The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  Most notable of these families were the Shannons, who now have significant land holdings in and around Blaan, stretching as far as Kinloch. Legend has it that they learned how to work metal from the Sinclair Stuarts and were skilled blacksmiths.

  The worshippers of Blaan still talk of ‘going to the stane’ when they attend the Kirk in the village. Here again, the Shannon family appear to have usurped the Sinclair Stuarts as hereditary ministers of the parish. From the infamous Bloody Minister to the present day, it is a Reverend Shannon who calls the faithful to prayer in Blaan.

  Scott read the passage over again. So, not only had Nathaniel Stuart lost the family’s ancient home to the Shannon family but, over hundreds of years, the incomers had taken almost everything from them.

  The little boy in the coat with the velvet collar sprung to mind. This time though, Scott was untroubled by the mental picture. He rifled through the papers that Campbell had given him; there he was again. For the first time, DS Scott saw something unutterably sad in young Archie Shannon’s expression – sad and, like the boy with the scowl, oddly familiar.

  32

  Daley was kneeling on what felt like pebbles. He had just regained consciousness and was desperately trying to orientate himself. He was cold, shivering uncontrollably. His hands were tied behind his back and he realised, as he tried to move, that he was tethered to something. Through his stinging nostrils, the smell of the sea was strong.

  ‘Let me out of here,’ he shouted, his voice weak with cold, but still echoing around the dark space. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he called again, in no real hope that his pleas would make any difference.

  He was surprised when he heard a groan in response. Somewhere behind him there was a faint voice.

  ‘Sir, it’s me, Sandy Whitlock – PC Whitlock.’ The man’s voice was strained. ‘I, I came with you to . . .’ He let out a blood-curdling scream and fell silent.

  Daley could hear footsteps crunching behind him. He felt his spine tingle, waiting for the blow, the kick, the sharp knife in his back. He remembered the horrific sight of Colin Grant, eviscerated, his lungs thrust over his shoulders in bloody agony as his life drained away.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, as calmly as he could. There was no reply, though the footsteps had stopped. His captor was now studying him as he kneeled forwards, trussed up on the pebble floor. Daley tried desperately to think through the fog in his brain. His head was pounding, no doubt caused by the blows that had rendered him unconscious.

  A seagull’s distant cry sounded a pitiful lament – for lost souls, or for those about to be lost. Daley thought of his young son, so new to this world. He felt tears welling up in his eyes; his throat ached. He clenched his teeth to banish them. He had to remain strong – if not for himself then for his fellow captives.

  ‘I am a police officer,’ he repeated. ‘If you harm me or any of my colleagues, you will be caught and you’ll never be free again for the rest of your life. Whatever it is that you’re trying to achieve, whatever twisted purpose you have in mind, it has to end here.’

  Silence.

  He was shivering so badly, he could barely make the words form in his mouth. ‘I want you to think about what you are doing. Think very hard.’

  The person crunched closer to him, stopping at his back. Daley looked at the ground before him in the gloom. A dim light shone from somewhere up ahead.

  ‘I know where we are. We’ve been investigating the death of Colin Grant, your sea cave is no secret . . .’ He stopped suddenly, involuntarily, sharply drawing the cold air into his lungs. A soft hand ran slowly down the length of his back.

  DCI Jim Daley closed his eyes and waited for the agony to begin.

  ‘Jock Munro? It’s me, Sergeant Brian Scott. I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he said, looking at the old photograph of Nathaniel Stuart on the pier at Kinloch with the two young children.

  ‘And how’s the head this morning?’ boomed Jock, his voice just as loud and resonant over the phone. ‘I’ve seen police officers at some capers in my time, but never jumping through the flames of a bonfire. You’re obviously a one-off, Brian.’

  ‘You’re no’ the first person tae mention that, my friend.’ Scott raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m glad the phones are still working.’

  ‘The phones will be the last thing to go here. As I said to you last night, we in Blaan have the Shannons to thank for such connectivity. They tell me that we even have broadband here – not that I have use for such a thing.’

