‘Enough’s a feast for you, my boy,’ said Scott beckoning for Annie to come over. ‘These two men that bought the photos off you, Geordie, what did they look like?’
The detective’s heart sank as the old man described the butchered journalists Grant and Brockie.
The path up the glen was steep and deep with snow. Daley and two of the Support Unit struggled along in the general direction Jock had described. The silence was punctuated only by the distant lap of the sea on the shore far below and the police officers’ heavy footfall and occasional oaths when the snow was deeper than expected.
Daley was carrying a sidearm while his colleagues both carried semi-automatic weapons, slung over their shoulders. Symington had made it clear that they couldn’t risk being unprepared. Daley felt enormous, with a bulletproof vest on under his ski jacket.
‘Sir,’ whispered the cop immediately behind him as they neared a copse of trees. ‘Can you smell that? I’m sure it’s cigarette smoke.’
Daley sniffed the air; sure enough, the pungent smell of tobacco was obvious. He peered into the trees and saw a thin thread of blue smoke spiral into the air.
All three police officers sank to their knees. Daley turned to them. ‘I want us going in from different angles. Side each for you, I’ll take the straight route.’ He could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he released the safety catch on his handgun and moved forwards towards the smoke. As directed the other officers disappeared into the trees on either side of him.
According to Jock, there was a clearing just after the first line of trees and sure enough, as Daley slid his way forwards, he could see the woods opening out in front of him. Almost bent double, he crouched behind the large trunk of a fir tree, peering ahead through the pine needles.
The sudden fall of snow from the branch of a tree made him jump. He glanced back but there was nothing behind him. He looked left and right for any sign of his colleagues but they were obviously staying well out of sight, awaiting his command.
Something caught his eye; another puff of blue smoke drifted through the trees. Daley eased himself up and squinted further into the clearing. He caught his breath when he made out a figure sitting on a log, their back to the detective, a cigarette dangling from their outstretched fingertips.
Again, Daley looked left and right – no sign of the Support Unit officers. He reached for the handset in his pocket. They were all wearing earpieces, so voice contact, as long as he was quiet, was possible.
‘Alpha One calling Sierra Uniform One and Two. Make your way slowly into the clearing using due caution. Suspect spotted straight ahead of me. Over.’ He listened for the blip response indicating the men had heard his message, but there was silence. ‘Sierra Uniform One and Two, please respond, over.’ Again Daley’s pleas went unanswered.
He sighed. Should he try to move forwards and attempt to engage the smoking figure? He reckoned he had no alternative. Daley left the relative security of the tree trunk and half ran, half waded through the thick snow. He was only feet away from the figure on the log when he stopped.
‘I am an armed police officer. Please stand slowly with your hands in the air.’ The figure didn’t move. Daley took two steps closer.
On the edge of his hearing, he could make something out. In the beginning it was barely perceptible, soon it became a whine. The wind was getting up and the branches of the trees began to wave in the breeze, divesting themselves of their heavy white burden. All around him, snow began to fall in heavy clumps, thudding dully as it landed. A bird flapped into the air and Daley jumped. He could see the figure properly now. Puffs of blue smoke still rose into the cold air.
‘One last time – turn around!’
Slowly the figure, draped in a black cloak, stood and turned to face Daley. His gasp of recognition was stopped in his throat as he felt a crushing pain on the back of his head. He struggled for a few heartbeats, trying to remain conscious, as the familiar face swam in front of him. Then another blow hit him hard on the head, as the whine through the trees grew louder.
31
People began to take their seats around the long boardroom table in the ballroom of Kersivay House. Ailsa sat at one end, her son Bruce to her right, her granddaughter Nadia, accompanied by Mrs Watkins, to her left.
At the other end of the table sat Maxwell. To his right, where normally Lars Bergner would have been seated, the grey figure of COO Lynton sat, meticulously polishing his glasses with a grey cloth. Across from him was Brady, staring at an iPad and seemingly entirely at ease.
Bruce looked on as various members of the extended family took their seats. They were, in the main, minority share holders, but their stake in the family business had made them rich – and in most cases spoiled and disinterested. They were there to nod and vote and do what they were told by either of the power bases that protected their interests. They attended the AGM only because, as per the company constitution, they stood to lose their shares if absent.
He studied his mother. She was composed, with a benign look on her face – as hard to read as ever.
As the board of Shannon International settled into their seats, a stream of accountants, lawyers, advisors and mere bag carriers entered the room, mainly taking position behind the central players. His mother’s accountant and corporate lawyer sat behind her, not part of the meeting but able to whisper in her ear as it progressed.
At the other end of the table, Maxwell’s people arrived, clustering around him, much greater in number than his mother’s advisors.
Bruce watched as they jostled for position behind his cousin, who was already wearing his self-satisfied grin. A dark-haired girl sat down near Brady. She was pretty, with deep brown eyes. Something about her was familiar, but he couldn’t work out what it was. He had to avert his gaze when she caught his eye and smiled. It was then that it dawned on him: she was the girl with the nice backside he’d seen in the bar in Notting Hill only two days earlier. She was the woman he’d seen leaving the bar with Trenton Casely. This could be no coincidence.
