Well of the Winds Page 11

  ‘So, I just says tae this parrot, “Hello, cheeky boy.” Sure enough, “I’m fine, Daddy,” replies the bird. So, me and the big fella had the pet shop owner bang tae rights. Turned oot he was selling folk fancy birds, then paying this gang o’ wee neds tae steal them back a few months later. He didnae reckon on the parrot having learned how tae speak. Liz always found that story funny.’

  ‘Is Liz really that bad? I mean, she seemed so nice when I met her. You know, the model housewife, flour on her hands and the baby on her hip.’

  ‘Och, she’s had her moments. Always been decent wae me, but led oor Jimmy a merry dance at times, which didnae endear her tae me, I’ve got tae say. Mind you, it cannae be much fun living wae him when he’s got his teeth intae a case.’

  ‘Which is a lot of the time.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose it is. He gets so involved, you know, like there’s nothing else in his life, ma’am.’

  ‘All the best cops are the same. I worked with a guy in the Met like that . . .’

  ‘Aye, but you need tae get a balance. Me, I’m lucky. My Ella’s no’ interested in the job at all. So, when I get hame we just talk aboot normal things, like where we can go on holiday, or why she’s jealous o’ the woman along the road who’s just had her hoose roughcast. Jimmy’s never had that luxury – the pretty yin always had big ambitions for him.’

  ‘The pretty yin? I wish someone would call me that.’ She laughed, momentarily wondering just how interesting a conversation about roughcast could be.

  ‘You’re no’ a bad looker yoursel’, ma’am, if you don’t mind me sayin’,’ he said, rather shyly.

  ‘Well, thanks, Brian. And it’s Carrie when we’re not working. You’re as bad as Jim. I’ve been trying to get him to call me by my first name for ages.’

  ‘Just the way we wiz brought up. I knew John Donald for thirty years, and I would never have thought of calling him by his first name.’

  She took a sip of her drink. ‘I’ve read a lot about him, of course. Makes me feel rather inadequate, in a strange way.’

  ‘Eh? Why would you feel inadequate for doing your job well? He’d mair skeletons in the cupboard than Burke an’ Hare. So it turned oot, at any rate.’ Scott shook his head at the thought. ‘Cannae see you harbouring many dark secrets, Carrie.’

  ‘Well, no . . . apart from the brand of hair dye I use.’ She reached under the table for her handbag. ‘Excuse me for a moment, Brian.’

  Scott watched her walk away. And I’ve been a cop for too long tae miss something that obvious, he thought to himself.

  *

  Daley was sitting in the dark watching the storm, nursing a glass of whisky. One of the things he’d first noticed about Kinloch was how you lived cheek-by-jowl with the elements. Up until his posting to the town he’d spent most of his life in cities and towns inland, sheltered from all the wild Atlantic could throw at the battered west coast of Scotland. Sure, you got cold in the frost, wet in the rain and hot in the sunshine. However, somehow, a dramatic night like this enlivened the senses and made him feel part of something big, universal – not detached.

  Or was it just the whisky?

  He stared at the bottle in the shadows, now almost empty. He emptied his glass and placed Urquhart’s journal and the files back into his briefcase. He hadn’t made much progress, but he had managed to note down a few locations visited by his predecessor, some of which he recognised. He resolved to ask Hamish to take him to the sites.

  Urquhart had been searching for answers to something that puzzled him. Daley was used to that thought process, and felt compelled to do likewise.

  He walked into the kitchen and flicked the light switch, illuminating the room in a clear white light that made him narrow his eyes after spending so long in the darkness.

  After a lengthy search by both Police and Military personnel, no trace of Inspector William Urquhart has yet been found. The last line in Urquhart’s file resounded.

  He rinsed his whisky glass and opened the fridge. Some gammon and half a round of brie were being kept company by a carton of milk and a half-empty bottle of Chenin blanc. Daley resolved to go to the supermarket the next day. He took out the cheese, closed the fridge door and opened the bread bin. He frowned when he noticed the green mould on the last few slices of bread he’d been counting on as part of his supper. He tried the cheese. It was dry and sour.

  Deciding that he’d have to wait until breakfast for any kind of sustenance, he was about to call it a night when the landline began to ring. Back in the gloomy lounge, he could just make out that the number had been withheld. He answered all the same, remembering that Liz had changed the number at their old home in Renfrewshire, determined that he shouldn’t have it.

  ‘Hello,’ he said wearily, fully expecting to hear the voice of his estranged wife haranguing him about something or other.

  ‘Elliot’s boatyard in Belfast harbour.’ The voice was male, deep, with a distinct foreign accent.

  ‘Sorry? Who is this, and how did you get this number?’

  ‘Elliot’s boatyard,’ the voice on the other end of the telephone repeated, before the line went dead.

  Daley stood stock still, cradling the phone in his large hand as another gust of wind blasted rain against the window.