  ‘I need to pick your brains about something,’ said Scott. ‘Do you know anything about what happened to Nathaniel Stuart when he left the area?’

  ‘Bits and pieces, Brian. The old man had faced humiliation, as I mentioned to you. He had relations over in Ireland – Donegal, I think I’m right in saying. He left Blaan sometime in the thirties. I’m not sure of the exact date.’

  ‘I have a photograph here of him with two young children. It was taken the day he left Kinloch, or so it says on the back. Dae you know who they are?’

  ‘That will be his grandchildren, Brian. His daughter’s children. She was married, then suffered some kind of breakdown. Some people said she was wrong in the head, but you know how it goes in small communities. Anyhow, he was like a father to the children, so it is said.’

  ‘So none of them ever came back?’

  ‘Well, if you listen to the fishwives in this village, you might believe that Nathaniel Stuart did pay one visit back to Blaan . . . It was a black day in the village when young Archie Shannon went missing.’

  ‘Archie Shannon? Where did that come fae?’ said Scott, slightly discomforted by mention of the little boy who kept appearing in his head.

  ‘There are many in the village that would swear they saw Nathaniel Stuart around that time – back here in Blaan.’

  ‘What, you mean that he took the wean?’

  ‘So the gossips would have it, Brian.’

  ‘But he must have been an old man.’

  ‘He didn’t die until the seventies, in a hospital in Dublin. Somehow, the Kinloch Herald got a hold of the story – a minor miracle in itself, I assure you. He was in his nineties.’

  ‘And what do you think, Jock?’

  ‘Though old Nathaniel was forced into hard times, he had no shortage of allies. He was the keeper of great secrets, again, if you believe the tittle-tattle. True or not, he commanded a lot of respect in certain quarters, aye, and not just in Kinloch.’

  ‘What secrets? And I thought he was damn near destitute.’

  ‘There are many greater things than money, Sergeant Scott. Nathaniel Stuart is credited by many as being the last holder of a great office.’

  ‘Not you too, Jock. Mair mumbo-jumbo.’

  Scott was slightly put out when he heard Jock’s laugh bellow through the earpiece. ‘Many will tell you that Nathaniel Stuart was the last druid. Google that – I think that is the correct expression – and see how you get on, Brian. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must get out for my constitutional before the snow comes on again.’

  Scott said goodbye and ended the call, staring into the commanding eyes of Nathaniel Stuart in the old photograph.

  In Blaan, Jock Munro looked out of his window and sighed, still holding the telephone. He put it back onto the table and walked across to the bureau upon which sat his old typewriter. He opened a slim drawer and fumbled under some sheets of paper, removing a small photograph.

  He sighed deeply as he looked at the tall, broad-shouldered man and the two children, standing in front of the steamship on the pier at Kinloch.

  Superintendent Symington awoke with a start. It was the same dream she always had, the kind that didn’t end with sleep. The boy was in slow motion, a look of horror on his face as he was propelled towards the windscreen.

  She’d been dozing, sitting in her room in Kersivay House with DC Dunn and Inspector Aitcheson from the Support Unit.

  ‘Are you OK, ma’am?’ asked Dunn.

  ‘Fine.
Just a bad dream.’ Symington took a deep breath and tried yet again to banish that face. She’d hoped moving to a new job might make a difference.

  There had been no contact with Daley and his party for over two hours and the superintendent was beginning to worry.

  ‘Definitely no way we can get anyone from Kinloch at the moment, ma’am, and you are aware of the situation as regards Division,’ said Dunn. ‘The road between here and Kinloch is blocked, though my information is that they will be able to make it through with snowploughs in the next hour or so, as long as we don’t get another heavy snowfall.’

  ‘What do the weather people say?’ asked Symington.

  ‘I talked to the Met Office at Prestwick, ma’am. They’re finding it hard to give an exact forecast.’

  ‘Oh, very helpful.’

  ‘One thing they’re pretty certain of is that there will be more snow.’

  Symington looked at the bank of the screens in front of her, showing various parts of Kersivay House on CCTV. ‘We have four missing officers and one of the richest families in the world to protect. Bloody brilliant.’