Suddenly the reality of how deeply he was involved – exposed, even – hit home.
Scott stared at his computer screen. Though it was New Year’s Day, he had decided to call the local librarian, at home, in the hope that she might be able to throw some light on the history of Kersivay House – and why old images of the place were suddenly in such demand.
The thought had churned over in his mind as he waited for her to answer the phone. Why would someone go to all the trouble of paying journalists to look for old photographs of the building and those who occupied it so long ago? Moreover, why then would those same journalists end up dead?
As it turned out, the librarian had been very helpful. She told Scott that Grant and Brockie had visited her at the library a few days before Christmas, asking about Kersivay House and whether she knew anything of its history or had any old photographs.
‘Funny,’ she had said. ‘We used to have a display on the Shannons and their affiliation with the area on display in the old library when I started working there. Apparently they complained so the whole thing was stuck in the attic. When I spoke to the journalists, I told them that it must have been disposed of at some point. I certainly didn’t see hide nor hair of it when we moved to our new building.’
‘And?’
‘Well, they asked if I had any images on file or the computer and I said no. They seemed to lose all interest after that. It was only a couple of days later when I was going through boxes, still unopened after our move, that I found it.’
‘What, the display?’
‘Yes, dusty and a bit sorry-looking, but intact. I took pictures of it all and filed them digitally. I had intended to pass it on to the journalists after the holidays. I called the number they left, but never got a reply.’
Scott was staring at those images now. The old house on the hill in sepia print. People in old clothes, from around the thirties, Scott thought; some smart and prosperous, others dressed i
n the threads of service.
For the time, Scott reckoned, the photography was good, obviously the work of a professional, though everything seemed very stiff and posed. As he went through the images and text about how the house came into being and what wonderful, benevolent and successful people the Shannons were, he stopped at one image. A little boy had been caught on the edge of a group of people, all standing stiffly and looking solemnly into the lens. The young lad must have thought himself out of shot, for unlike the others, he was looking to the side, a little away from the main party. It was the expression on the boy’s face that caught his eye: a waspish, disgruntled glare, so at odds with his age. ‘Auld before your time,’ Scott mused aloud. There was something really familiar about that face, he thought, and the expression on it. He took his phone from his pocket and snapped a picture.
He flicked through more photographs to see if he could see the young boy again. As he clicked open another folder of images, he stopped. His throat began to constrict and he could feel the sweat on his brow. There, wearing a little camel coat with a velvet collar, was another little boy. Scott didn’t have to wonder about the familiarity of that face – he’d seen it before. It was young Archie Shannon, the photo obviously taken not long before his disappearance.
Scott gripped the desk in front of him, his fingers going white at their tips, desperately trying to force away the blackness at the corner of his eyes and remain conscious. He took deep breaths, telling himself he was safely ensconced in Kinloch Police Office, but still the ringing in his ears began.
‘Fuck this, no, no!’ he shouted, slamming his fist down into the desk. ‘I’m not giving intae this.’
‘I would like to bring the Annual General Meeting to order,’ shouted Maxwell, banging a wooden gavel. The general buzz died down to a whisper, as the Acting Chairman of Shannon International cleared his throat and consulted the notes in front of him. ‘As you know, it is with a heavy heart that I chair today’s proceedings. I would much rather my father, our Chairman, were here. Sadly, as we all know, his condition remains the same, though every effort is being made to care for him.’
Bruce could only smile at the murmur of agreement that echoed around the table. Of one thing he was sure: if he could get away with it, Maxwell would happily strangle his own father in order to have the full reins of power. The hypocrisy was staggering. Still, this was the little world in which they found themselves, and in Bruce’s experience, hypocrisy was always the order of the day.
‘As you are also aware, beside me now should be our CEO Lars Bergner. I don’t need to tell you about his disappearance, nor the events surrounding it. Our thoughts are with his wife and children as we earnestly hope for his safe return. I am aware that some of you believe that this meeting should not proceed under these circumstances. However, I think you are wrong. Lars is a professional to his fingertips,’ said Maxwell, raising a few eyebrows at his use of the present tense, not to mention any talk of fingers. ‘He would want us to carry on in a professional manner. We have a global business to run, which is bigger than any one of us.’ There was a murmur of general agreement. ‘Besides,’ he continued. ‘We’re stuck here in Blaan, what else have we got to do?’ Despite the circumstances, many members of the board of Shannon International began to laugh. ‘All agreed?’ Maxwell looked around the table for detractors. ‘Good, let us proceed.’
Scott had bettered the vision, fought it away. He was now drinking a cup of strong coffee, his hands shaking, trying to compose himself.
It’s good news, he thought. Maybe I’m getting the better of this, maybe the booze is losing. Then he remembered the amount of whisky he’d consumed on Hogmanay. He sighed and looked at the wall, then decided to look for more images of the little boy with the scowl who was so strangely familiar. There were no more pictures of him in the library files so he decided to delve into the old casket of papers Campbell had given him.
