a good while yet.’

  ‘Mair’s the pity,’ she said, as the pair settled back.

  Scott watched a line of men and one woman walk onto the dais below the pulpit. ‘What are they all aboot, Jock?’

  ‘That’s the kirk elders. We’ll be in business shortly.’

  The music from the old organ swelled and presently the Reverend Ignatius More appeared from the vestry door, dressed in dog collar and white surplice and clutching a large Bible. He climbed the short stairs to the pulpit, placed the Bible on the lectern in front of him and looked out over his large congregation.

  ‘Welcome, one and all on this last night of the old year. It’s my privilege to be before you tonight in this house, as always.’ He smiled, then started to cough. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, reaching under the lectern. ‘Bit of a frog in the old throat.’ He put a mug of water to his lips then started to splutter. ‘Oh, shit!’ he shouted, his Australian accent suddenly pronounced, as he began to retch.

  The old man in front of Scott turned around in his pew. ‘Canna say I’ve heard any minister say that before, eh, Jock? It’s jeest an affront. Odds on the man’s fair knackered keeping his wife at bay. Bound tae tell on a man o’ his age. He’s only a couple o’ years younger than me.’

  ‘If he’s only a couple of years younger than you, you’d better get up there an’ have a drink o’ whootever he’s having,’ said his wife.

  Veronica rushed to her husband’s side. His face was red, in stark contrast to his grey hair.

  Scott excused himself as he pushed his way along the pew. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said, rushing up the aisle towards the pulpit, the eyes of the congregation upon him.

  ‘There was something in my drink,’ spluttered More, regaining some of his composure,

  ‘What, poison?’ asked Scott, looking for the receptacle.

  ‘Oh, for all that’s holy!’ Veronica fished an object out of the mug. She screamed and let it slip from her fingers to bounce down the short row of pulpit steps and land at Scott’s feet.

  He picked it up, then recoiled. It was now clear why the Reverend More had choked. Scott held a finger, pulped at the end where it had been severed from the rest of the hand, bearing a complex and distinctive gold ring.

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s missing a finger?’ he said, holding up the item as a murmur of disgust spread around the Old Kirk at Blaan.

  18

  ‘I see you’ve hurt your own hand,’ said Daley. The church was empty now save for himself, Scott, the Mores, DC Dunn and Roy Simpson, an elderly farmer and church officer.

  ‘Oh, this?’ said the Reverend More, holding up his bandaged hand. ‘The perils of DIY, Mr Daley. I was trying to fix my bloody snow shovel, as it goes.’

  Mr Simpson clucked at the oath.

  ‘Sorry, Roy, still a bit off me stride, mate. It’s not every day you nearly swallow someone’s finger.’

  Daley looked at the severed digit, now sealed up in a polythene evidence bag. The ring looked expensive, the design unusual. ‘Take some pictures of this with your phone, please, DC Dunn.’

  ‘Are you going tae put it on your wall, Jimmy?’ asked Scott.

  ‘No. I’m going up to Kersivay House. When it comes to expensive designer jewellery, they’re most likely to fit the bill, wouldn’t you say?’ He watched as Dunn took a couple of shots on her camera. ‘Give it to the next cop going back to Kinloch and get it through the books and up to Glasgow at the first opportunity. I know that could be some time, given the weather conditions.’

  Veronica looked on quietly. The bandage on her husband’s hand had been roughly applied, probably by himself. Why he hadn’t asked for her help? She had wondered why he had been wearing gloves as they prepared for the service. Obviously it hadn’t been all about the biting cold.

  ‘Och, it’s a terrible thing. The last time anything like this afflicted this kirk would be way back at the time o’ the Covenanters,’ said Mr Simpson, shaking his head. ‘Back then, the minister had a rare taste for blood. He couldna see the McDonalds spill enough o’ the stuff. It’s terrible, jeest terrible. Auld Mrs Beaton fainted away when she seen that awful thing. You have my sympathies, Reverend More.’

  ‘What aboot the guy that’s lost his finger?’ asked Scott. ‘I daresay he’s no’ feeling too chipper, either.’

  ‘Who put the mug of water there?’ asked Daley.

