One Last Dram Before Midnight

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Well, I better get back in. Just you lot behave,’ said Daley, ignoring Annie’s sideswipe at the opposition.

  As he took the few steps back into the ornate sandstone building, the chant began again: ‘Whoot dae we want . . .’

  II

  Scott had his feet up on the desk reading the sports pages of his favourite tabloid when Sergeant Shaw arrived at his side, a strained look on his face.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Scott. ‘The Queen’s stranded on a sandbank oot in the sound and I’ve tae go an’ save her in a boat that’s leaking like a sieve, in the heaviest sea this century.’

  ‘No, nothing of the kind.’

  ‘So, no boats. Well, at least that makes a change.’

  ‘I’ve got a gentleman – a Mr Thomas Marchmount – at the front office. Says he’s about to be a victim of a theft.’

  ‘Aboot tae be? That’s a new one on me.’

  ‘Best you come and take a look yourself, Brian.’

  Scott followed Shaw through to the reception area, where sat a small man wearing a trilby hat above thick dark glasses. A Labrador with a shiny black coat was curled up at his feet, a long white stick propped up against the wall behind it.

  ‘Mr Marchmount, here’s one of our senior detectives to have a word with you – DS Scott.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you, Mr Scott,’ replied the old man with a smile. ‘Brave chap, but a bit of a rebel, by all accounts.’

  ‘You’re well informed, Mr Marchmount,’ replied Scott.

  ‘Yes, well, I try to be. People think that because you’ve lost your sight, your mind has gone with it. I’m always anxious to make sure I disabuse them of that notion.’ He was well spoken and self-assured.

  ‘A friend of mine is blind,’ said Scott. ‘Got injured doon the pit when he was a boy. I swear he knows mair aboot the world than most folk.’

  ‘I think many people with a disability try their best to compensate, one way or another. Now, Sergeant, can you help me? I want to report a theft.’

  ‘A theft, you say. Now, when did this happen?’

  ‘It’s happening tomorrow, I believe.’

  ‘Right. If you don’t mind me saying, Mr Marchmount, that’s quite unusual. Most folk come in and tell us they’ve been a victim of theft after stuff goes missing, no’ before.’

  ‘Let me explain, Sergeant Scott.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ replied Scott, patting the guide dog.

  ‘I taught history in the local school for almost forty years. Thankless task sometimes, but one does one’s best.’

  ‘Aye, I know that feeling well.’

  ‘To cut a long story short, although I ended up as a history teacher, I studied archaeology at university. Back in those days, I’m sad to say, that fine discipline wasn’t given the funding it deserved, so consequently many of us graduates were unable to find work and ended up teaching. Different now, I’m glad to say.’ He paused, fished in his pocket for a hanky, and blew his nose loudly, making the dog flinch. ‘There, there, boy, nothing to worry about,’ he said, leaning down to stroke his companion.

  ‘So, you taught history here, but your real love was archaeology, right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. To keep my hand in, I began looking at places of interest locally. It was then that I discovered the old Iron Age settlement in the hills above the town here.’

  ‘Where they found this necklace everybody’s talking aboot?’

  ‘Precisely, Sergeant – in fact, it was me who found it.’

  ‘Really? That’s some achievement, Mr Marchmount. I’m sorry, I’d nae idea it was you. You must have been right chuffed wae yersel.’

  ‘Yes, I was delighted. I could see in those days, and I’ll never forget finding the first black triangle in the soil. I suspect I’ll never experience such a thrill again.’ He fell silent, reliving the moment in his mind. ‘However, I’m not pleased by the eventual outcome, and that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, to cut a very long story short, having found the piece, I followed the rules and informed the Crown Office. Discoveries like that are property of the Crown, should the Queen desire them.’

  ‘She didnae want it?’

  ‘Indeed not, rather short-sighted, I might say. But, it was the late sixties, and if something didn’t glitter like gold, it wasn’t deemed to be of any value. Over the years, of course, they came to their senses and have since been coveting the object. Therein lies my objection.’

  ‘Now the museum’s letting it go doon tae London for a while?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely because of that.’