  ‘We could try and get some cops from Kinloch by boat, ma’am,’ suggested Dunn.

  ‘If we hear nothing from Daley in the next hour, we might have to consider that.’ Symington walked to the window and looked out over the bay. ‘How far is the place Colin Grant was found from here, DC Dunn?’

  ‘Three or four miles across the hills, ma’am. The way things are underfoot, I don’t think a tractor or a 4x4 would make it. Has to be by air or sea.’ Dunn stopped suddenly. ‘Ma’am, you don’t think . . .’

  ‘I have to think everything, Mary. But if it’s hard for us to move about, then it’s equally hard for everyone else.’

  ‘Once they’re at sea ma’am, there’s no problem,’ remarked Aitcheson, unfolding a map of south Kintyre. ‘Look at this – little coves, inlets, secluded beaches. If you have local knowledge you could easily hide away.’

  ‘Do your rounds, Inspector. We may need to consolidate things in the house if Daley doesn’t turn up soon.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Symington looked at her young colleague. DC Dunn was wringing her hands, staring out at the heavy sky above the grey sea.

  ‘I know how you feel, Mary,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am?’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything, I’m not being judgemental. These things happen.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I’m a detective, Mary. Underneath all this braid, I mean. It wasn’t hard. The way you and DCI Daley look at each other is proof enough.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. I . . . I don’t know what to say. We’ve tried so hard to make sure it doesn’t affect our work.’

  ‘Take my advice, Mary. Not as your boss, as someone who knows the score. Don’t have regrets, don’t let what “seems right” make any decisions for you. Regardless of what anyone says, it’s your life.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Not the kind of advice I should be giving you, as your superior officer. I should be threatening you with hell and damnation, instant dismissal, but I know that won’t work. When I’m old and buggered with no one to talk to, do you think Police Scotland will send somebody round to keep me company?’

  ‘Do you think he’ll be OK?’

  ‘Of course he will,’ replied Symington, with much more confidence than she felt.

  The Shannon International AGM at Kersivay House was becoming unruly. A number of the smaller investors were arguing about a proposal to dilute the shareholding of the company in order to bring other non-family members onto the board. Maxwell was doing his best to quell their doubts but decided to lay the issue aside in favour of the most pressing item on his agenda.

  ‘We have to accept the fact that, as a company, we have a shortage of board-level expertise in certain sectors, notably nanotechnology and robotics. These are areas we cannot hope to avoid given the structure of the organisation. We need strong, independent leadership, not the hobbled executive we have now, which has to defer to the board whenever a decision is made.’

  ‘You mean we should let you do what you want,’ said Bruce.

  ‘Who else?’

  Ailsa had been uncharacteristically silent during the course of proceedings. In fact, she had seemed distracted, spending much of her time poring over an electronic tablet with one of her advisors.

  ‘I would like your input before we put this motion to the vote, Aunt Ailsa,’ said Maxwell impatiently.

  ‘It’s the same as last year’s motion – and the previous three years, if I’m not much mistaken.’

  ‘That I be invested with full executive authority over global operations, in line with my position as Executive Chairman? Yes, it is.’

  ‘Acting Executive Chairman, darling,’ said Ailsa with a smile.

  ‘I propose we vote.’

  ‘Seconded,’ said Lynton, at his side.

  ‘All those in favour of awarding full executive powers to our current Acting Chairman, Maxwell Shannon, please raise your hands,’ Lynton said, looking down both sides of the long boardroom table.

  It was at this point the Shannon AGM normally split along partisan lines. Sure enough, those normally in Ailsa’s camp remained resolutely unmoving.

  ‘Motion failed,’ said Lynton, making sure he had counted twice before making the decision. ‘Two votes short of a majority.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Brady turned to face Ailsa. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Shannon. We can’t go on the way we are. We need leadership and Maxwell’s the only leader on offer right now.’ He raised his hand to vote for the motion.

