The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Thank you, Aunt Ailsa. I know that we will be able to put these years of bickering behind us now that there is only one pair of hands on the tiller.’ His expression was one of smug arrogance as he sneered down the table at the older woman.

  ‘Indeed, Maxwell. If I had a glass of champagne, I would happily raise it in your direction. I think you’re right. In fact, if I had been thinking properly, I would probably have voted for your accession myself.’ She glanced at her son Bruce, who stared back in disbelief. ‘I realise now that we need strong, united leadership, someone able to make quick decisions, like never before. Someone to accept the buck when it stops at his desk. Especially in the light of recent events,’ she said, gesturing to the huge screen on the wall, which now flickered into life. ‘We all know that the basis of the company’s rise to its current eminence began when my husband gained a range of mineral rights in the sixties, across much of what was then communist Russia as well as their neighbours in China. It was an absolute coup and the foundation of all we’ve done since.’

  ‘The gift that keeps on giving,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Interesting that you use the present tense, Maxwell. May I draw your attention to this joint statement from the Russian Federation and the People’s Republic of China. It’s in your inbox now, my dear.’

  Maxwell flung himself forwards in his chair, grabbing for his iPad. ‘And when was this statement made, may I ask?’

  ‘Oh, about an hour ago. Just about the time you were being anointed as king of the castle,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘The Chinese aren’t really bothered about when we celebrate our New Year. Nor are the Russians, by the looks of things.’

  Brady was also poring over his tablet, his face white. Bruce, who despite the dire circumstances was beginning to enjoy himself, studied the American carefully. Normally he had a laid-back attitude to proceedings; now, Bruce could see that his hands were shaking, an uneasy look spreading across his face.

  ‘How long have you known about this, Ailsa?’ said Brady, as Maxwell leaned back to talk once more to the dark-haired girl.

  Ailsa watched her leave the room, then smiled broadly. ‘Oh, Charles, my team monitor the situation in the east all the time. I suppose I’ve carried on where my dear husband left off. As you can see, in one fell swoop they have rescinded our rights across both nations.’

  ‘We’re fucking ruined,’ whispered Maxwell, his hand cupped in front of his mouth.

  Daley was lying on his back on the cold floor of the van. His feet and hands were tied but he couldn’t have moved anyway, such was the effect of the drug he’d been given.

  He saw his tiny son, his face so real that he almost called out to him. He saw a ruined figure lying in a filthy stairwell in a pool of dark blood; he saw Brian Scott falling as gunshots ripped through his body, dashing red blood onto the white sand. He felt Mary’s mouth working hard as he cradled her head in his hands – but when she looked up, he saw only hatred in the slanted cornflower-blue eyes of his wife, Liz. He watched a woman with grey flecks through her dark hair as she placed coals on a fire, bending down over the low grate. Then he saw her again, her hair much greyer, as she cried for the gaunt man in the hospital bed, wired up to a company of machines that flashed, bleeped and wailed as his life drained away. He heard himself shout, but the vision had already melted away.

  He saw a line of white crosses, in rank and file, march up the prow of a hill. The wind whipped his face as he walked past each one; name after name, etched in cold, white stone.

  The hill was steep and he was tired as he reached the top. Old gnarled hands twisted up from the dark earth, writhing and grasping at a small child, wide-eyed in their midst. As a root wrapped itself around his leg, the boy screamed. He was slowly dragged backwards to a black stone, its darkness blending into the shadows around it. A figure dressed in white rose slowly from the stone. The woman was beautiful and in her hand she carried a bright blade, which flashed in an unseen light.

  The little boy struggled in vain, the long roots gripping him tighter as he was offered up to the woman. She leaned forwards and sliced at the boy’s back, a slather of dark crimson blood splattering up her robe and onto her face.

  Before she slashed again, she paused, staring straight into Daley’s face.

  ‘You! Stop!’ he shouted.

  And then he was back, trussed up in the back of the dirty van. Now though, he’d remembered. He knew who his tormentor was.