  ‘That would be me, officer,’ replied Simpson. ‘It’s my job tae make sure that the minister is catered for – help him on with his vestments, make sure the church is in order, put oot the hymn books. All that sort of thing.’

  ‘So when you filled the mug there was definitely nothing in it?’

  ‘Funny, I’ve been thinking aboot that. I jeest picked the mug off the shelf in the kitchen, filled it and took it through tae the kirk. I canna remember looking in it at all.’

  ‘Surely you’d have noticed a finger floating about?’ said Scott.

  ‘How wid you? Dae you stare intae your mug o’ tea every time you pour it? I certainly don’t.’

  ‘Remind me never tae come tae your hoose for dinner.’

  ‘OK,’ said Daley. ‘To your knowledge, who has had access to the church since you opened it this evening?’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a thing, Mr Daley,’ replied the Reverend More. ‘We don’t open the church, as such.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning it’s a proper kirk, a place o’ worship, jeest like it should be. The door tae the Lord’s hoose is never closed tae them that’s looking for salvation,’ said Simpson. ‘I’m no’ even sure if the locks on the big doors turn. That’s the way it is in Blaan.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be one nail left in the place, if it was where I come fae,’ said Scott. ‘Never mind pews and the like. I think it’s time you reviewed your security policy tae fit in the realities o’ life in the twenty-first century.’

  ‘Oh, is that a fact? Tae be like the folks up in Glasgow, no doubt? Well, no thanks,’ said Simpson. ‘We’ve got half o’ the polis force here and there’s folk getting butchered all over the village. My auld faither is likely turning in his grave.’

  ‘Around here, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was up dancing aboot,’ replied Scott. He turned red when he realised that everybody was staring at him. ‘Just an expression, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you saw anything, Mrs More?’ asked Daley, taking his eyes off his flustered DS.

  Veronica burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry, it’s all just too horrible,’ she sobbed, lowering herself into a pew, her head in her hands.

  More sat down beside his wife and held her. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Daley. First that skeleton then all the rest of the trouble that’s happened in the last day or so. My wife is quite fragile, I’m afraid.’

  Dal
ey looked on as Veronica shrugged out of her husband’s embrace and ran out of the church.

  ‘You’ll excuse me,’ said More, rushing after her.

  ‘What’s all that aboot?’ asked Scott, looking puzzled.

  ‘Not to worry, Brian. She’s probably off to have a word with some of these dancing corpses you were talking about.’

  ‘Aye, a slip o’ the tongue, Jimmy. Sorry.’

  ‘Och, she’s a delicate flower, right enough,’ said Simpson. ‘Had a hard time in the nunnery, by all accounts. The nuns fair bullied her, so I’m told.’

  ‘Aye, they nuns can be right bastards. We’re never done lifting them for brawling in the street and harassing decent folk,’ said Scott, as Dunn stifled a laugh.

  ‘You may jest, but I’ll tell you something for nothing. That poor lassie had a terrible time wae them. That’s how she left.’

  ‘Lost the habit,’ said Scott, much to Daley’s distaste.

  19

  The snow glowed in the moonlight as the men looked to the far end of the bay and Kersivay House on its precipitous cliff. Lights shone from almost every window – unlike the majority of homes in the village, where only feeble candles guttered.

  The men were dressed in black, eyes shining through balaclava masks. One of them was listening intently to his mobile phone as the other three scanned the scene below. Behind them, hidden in the trees, were three tents, almost invisible in the darkness of the ancient wood.

  The man ended his call and walked towards his companions. ‘Right, let’s get changed. We all know what to do.’

  ‘We wait,’ said the man closest to him.

  ‘Yes, we wait,’ he looked at his watch. ‘Only a couple of hours until midnight. We wait until everyone is relaxed, then we’ll get the word to move.’

  ‘I hope your contact in the house knows what they’re about,’ said the largest man.

  ‘Oh, trust me. We are very well informed.’ He lifted a pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes and searched along the hillside. Just over a prow there was a glow in the sky, blotting out the night-vision view in a flash of white. ‘Some bastard’s started a fire over there.’