  ‘You’re still one vote short.’ Nadia leaned forwards and looked at Maxwell. ‘You can’t do anything unless you have a majority,’ she said with a nervous, if somewhat triumphant, smile.

  ‘Ah, dear Nadia,’ said Maxwell. ‘But we aren’t finished, are we?’ He looked down towards Ailsa’s end of the table.

  Slowly, Bruce Shannon raised his hand.

  33

  Daley was reeling. He’d taken another hefty blow to the head, which had spiralled him into unconsciousness. This time, as he came round, he found his thoughts and memories even more difficult to grasp. The only thing that seemed to matter to him was the biting cold and he found himself struggling to breathe.

  He had to use his experience, remember the lessons that so many years in the job had taught him. As soon as you lose your heid, son, you’ve lost the lot. The words of his first sergeant were like a salve. He had repeated them to himself many times over the years, but they were more important now than ever before. He had to fight the darkness in whichever form it presented itself.

  ‘You’re back with us, Mr Daley.’ The voice was slow and quiet. ‘It’s hard seeing such a strong man brought down like this. But you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. Men like you have been falling for hundreds – thousands – of years.’

  Daley was still struggling to control his breathing, to make sense of his circumstances, but something was telling him that to recognise this voice was important – that it could save him.

  ‘You . . . you shouldn’t do this. You don’t have to,’ he said, trying anything to strike up some kind of dialogue with his tormentor.

  ‘Ah, but I do. I must admit, I didn’t expect you to fly into my little trap. I’m pleased to see you though, really pleased. The stronger the heart, the greater the sacrifice.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s like giving, Mr Daley. The more you give, the greater will be your return in the afterlife. Is that not what you Christians believe?’

  ‘Us Christians – what are you on about?’ Inside his throbbing head, something told him he knew this person, he recognised those smooth tones. But he was so cold and broken, so confused.

  ‘Tonight we take you to the stone.’ The voice was near him, almost whispering into his ear. ‘You will give us immortality as we send you to the void.’

  Bruce didn’t
look at his mother or daughter as he rushed from the ballroom and down the long sweep of the stairwell. He had to get out and into the fresh air. He felt as though the ballroom was about to swallow him whole. He could feel the anger and hatred in the atmosphere. He had let them down, but how could they know the real reason for his actions?

  He needed a smoke, he needed a drink.

  Finally he was at the huge front door. It hadn’t changed since he was a child. He’d been warned never to open it, never to go out alone, thoughts of his older brother never far away. His mother, father, Percy – every adult he could remember – warned of the danger of turning the big brass handle that he had to stand on tiptoes to reach. Even doing this now sent a pang of fear through his heart, the memory still strong. Through this door, his older brother had left Kersivay House, never to return. As he looked down at the handle, he felt as though he’d done the same thing: left his family, left his life.

  Banishing these thoughts, he pulled it open and walked outside, fumbling for his cigarettes.

  ‘I want you to get here as soon as you can, DS Scott. What’s the latest with the road?’ asked Superintendent Symington.

  ‘They’re having bother getting up the brae. Trying tae get some snowblower up tae move the stuff. It could be hours yet. Apparently it’s drifted tae over twenty feet in some places, ma’am,’ replied Scott, playing with an unlit cigarette he was desperate to smoke.

  ‘Well, we have no air support, everything is snowbound in Glasgow. There’s only one alternative . . .’

  ‘It’s OK, ma’am. Every time I’m here, it’s only a matter of time until I’m on a boat. I’ll see if I can get a hold o’ Newell. It might be a terrifying experience, but it’s fast, and we need tae find Jimmy – I mean DCI Daley, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m worried, Brian,’ she said, surprising Scott with her familiarity. ‘We’ve had no contact with him or his party. I can’t afford to lose anyone else from here. We’re already well below the number of men the Chief Constable demanded we use to protect that Shannons. If I go looking for Daley in this snow, leaving a skeleton presence here at the house, I could be placing everyone at risk. Get here as quickly as you can, by any means possible, with as many men as they can spare in Kinloch. And make sure anyone who’s permitted to carry a firearm does so.’