  ‘Where dae you want tae berth, officer?’ asked Binder as they rounded a long jut of land. ‘There’s an auld jetty in the lea o’ the castle rock. If we have enough water under the keel I’ll set you doon there.’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’ asked Scott.

  ‘If I canna get in tae the wee castle jetty, it’s going tae be a long wade through the surf.’

  ‘In this cold? Just you get us doon at the place you’re talking aboot and maybe I can forget the long list o’ crimes and misdemeanours you’ve committed on the way here.’

  Ignoring this, the skipper raised his binoculars to his eyes and stared into the distance. ‘That’s it there,’ he said, pointing to a line of boulders jutting out into the bay that, to Scott at least, looked as though they’d been dumped there rather than placed to form part of any meaningful construction.

  ‘And how are we going tae get off this tub and ontae the quay?’

  Binder looked at him with a flat expression. ‘Yous’ll need tae jump.’

  ‘Not this again,’ said Scott, remembering the last time he’d had to jump off a boat.

  At his back, Hamish appeared. ‘Well, it’s a while since I last landed at the auld castle pier, Binder, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Well, I hope you remember how tae get off the boat,’ said Scott.

  ‘Ach, yes. Easy as downing a wee sensation,’ replied Hamish. ‘You’ve got tae remember that time’s course and the sea have eroded a good part o’ the structure. Bits of the thing are noo broken off and oor friend here canna get as close as he’d like.’

  ‘Great news.’

  ‘It just means a wee jump. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you right.’

  ‘And how long is it since you last flung yourself intae midair, Hamish?’

  ‘No’ long ago at all. Seems like yesterday, in fact. By my reckoning it was when I was crewing for auld Colly Morrans. Bastard of a skipper he was, tae. Never had such poor rations aboard a boat. Is that no’ right, Binder?’

  ‘Aye, Hamish. Auld bugger, he was.’

  ‘And what year was that?’ asked Scott. ‘Or is it a state secret?’

  ‘I’m thinking nineteen fifty-seven,’ said Hamish. ‘But it might have been fifty-eight. I’ve been wrong once before but I don’t often speak aboot it.’

  ‘Brilliant. It’ll be right fresh in your mind then,’ said Scott, watching as the soft swell broke against the dilapidated jetty ahead.

  Symington and Dunn waded through the deep snow. Both were dressed in thick ski jackets, waterproof trousers and boots, but the cold still made their bones ache.

  Symington looked back the way they had come. ‘There’s been another fall, but I would say these are definitely what’s left of their footprints from earlier.’ She pointed to marks in the snow that led up past their current position and further up the hill.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied DC Dunn. ‘This is certainly where they looked to be at on the map.’

  ‘Good. I’ll try DS Scott again. There should be a path that leads away from those trees, back into the village,’ she said, pointing ahead. ‘He can take the other end and search for Daley from that direction.’

  ‘Good thinking, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank the North Yorkshire Girl Guides, not me.’ She noted the expression of Dunn’s face. ‘Where I come from, the guides was just about the only thing to do.’

  Before they plodded on, Symington called Scott. ‘They’re here,’ she said, pointing at a distant boat below the loom of the promontory. ‘DS Scott says that once they disemb
ark he’ll get his bearings and hit this from the other end. Funny, he doesn’t sound like his cheery self.’

  ‘Ma’am, look,’ said Dunn, pointing up the snowy rise. A figure, muffled in thick winter clothes and a balaclava, was striding down through the snow towards them.

  ‘That’s not Daley, is it?’ asked Symington.

  ‘Hello, ladies,’ boomed the familiar voice of Jock Munro. ‘Bit later on the go today, it’s all that whisky I’ve been enjoying recently. Still, I made it up through the drifts.’

  ‘We’re looking for DCI Daley and two other officers, Mr Munro,’ said Symington. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything?’

  ‘It’s funny that you say that,’ he said, taking off the balaclava, his grey hair sticking up in clumps. ‘There are footprints, half covered by the most recent snowfall, but there all the same. A few folk by the looks of things, plus they’ve cleared the old forestry track that leads back down the other side of the hill. Some kind of vehicle has been there – within the last few hours I would say.’

