The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Four,’ said Pollock. ‘Aye, and that includes the same man twice for being drunk and incapable. They wanted tae gie me a service promotion tae sergeant and stick me in the office at Kinloch. Why would you want that?’

  ‘I hear you, pal, I hear you. How far tae go?’

  ‘Another five miles, we’re just aboot halfway there,’ replied Pollock, peering into the gloom.

  Daley felt Superintendent Symington’s gaze on him as he and Dunn took statements at the Black Wherry Inn. He wondered if she guessed what he and his young DC had been up to before the dash to rescue Scott.

  As the last villager left, the police officers sat at a table with a large pot of steaming coffee. Jessie and Annie busied themselves cleaning tables, washing down the bar and polishing glasses. At another table sat Jock Munro, savouring the last few mouthfuls of his whisky. It was after four in the morning and Daley’s eyelids felt heavy. He sipped the strong coffee and hoped it would get to work quickly.

  ‘There’s something here that doesn’t make sense,’ said Symington, breaking the silence. ‘We must consider this to be a sustained campaign against the Shannon family, planned well in advance and being executed by professionals. But they couldn’t have known how the weather would behave with this snow. Under normal circumstances, at the first sign of danger the Shannon party would just have shipped out en masse. There’s no way anyone could have planned for them being marooned here.’

  ‘Maxwell Shannon has no intentions of leaving, regardless of the circumstances,’ said Daley.

  ‘Not even if we discover that charred corpse is Lars Bergner?’

  ‘He says the family won’t be intimidated. Adamant that they’re staying put until they get this AGM over, at least.’

  ‘Well, DCI Daley, he can be as adamant as he likes. If a weather window opens up long enough to get them out of here, out of here they’ll bloody well go,’ she exclaimed, her voice raised.

  Looking at her steely expression, Daley had no doubt about her determination. Here was somebody who was used to having an opinion and getting her own way, he thought.

  ‘They’ve been the same down the generations,’ boomed Jock Munro, standing and zipping up his jacket. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help hearing what you said, madam. The Shannon family are stubborn bastards. Aye, and now they’re collectively as rich as Croesus, there’s not much can be done to gainsay them.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. We don’t have to be billionaires to change the course of events.’

  ‘In any case,’ said Jock. ‘I don’t think you’re about to get your weather window.’

  ‘Not good,’ said Daley. ‘I think we’re stuck with the Shannons for the duration, ma’am.’

  ‘I meant to say this to your Sergeant Scott,’ said Jock, leaning his large hand on the back of DC Dunn’s chair. ‘I was up the Breachory Glen early yesterday. Would you believe that there’s someone camping up there?’

  ‘What, in this weather?’ asked Dunn.

  ‘Aye, my thoughts exactly, my dear,’ said Jock. ‘They didn’t see me but I saw them. A man, well built, purposeful, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Purposeful?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Och, maybe I’ve spent too long being a writer, observing the way people behave. I daresay you’ve done a fair bit of that in your time, Mr Daley. Like poor Robert Louis Stevenson when he was a boy, confined to his bed for days on end with asthma. He could tell who was who and what they were up to by the sound of their footsteps: “the steps fell light and oddly, with a certain swing.’ He was a fine, fine writer. But these steps weren’t light at all. This man meant business.’

  ‘And who would have business in a tent in Blaan in the middle of a snowstorm?’ said Daley.

  They were about two miles outside Kinloch now, their progress slower still. The snow was falling so heavily now that Pollock was forced to turn the windscreen wipers to their highest speed. He leaned forwards as he carefully edged the Land Rover along.

  ‘This road will be closed again within the hour if they don’t get the ploughs out soon,’ he said to Scott, who was nervously smoking his third cigarette of the journey.

  ‘Are we going to make it, Willie? I don’t fancy getting snowed up in this jalopy.’

  ‘Aye, we’ll make it. But if we’d left a few minutes later than we did, we’d have had no chance. We’re on the home stretch now.’