  ‘But surely that’s their decision, Mr Marchmount?’

  ‘Actually, no, it’s not. When the Crown Office declared that they weren’t interested in taking possession of the necklace, it became my property. It was found on common land, a rough hillside not belonging to anyone, so it was a case of finders-keepers, if you like. Mind you, I didn’t want the responsibility of looking after something so precious so I loaned it to the local museum. I wanted the people of the area to have the benefit of being able to go and look at it.’

  ‘Loaned?’

  ‘Yes, loaned. I was quite emphatic about it at the time. I was going to bequeath it to the people of the town after my death, but until that day I retain ownership. I always had it in the back of my mind that something like this might happen again.’

  ‘You mean they’ve wanted to take the necklace before?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sergeant. I’m afraid we don’t have a very good record in this country of remembering what artefacts belong to whom. Look at the Elgin Marbles. A disgrace, if you ask me. They sent us a replica in the seventies, you know. Oh, it was very well made and convincing, and obviously wrought by a real craftsman, but you couldn’t feel it, feel the spirit, if you know what I mean. They blithely informed us that the replica would make a fine centrepiece in our little museum, while they displayed the original in London. I’m pleased to say our local politicians had more sense about them then. Wouldn’t consider giving permission for it to be taken.’

  ‘But you’ve given permission for this to go to London now – why?’ asked Scott, puzzled by the old man’s change of heart.

  ‘That’s just it. I’ve given no such permission. In fact, I was left to find out about the whole thing in the talking papers. The council didn’t even afford me the courtesy of informing me directly.’

  ‘That’s bad form, is it no’?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose they’ve come to think of it as their property over the years. Probably thought I was dead. But I’m not dead and I do not want that necklace to go to London, from where, I believe, it is unlikely to return.’

  ‘And you’ve told the council about this?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve written to them, tried to phone – even had my granddaughter send some of these email things – all to no avail.’

  ‘What? They’ve never replied?’

  ‘No, nothing at all. So that’s why I’m here. As soon as that necklace leaves Kinloch Museum tomorrow, I want to report it as stolen.’

  III

  The bar at the County Hotel was unusually quiet as the patrons stared at the wall-mounted television beside the gantry. Councillor Murray was busy telling the world how much the jet necklace represented Kinloch and urging interested parties to pay a visit to the place where it was discovered once they’d seen it at the British Museum.

  ‘Och, you’ll be jeest as much enchanted by oor wee toon as you are by the artefact itself. For me, it’s part o’ oor culture – a link tae the fine men and women who were oor forebears here in Kintyre,’ intoned Murray, beaming at the interviewer.

  ‘Here,’ said an old man sitting at a table near the bar. ‘Oor forebears, bugger a’. His family’s fae Glasgow – his grandfaither came tae work at the pit oot at Machrie. He’s no’ fae the toon.’

  ‘Come on, Bertie,’ said Annie, polishing a pint tumbler vigorously. ‘Charlie was born here, so was his faither.’

&nbs
p; ‘Aye, but see if I’m born in a stable it doesna make me a horse, noo, does it?’

  Annie sighed.

  At their usual table, furthest away from the bar, Daley and Scott sat with Hamish, the old man puffing away on his unlit pipe. As the news moved on to another item, he removed his greasy Breton cap and scratched his balding head.

  ‘Typical politician, that’s whoot I say. They wid try tae make you agree that getting your left leg cut off was a positive advantage. I’ve nothing against Charlie personally, mind, but he doesna half talk a lot o’ pish.’

  ‘Not a fan of the necklace being moved down to London then, Hamish?’ asked Daley.

  ‘No, not in the slightest. In fact, I’m no’ sure they shouldna jeest have left it in the ground where it belonged. After a’, it was a burial site. I don’t fancy some interfering bastard poking aboot in my grave in a few hunner years and taking my pipe away tae put on display in some museum.’

  ‘How likely is that?’ said Scott, before draining his glass of orange juice.