  Symington looked along the wooded ridge, concern etched on her face. ‘Where does this track lead, Mr Munro?’

  ‘Down to the outskirts of the village. As you can see, the Forestry Commission have been busy over the last thirty years around here. They have tracks and paths all over the hillsides. Great scars on the landscape, if you ask me, to say nothing of these close ranks of fir trees that blot out the sun, meaning nothing can live in amongst them. When folk see trees they think . . .’

  ‘I’m sure the environmental issues you raise are valid,’ interrupted Symington. ‘But I have to find my men. Can you help us, Jock?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Stupid of me to keep blethering on. If we go back down the hill again, we can cut up a farm lane and join the forestry track about half a mile that way,’ he said, pointing further along the ridge. ‘That vehicle will certainly have left its mark, so it should be quite easy to follow.’

  ‘Good, we’d better make a start. DS Scott is coming from the other end. Maybe you can help me with directions for him?’

  ‘Not a problem – though we better get a move on. It’ll start to get dark shortly.’

  Symington looked at Mary and sighed. It was only mid afternoon but of course, this was Scotland. She hadn’t thought of that.

  36

  Scott watched Hamish as he threw himself off the fishing boat and across three feet of water to the rabble of boulders that comprised the ancient jetty. He landed squarely on two feet, bending his knees to soften the impact. Not bad for a drunk man in his seventies, Scott thought.

  The three constables he’d brought from Kinloch now stood behind Hamish, all gathered on the jetty, waiting for the detective, the last of their number, to jump off the boat.

  Admittedly, their skipper had done a better job than Scott had thought possible in getting them close to the pier. Still, there was something about the gap between boat and hard stone that made him flinch. He thought of his friend and gathered his courage. If an old man like Hamish could do this, then so could he.

  ‘C’mon now, sergeant, let’s be having you,’ Binder said, trying to galvanise the policeman into action. ‘A wee child could get o’er that gap. And if you don’t mind, I’d like tae get back to Kinloch before dark. Up and at ’em man.’

  ‘Aye, all right, hold your horses,’ said Scott, as he stepped over the side of the fishing boat. ‘We’re no’ all born tae this kind o’ stuff, you know.’

  ‘Och, it’s like a millpond. You couldna wish for better conditions tae land here. Jeest step o’er wae a wee bit gusto and you’ll be safe as hooses.’

  Sure enough, the sea was so calm it hardly felt as though they were afloat at all. The swell was gentle and the vessel rose and fell very little at its temporary mooring.

  ‘Right, here goes,’ said Scott, taking a deep breath and bending his knees. As he did so, though, he heard a distant whine. His chest tightened and he felt unsteady, perched on the edge of the vessel.

  ‘Get a move on, man,’ shouted Hamish, holding out his hand towards Scott.

  No, not now, not now, he thought, as the whine grew louder. He was beginning to breathe more heavily, but he’d managed to stop the visions before and he was determined to do so now. He knew he had to help find his friend. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, grabbing onto the rail until his knuckles went white. Sure enough, the noise began to subside and he felt his breathing return to normal.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant,’ shouted one of the cops, trying to encourage him. Scott held up his hand to indicate he’d heard then looked up from the gap onto the jetty, ready to make the jump. He caught his breath when he saw someone strolling down the quay towards his colleagues and Hamish.

  ‘Look,’ he said, pointing beyond the small group. ‘Who’s that?’

  Everything seemed to slow down; the noise of the water lapping against the side of the boat, the rush of the breeze and the sound of seabirds disappeared. There, standing with his arms folded, a broad, mocking smile on his face, stood a man Scott had known for almost thirty years.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant Scott,’ he said. ‘Make the bloody jump. What’s the worst that can happen – end up dead, like me?’

  Scott’s world went black to the sound of John Donald’s mocking laugh echoing around the small bay. The laugh of a man who had been dead for months.