  Scott wound down the passenger window slightly and cursed as a flurry of cold snow hit him in the face while he was trying to dispose of his cigarette butt. As he wound it closed, he suddenly felt his chest tighten.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Pollock

  ‘Aye. Aye, fine,’ said Scott, feeling anything but. He stared through the windscreen, willing the journey to come to an end. It was low and soft, but the whine in his ears was unmistakable. He tried to grit his teeth against the sound but it grew in intensity as he began to struggle for breath.

  It was then he saw the grey figure in the road ahead, standing stock-still in the heavy snow, illuminated by the headlights. Now gasping for breath, he lurched forwards and grabbed the steering wheel, pulling it out of Pollock’s grasp. The Land Rover sloughed one way then the other, jolting Scott’s chest painfully against his seatbelt. Brakes squealed and Pollock yelled, then – for a few heartbeats – everything was quiet. It was as though they were flying. The whine in his ears was replaced by the beating of his own heart. The world was in slow motion until Pollock screamed again and they came to a stop with a sickening thud and jolt.

  26

  As Daley, Symington and Dunn walked back through the large front door of Kersivay House, they were greeted by Aitcheson, the inspector in charge of the armed Support Unit officers who were guarding the perimeter of the mansion. His pale face and worried expression were enough to set off the alarm bells in Daley’s head.

  ‘What’s up, DI Aitcheson?’

  ‘One of my men, Constable Booth, is missing. He missed our last rendezvous and he isn’t answering his radio.’

  ‘When did you discover this, inspector?’ asked Symington.

  ‘About an hour ago. We checked in with him by radio at two. The reception was poor, but he sounded OK. But now I’m beginning to wonder if that was him at all.’

  Daley hurriedly arranged a search of the building and grounds. He called Glasgow in search of assistance, but the weather there was even worse than in Blaan and he was left in no doubt that the officers he had were the only ones he would see until the snow had abated. His superior in Glasgow promised to send the police helicopter as soon as it became available; however, it had been grounded for the last few hours because of the weather and looked likely to remain so.

  ‘I think we all need to draw weapons, DCI Daley,’ said Symington. ‘I don’t want to spread alarm amongst the lads, but up until now, anyone who’s gone missing has turned up dead – if the man on the bonfire proves to be Bergner, that is.

  ‘I agree,’ replied Daley. ‘We’re rapidly getting out of our depth here, ma’am. I’ll get a hold of Brian, he’ll be back in Kinloch and have been checked out in the hospital by now. I’ll have him round up as many men as we can spare and bring them here with firearms.’

  Daley called the office in Kinloch, only to be told that Scott and Pollock had yet to arrive. He asked the desk sergeant to contact Kinloch hospital and have Scott call him as soon as possible. Don’t tell me there’s actually something wrong with him, he thought, then worried that his friend might have already sunk into a bottle of whisky.

  It was after six, but still there was no sign of morning in the dark sky, laden with snow clouds that were now discharging themselves over Blaan and the rest of the country.

  He watched Dunn, who was busy studying footage from Kersivay House’s CCTV system. She looked so young and beautiful that he felt stricken with guilt that he was about to ruin her life. In his heart, he now knew his marriage was over – had been over for a long time, if he was honest with himself. But how long could
he keep hold of a woman so much younger than himself? How long would it take before the person she saw before her turned into an old man?

  ‘How are you doing with that?’ he asked.

  ‘Not that well, sir.’ She smiled thinly. ‘There are only three cameras: one on the bottom gate, one on the drive and the other covering the front of the house. I haven’t come across anything unusual yet.’

  ‘Keep trying . . .’ He was cut short by his mobile ringing in the pocket of his thick ski jacket. ‘Daley, yes, have you located him?’ He listened for a few moments, a look of concern spreading across his face. ‘I want you to send out somebody in a four-wheel drive to have a look. They left here nearly three hours ago.’ He ended the call and looked up at Dunn.

  ‘Trouble, sir?’

  ‘Brian and Pollock haven’t arrived back in Kinloch. Well, if they have, they’re certainly not where they should be.’ Quietly, he cursed the lack of faith he now had in his DS, his friend. Then he remembered Brockie’s eye sockets, the disgusting mutilation of his colleague Colin Grant and the smouldering body lying in the snow.