  ‘Ye o’ little faith. I’m quite sure my resting place will be the cause o’ much interest tae one o’ they archaeologists in the future. No’ least the fact that I come fae an unbroken line o’ Kinloch fishermen going back tae time immemorial. Och, I wouldna be surprised if thon jet necklace belonged tae one o’ my ain family. Way back in time, mark you,’ he added, just in case the detectives thought he didn’t appreciate the age of the necklace.

  ‘I can just see you parading aboot wae something like that,’ said Scott. ‘You’d have tae be careful you didn’t lose it on a big night oot, if you know what I mean.’ He winked at Daley.

  ‘A’ I’m saying is this: when your man the schoolteacher found that thing in nineteen sixty-eight . . .’

  ‘Mr Marchmount, you mean?’

  ‘Aye, Brian, the very man. It was the worst year at the fishing anyone could remember. Years ago, I’m talking aboot. There’s nae fish left noo, everyone kens that.’

  ‘How can you equate the discovery of the necklace with a thin time at the fishing, Hamish?’

  ‘Well, it’s like this, Mr Daley. The man that had that piece taken fae his own grave was likely a king or something. An’ kings don’t like being disturbed – no’ in this world nor the next. You know fine that back in they days they maist likely lived on fish. They would have been the most important thing in their lives, saving them fae starvation, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘And?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Stands tae reason that the way this fisher-king would show his displeasure wid be tae make sure the fishing wiz fair buggered when they took his ain necklace oot o’ his last resting place. You boys are fae the city – yous wouldna understand.’

  ‘You told me that it was some supersonic plane that frightened the fish away,’ remarked Scott.

  ‘Indeed I did, but as you know fine well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways – as dae kings, I daresay.’ Hamish planted his pipe back in his mouth, happy – whatever the contradictions – that his reasoning was sound.

  ‘Well, whatever you say, auld Mr Marchmount’s no’ happy that they’re taking the thing tae London.’

  The noise level in the bar that had risen after Murray’s appearance on television lowered again. As Daley looked up, he saw the same diminutive woman who’d spoken to him in the museum. She’d changed into another trouser suit, only this time in black, which made her look even more self-assured and authoritative. A tall young man carrying a briefcase stood behind her.

  ‘A large G&T, please. What would you like, Hal?’ she asked, turning to her companion.

  ‘Wid you take a look at that?’ said Hamish. ‘Bold as brass. Fair rubbing oor faces in the dirt.’

  ‘How do you know who that is?’ asked Daley.

  ‘You’d have tae be fair stupid not tae pick up on who’s who in this place – mind, Mr Daley, it’s Kinloch. A stranger sticks oot like a sore thumb, especially when she’s jeest aboot tae make off wae your heritage.’

  Daley watched the proceedings at the bar. As Annie served the new customers, several burly fishermen slid off their stools and occupied the two, hitherto vacant, tables. Spotting this, Daley frowned. He eased himself from his seat and made his way to the bar.

  ‘DCI Jim Daley,’ he said, holding out his large hand to the small woman. ‘We spoke briefly in the museum this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, pleased to meet you. Kate Thornberry,’ she said, gripping Daley’s hand with surprising strength. ‘I’m the deputy curator at the British Museum, but you probably know that. I’m sorry, I don’t recall meeting you earlier.’

  ‘I was in uniform,’ replied Daley. ‘Please, join us. Tables suddenly seem hard to come by in here.’ He glared at one of the fishermen sitting with an implacable expression, arms folded across his chest.

  Scott purloined a couple of chairs for their new drinking companions, and as they made themselves comfortable Hamish sucked at his pipe with renewed vigour.

  ‘Thank you for offering us a perch, DCI Daley. The tables did appear to fill rather swiftly there,’ she said wryly.

  ‘I’m sure folk mean no real harm, Ms Thornberry. I think everyone’s just a bit uptight about the necklace being taken so far away.’

  ‘Please, Mr Daley, call me Kate. And this is Hal McKee, my man that does, so to speak,’ she said, dark eyes sparkling.

  Once the introductions were over, Hamish sat back in his chair and sighed, rolling what was left of his whisky in its small glass. ‘I’m jeest wondering. Is this something you dae a lot? Travel roon the country hoovering up precious things fae wee communities like this one?’