  The Shannon International AGM at Kersivay House had descended into chaos with the revelation that huge mineral contracts in China and Russia, the very foundation of the company, had been lost. Some of the board members were arguing amongst themselves; others looked deep in thought, no doubt trying to calculate the impact this would have on their lives. A few looked around the room, pale and confused, trying to make sense of it all.

  Maxwell was furious. He glared at his aunt at the other end of the table. The reality of his position began to dawn on him: he was now fully responsible for an organisation that was being challenged on all fronts – challenges that could well bring the whole company down.

  He pushed himself up from his chair and strode the length of the long boardroom table, Ailsa watching his progress with a faint smile.

  ‘You old bitch!’ he shouted, pushing his niece out of the way and banging his hand on the table. ‘You’ve brought us to our knees, just because you knew you were going to lose.’

  ‘How can you possibly think that decisions made in Beijing and Moscow have anything to do with me?’

  ‘But you knew about it. If you’d told me, I could have done something about it, not just sit back and watch as it all went tits up.’

  ‘By greasing a few palms, Maxie? Or perhaps something more creative?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . How about a portfolio of blue chip companies around the world that don’t show up on any of our accounts but whom we own and run by proxy?’

  Maxwell’s face lost all of its colour. ‘What the fuck are you on about now?’

  Ailsa continued as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘Just imagine that one, or maybe more, of these companies got into trouble. We could lose millions every hour in markets all around the world – billions, even. I wouldn’t like to be the man in charge when that little secret comes out. The buck stops here – or in this case, with you, I think I’m right in saying? I certainly have no knowledge of these dealings. Something I can prove quite conclusively.’

  Maxwell leaned forwards on the table with both arms outstretched, his head bowed, like a boxer on the ropes.

  Without warning, he lunged across the table, sending laptops, tablets, papers, cups of coffee and bottles of water flying. He grabbed Ailsa by the arm and pulled her forwards in her chair, making her cry out in pain. ‘You fucking old bitch! I could go to prison for this shit.’ His face was bright red, in contrast with his flaxen hair, which flopped over a forehead displaying a bulging vein.

  ‘You’re hurting her, let her go!’ said Nadia, battering Maxwell’s arm with her fists.r />
  Bruce rushed round to the back of his mother’s chair and made a dive at his cousin. But before his fist made contact with Maxwell’s face, the new chairman of Shannon International arched his back in agony as he received a sharp punch in the kidneys from Brady, standing behind him.

  ‘That’s enough, you little prick,’ shouted Brady as Maxwell sank to his knees, clutching his back. ‘You – we’ve – played the game and lost. Do you think attacking an old woman will make this all go away?’

  Bruce leaned over his stricken cousin. ‘I’ll give you thirty seconds to leave this room or I swear I’ll pick you up off this floor and throw you off that fucking balcony.’

  Slowly, Maxwell got to his feet, still reeling at the pain in his back. He looked at them one by one. ‘This isn’t over,’ he said quietly, then walked out of the ballroom.

  Scott was being helped up from the cold stone of the jetty, the young cops he’d brought with him from Kinloch staring at him with a mixture of concern and surprise.

  ‘Sorry, lads. You know how it is – taking a trip on the sea makes me fair dizzy.’

  ‘This happened when we were stuck at the brae with the Shannons, too,’ said the young constable. ‘I was driving, I found you in the snow. You weren’t talking sense, just like now. What’s wrong with you, Sergeant Scott?’

  ‘Och, but you know fine what’s up wae the sergeant,’ said Hamish. ‘I canna blame him, neither. How would you dae if you’d been shot in the line o’ duty and near died? Aye, and then near got burned tae death on a bonfire. Can you no’ make sense o’ whoot effect that has on a man? Doesna make him a bad person, or a bad polisman, come tae that.’

  ‘Aye, just a turn,’ said Scott. ‘There’s nothing tae be worried aboot. Besides, it’s no’ me we should be fretting over – we’ve got tae find the Chief Inspector and the rest o’ the boys. We’ll get off this bloody jetty and give Symington a phone. I’ll be fine.’