  When Scott came to he was cold – very cold. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness apart from a red warning light on the dashboard of the Land Rover. The vehicle had landed on its side and his head was hard against the passenger window. He could feel the cold of the snow through the glass.

  ‘Willie! Willie!’ he shouted, reaching up towards the driver’s side of the car for his colleague. The seat was empty.

  He struggled to take off his seat belt then, with great difficulty, managed to wrestle his mobile phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. He pressed buttons in the darkness until the screen illuminated. He swore loudly when he noticed that he had no signal and, in any case, his battery was about to fail.

  Scott had often heard Jim Daley ruminate upon how his life would end. While Daley was thoughtful – often morose, in fact – Scott tried to avoid the close analysis of life and its inevitable finality. However, after being shot in two separate incidents involving his job, he often imagined the dark, cold hand of fate hovering above his head. He always pictured his father’s face, silhouetted by the white linen of the pillow as cancer drained his life away; his mother gasping for breath as that very same disease slowly choked her to death.

  He struggled up to the driver’s door, now above his head. ‘I don’t want tae die,’ he pleaded, reaching out in the darkness.

  The Reverend More sat in his kitchen and prayed. He was almost sure that what he was about to do was the right thing, but he still had nagging doubts. People like the Shannons were a cancer that fed on those who worked and struggled hard just to keep bread on the table and a roof over their heads. What did he owe them?

  He reached for the bottle of whisky on the large kitchen table, then thought the better of it. His head was already swimming and he needed to be ready to act quickly if called upon in a few hours. Tired, he rubbed his forehead with his hand as he took deep breaths.

  The doctor, from a private practice far from Blaan, had said his wife’s ‘episodes’ should improve as the prescribed medication took hold. More wasn’t convinced – if anything, they seemed to be getting worse. Not long after he’d first met the former nun, he’d been astonished to find her in his bed, dressed in only a pair of black stockings and suspenders, her face made up gaudily with bright lip gloss and dark eye shadow. At first this aroused him, but soon he realised that the woman before him bore no resemblance to the person he had met, like someone under the influence of strong drugs, or alcohol. He had talked to her quietly and soon she’d slept.

  In the morning, when she was shocked to find herself dressed in such a manner, he knew she had a problem. Her stories of how her fellow nuns had tormented her fell into place; either her behaviour had been so extreme they were forced to let her go or her problems had been magnified at the hands of the order.

  Despite his better judgement, he reached again for the bottle and poured a large measure of whisky into the small crystal glass.

  Through the crack in the kitchen door, Veronica watched her husband silently.

  Daley was in a Land Rover with the old farmer Charlie Murray and a uniformed cop. Symington was coordinating the search for the missing member of the Support Unit, but he had to try and find Scott.

  They had travelled no more than a mile when Murray slowed the old vehicle to a stop.

  ‘We have to turn round, Mr Daley, we’ve nae choice.’ The snow piled against the windscreen, making the wipers whine in protest as they struggled to clear it. ‘They might be able tae get a snowplough in from Kinloch but there’s no way we’re getting through this. If we try, aye, we’ll be as marooned as your sergeant likely is.’

  Daley stared at the huge flakes as they sprang out of the darkness. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said, the regret in his voice plain. ‘We’d better turn back, Mr Murray. Thank you for trying.’

  ‘The worst fall of snow we’ve had here since ’63. I was a young man then, but it was like living through a white hell. We lost so many sheep – aye and folk, tae. Arthur Lays from Ballybeg farm went oot tae rescue some tups and we didna find him until it thawed about two weeks later. Aye, a terrible thing, the snow. I could gie these stupid bastards that call it pretty a good kick up the arse,’ he said, struggling with the steering wheel as he turned the Land Rover back towards Blaan. ‘Still, tae die in the cauld is the kindest death o’ all, they say. Och, you jeest sleep away. No’ a bad way tae go if you ask me.’