  Thornberry smiled. ‘Well, I’m no stranger to plunder, if that’s what you mean. I happen to believe that everyone deserves to have the chance to look at such a wonderful piece of history, not just the people who happen to live at the locality in which it was found.’

  ‘Sound logic, I suppose,’ said Daley. ‘I think the problem here is that folk think the necklace is unlikely to be returned.’

  ‘Just like they chessmen fae up north,’ spluttered Hamish, dropping his pipe at the sheer injustice of it all.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Thornberry with a sigh. ‘Some artefacts are deemed so precious that their security is at risk in smaller provincial museums. The trade in looted historical items is at an all-time high. It’s our job not just to showcase these wonderful things, but to keep them safe from the criminal fraternity.’

  ‘There you have it!’ shouted Hamish, standing up stiffly. ‘Fae your ain mooth, tae. You’ve no more intention of letting us have the jet necklace back than flying through the air.’

  ‘That’s not what I said, Mr . . . sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘A concerned local, that’s whoot I’m called!’

  ‘His name’s Hamish,’ said Scott wearily.

  ‘Aye, that’s jeest great. You’ve jeest blown my cover, Brian Scott.’

  ‘A concerned local is hardly up there with Malcolm X, Hamish,’ replied Scott. ‘Anyway, everyone knows fine who everyone else is here. You said so yourself no’ a few minutes ago. All Kate here would have tae dae would be run oot in the street and shout, “Who’s that auld duffer wae the greasy cap?” and she’d be sure tae get your name, address an’ even the maiden name of your great granny, I shouldnae wonder.’

  ‘Och, I gie up. Time I was in my bunk,’ said Hamish. Wishing the company a polite – if rather stiff – goodnight, he made his way out of the County Hotel, threading between the tables to a rousing cheer from the locals.

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t handle that very well,’ said Thornberry, draining her glass. ‘I should’ve learned long ago just to go to my room and stay there when in the midst of awkward situations like this. But it’s a pretty grim prospect after a hard day’s work.’

  ‘So feelings often run high when this type of thing happens?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Poor Hal here was lucky to escape with his manhood intact when we were down in Dorset a fe
w months ago. We were taking an old piece of seventeenth-century pottery away to restore it. An old tankard – thick with nicotine it was – had been on display in this pub for three hundred years or thereabouts. Belonged to some highwayman or other. You’d have thought we were visiting every house and making off with the first-born. I don’t know.’ She took a deep breath and sighed.

  ‘So the people of Kinloch have nothing to worry about?’ asked Daley.

  ‘No, almost certainly not,’ Thornberry replied.

  Daley and Scott exchanged knowing looks.

  IV

  The moon was hidden behind a fat cloud that discharged its cargo of rain over the still loch. Large drops pockmarked the treacle-black surface as the shower hissed its way from the island down the pier and then to the seafront, sending a protesting sandpiper into the air with a mournful wail. The rigging of a fishing boat creaked in the damp air as the vessel rose and fell gently on the low swell. Streetlamp reflections cast shimmering lines of light over the water as the rain drummed on the tarmac.

  A black cat that had padded its way along the quay jumped nimbly onto a tumble of nets and floats, its sleek dark coat catching the pool of white light spilling from the lamp above the harbour master’s office. Lazy waves broke on the pebbles of the low shore while, high above the sleeping town, a passenger jet’s tiny lights flashed as it flew from distant Glasgow out over the measureless Atlantic, passengers and crew blissfully unaware of the lives, loves, hopes and fears of the population of the sleeping town far below.

  It was the dark of night, just around three; the sky was an impenetrable velvet behind clouds that blotted out the light of billions of stars. This blackness would prevail until it was banished by the swirl of dawn.

  The only human figure abroad was that of Chunky McArthur making his way to the bakery to start his shift in time to ensure Kinloch had its full quota of bread rolls. The rain made him huddle into his jacket and he flipped up the collar over his ears. His was a rhythmic, practised trudge, born of almost half a century of making this ten-minute walk between home and workplace.