He turned over press cutting after press cutting referring to the Kersivay House case. Torquil Dryesdale, in one way or another, appeared to have been obsessed by it all. He had archived just about every snippet of information there was available.
Under the piles of newspapers, Scott found more old photographs. One image showed some low cottages and outbuildings; judging by the surrounding landscape, it was the site on which Kersivay House now stood. He found a tattered sepia photograph that had been torn in two and glued back together. It showed a broad, thickset man in a leather apron, standing beside a sturdy plough horse. He had a shock of dark, wiry hair and eyed the camera with a steady gaze. When Scott turned the photograph over, he found the name Nathaniel Stuart scribbled across the back in faded ink.
He ploughed on, until he came to another picture of Stuart. Older now, his face was lined, with streaks of white through his hair. He still looked broad and strong, standing beside two young children on a pier in front of a steamship. As Scott peered at the photograph, he realised that the boy in the image was the same young lad he’d seen scowling at the stiff, posed subjects of the old picture taken at Kersivay House. What was it about that child that was so familiar? The scrawled writing, this time bolder and less faded, read, Nathaniel Stuart leaves Kinloch. There was no mention of the children, who looked too young to be Stuart’s offspring. Beside the boy, a little girl clutched a rag doll to her chest.
Brady spoke up in his loud New York drawl. ‘I have the figures for the last year of trading by our global holding company. If you open the folder in front of you, you’ll be able to follow what’s going on quite easily. You can see that our turnover is down by 1.3 per cent since this meeting last year. This may seem insignificant, until you factor in the numbers we’re talking about,’ he said, as assorted board members nodded in solemn approval. ‘As a business, we aren’t out of trouble yet, though I’m pleased to say that Shannon International has weathered the recent financial storm better than most.’
‘I see this is correct only until Monday last, Charles,’ said Ailsa.
‘Yes, that’s true, but we always have the same cut-off date prior to our AGMs here. You must understand that, such is the complex nature of these accounts, we have to have statements fully prepared and checked well in advance.’
‘May I ask about trading in the last ten days? Particularly in the days after Christmas?’
Brady looked across the table towards Maxwell, who took the hint and interrupted the little exchange. ‘Of course we can get you those figures, Aunt Ailsa, but not today. I’ll send them to you as soon as they’re prepared.’
‘Oh, good, I’m sure it’ll make for most interesting reading.’
Bruce looked between his mother, Brady and Maxwell with interest. Brady did his job and did it well; he was part of Shannon International’s leadership, but not of it. Most importantly, he had always been Ailsa’s man, but now Bruce sensed a change.
The dark-haired girl leaned into Maxwell, listened to what he had to say, then quietly left the meeting. Bruce watched her go, admiring her as she went.
‘Now, ladies and gents, if you could take a look, we’ll go through what’s been making us all rich this year,’ said Brady, as a large screen slid silently from the ceiling, almost filling the entire wall at the far end of the ballroom.
Bruce was convinced that he saw a nervous look pass between Brady and Maxwell. When he looked to see if his mother had picked up on this, he noted that she looked as serene and untroubled as ever.
There was no doubt about it, the next few hours were going to be amongst the most testing of his life, but he was ready. Suddenly, Bruce wished that the glass in front of him was full of whisky instead of mineral water.
Scott busied himself reading the rest of the history of the Shannon family that had come from the library. Much was made of their long connection to Blaan and the philanthropic work they had been responsible for over the years. He wasn’t surprised to note that the police office in which he was currently ensconced, as well as the Sheriff Court down the road, had both been bui
lt by previous Shannons and gifted to the town.
It was only when he read about Blaan itself that he encountered the history of the Rat Stone – or Stane, as it was termed in the old document. He squinted through his glasses and read.
The Rat Stane occupies an oaken copse nestling in a valley known locally as the Vale of the Druids. Its origins appear to be ancient, possibly prehistoric, dating back to the hunter-gatherer period. One of many theories about the stone is that it was a meeting place or site of governance, as in the Teutonic Rathaus. But, this is not universally agreed upon.
In James VI’s treatise on witches and the supernatural, the monument is mentioned in connection with the druidic tradition. Indeed, the literal translation of its location is ‘valley of the magicians’, as many considered this ancient order to be. Time has obscured their true nature but stories of human sacrifice abound in local myth and legend and the construction of the stone itself would appear to lend credence to this hypothesis. It is probably also the case that they saw themselves as guardians of tradition and of their surroundings. There is little doubt that they acted positively to protect and nurture their landscape, keeping the balance between ancient people and their impact on their environment.
Of current inhabitants of Blaan, none are more intimately connected with its ancient past than the Sinclair Stuarts. Local legend tells us that they dominated the area from their base at the top of Kersivay cliff, fending off all-comers, including, it is said, the Romans. It was only the arrival of the Scotti, or Scots, from across the North Channel that brought about the end of their power in the region. The druids were routed, forced to the margins of society, until their extinction at the hands of the families who settled in the village thereafter.
The Rat Stone Serenade Page 21