  ‘Honestly, Charlie, you aren’t helping.’

  ‘I’d gamble my dear wife on the fact your man will be jeest fine. He’s likely sitting in some steading wae a bumper dram, waiting for the boys tae arrive fae Kinloch wae the snowplough.’

  ‘I wish I shared your optimism,’ said Daley. ‘I really do.’

  As Scott struggled to pull himself up he was surprised to find that the driver’s door was partially open. ‘Willie? Are you there?’ He managed to lever himself up from his seat to grab the steering wheel, pushing with his other arm against the heavy door. A flurry of snow hit him at almost the same time as he was dazzled by a bright light shining directly into his face.

  ‘What the fuck!’ he shouted, as strong arms lifted him clear of the stricken vehicle and out into the cold.

  27

  Daley was still fretting about Scott’s whereabouts as he joined other officers in search of the missing Constable Booth from the Support Unit. The hunt took them all over Kersivay House, which was even larger and more luxurious than he had first imagined.

  As he stared from a window in the rear of the house, a thin, pale line against the horizon marked the dawn of the first day of the new year. To his left, he saw the long modern building that was the new accommodation block, built to contain the overflow of the Shannon International AGM. Across a narrow strip of land, where a rough pathway had been dug through the snow, sat two further buildings, at right angles to each other. One of them had clearly been modernised, while the smaller construction looked old, most probably in its original form. Taken together, they looked out of place with the rest of the house.

  Daley heard someone walking towards him and turned to see Nadia Shannon, dressed in a thick jumper and jeans, her blood-red lipstick in contrast with her pale face. He wondered just how the girl was coping with the events of the previous night.

  ‘Hello, Mr Daley,’ she said quietly. ‘I hear you have a missing police officer.’

  ‘Yes, we’re searching for him now. What are those two buildings?’

  ‘Oh, the small cottage is where Percy and his wife live. Next to it is the office and communications building. It used to be a stable, but Maxwell had it converted a few years ago. All very hi-tech, apparently.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling at the dark-haired girl. ‘We’ll get down there and tick them off our list.’

  ‘I’m sorry about my family, Chief Inspector. It seems that everywhere we go, misery and tragedy follow. I’ve not been able to sle
ep, I rarely can when we’re here.’

  ‘You don’t like Kersivay House?’

  ‘I hate it. I can’t think of anyone who likes being imprisoned here every year, not even Maxwell. Perhaps my grandmother, but that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, she mentioned that she liked it here. Maybe it’s easier for an older person to enjoy being in a place like this, rather than someone your age.’

  ‘My family would turn the nicest place in the world into somewhere I didn’t want to be,’ she said. ‘Good luck finding your colleague. I had better report back before they send out a search party for me.’

  He watched her wend her way back along the long passageway. A young woman with the world on her shoulders, he thought.

  He made his way wearily down the stairs. He had to find Inspector Aitcheson and search those outbuildings.

  Scott shivered, watching the thin line of dull light spread through the sky over Kinloch. He was standing in the yard of a farmhouse, knee-deep in snow, smoking a cigarette. He heard the back door open and watched as Constable Pollock waded his way towards him, an impromptu bandage wrapped around his head, covering the cut he’d sustained when their Land Rover left the road.

  ‘The landline’s down and there’s no mobile signal unless we scale that hill o’er there, according to Mr Moyes. I’m afraid I don’t have my crampons with me so we’ll just have to keep oor eyes on the road and hope that the snowplough is trying to get through.’

  ‘Listen, Willie,’ said Scott, shuffling his feet in the snow. ‘I’m sorry, I just thought I saw someone in the road. Do you know what I mean?’

  Pollock thrust his bottom lip out and sighed. ‘Jessie telt me that you had some kind of fit at the bonfire. Aye, and one o’ the boys told me he found you lying in the snow fair ranting when the road was blocked.’

  ‘I slipped, man. And as far as the Black Wherry is concerned, I just fell over wae the drink.’

  ‘An auld cop I used tae work with once gave me advice I’ve never forgotten.’

  ‘Aye?’