  16

  Brussels

  Fifteen men of varying ages, all dressed in formal black tie, sat stiffly around a long, polished mahogany table. The low murmur of voices stopped when the door swung open and a tall man, dressed like everyone else, strode into the room and took a seat at the head of the table. He smiled benignly as he looked around, noting the anxious looks on these faces he knew so well.

  ‘Gentlemen, please. This is not the time for trepidation, but for action. Being fearful that something might happen is unproductive. Stopping it from happening removes that fear. Would you not agree?’ He looked at them one by one, seeking consensus, but noted that the man sitting directly opposite him at the far end of the table was shaking his head. ‘André, you doubt my logic?’

  André sniffed contemptuously. He was in his mid forties, thin-faced with dark hair and darker eyes, almost black; his hair, swept to one side, framed an intelligent face. ‘I have been part of this for what – almost twenty years?’ He took in the nodding heads of his companions, many of them senior to him in years. ‘My father told me about this only when he was forced to. I remember my surprise – shock would perhaps be more accurate. I remember wondering how such a secret could be kept for so long by the few people he named; men from different places, who spoke in many languages, but all of whom I’d known from childhood, and many of whom I see tonight.’

  ‘Thank you for these memories, André. We all have a place in our hearts for your late father. But this is not the time for nostalgia, as I’m sure Pierre would have reminded you, if he was here.’

  ‘He would also have reminded me of the danger of the game we are playing – have been playing for so long. You men have lived with this all of your lives, as did your fathers – yes, and like me, some of your grandfathers. We all knew that something had to be done, and done quickly. But it should have been done before now, as I have advocated for a long time. After all, we now have what we want, safe, with our own people.’

  There was a collective sigh from those gathered around the table. As one, they looked at the man who had entered the room last. He was nodding silently.

  ‘Well, Hans?’ said André. ‘We await your wisdom, as always.’

  Hans pushed a lock of grey hair back from his forehead. ‘I know that in many ways you have all had reservations about our strategy, but we had no choice. Absolutely no choice! We were born in plain sight, and in plain sight we must continue. It is the way of things, and will always be that way.’

  There were nods, shrugs, and the shaking of some heads around the table. He knew that his peers required more to reassure them.

  ‘Watch this,’ he said, pressing a button on a small handset and turning to face a large screen as
it burst into life.

  The scene was a crowded street, possibly in Germany or Austria, judging by the architecture. A young man, slim with dark hair, wearing a black leather jacket, was addressing a crowd through a megaphone. He shouted – implored – in perfect German. The cadence of his voice rose and swelled as he made his point. As he finished speaking, the crowd cheered wildly, shouting their approval and waving banners.

  The footage clicked off.

  ‘This was filmed last week in Austria,’ he said, looking around slowly, fixing each face one by one. ‘I think you will agree, gentlemen, regardless of what has passed, we have what we need. Everything else is superfluous.’

  There were no longer any shaking heads around the long table.

  Timothy Gissing tiptoed down the hall of his Kensington home, hoping not to wake his sleeping wife. He caught a whiff of perfume coming from his shirt collar. He sighed, slipped off his jacket, and made his way through to the kitchen using only the glow of the street lights outside as his guide.

  He switched on the light and was startled to see her there, in a white towelling robe, hair dishevelled, holding a large glass of wine. ‘You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack,’ he said, his hand on his chest.

  ‘Thought you were on an all-nighter,’ Lucinda replied coolly, topping up her glass to the brim.

  ‘Sorry, darling, bit of a panic on, I’m afraid. I’ll have to pack a bag. Have to head off for a few days.’

  ‘Oh, really. Are you going alone, or is she going with you?’

  ‘She? What on earth are you on about? Been on the sauce again? We’ve spoken about this. You know how bloody difficult my job is, but not long now.’

  ‘I can smell her, you know. Just like I could smell them all.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this, Lucinda.’ He snatched the bottle of wine from the table and emptied the dregs into the sink. ‘I can’t help it if you’re that bloody sozzled all time your mind plays tricks on you. Go to bed, damn it!’

  ‘That was a rather pointless gesture. It’s not as though we don’t have plenty of booze in the house.’

  ‘When I get back we’ll talk. I don’t want to take this shit with us to the Cotswolds. I thought we were going to make the best of our retirement – go for walks, decent holidays, play a bit of tennis. Have a life! Not you staring through the bottom of a glass every night.’

  She smiled. ‘You have your little crutches, and so do I. Or perhaps crotches would be more appropriate in your case.’

  He pulled off his shirt carelessly, sending a button flying across the kitchen floor. Opening the door to the washing machine, he threw the garment inside, then strode out of the room, taking off his watch before running up the staircase.

  He stood in the shower, head angled back, eyes closed, mouth wide open, letting the warm water splash over his face. The fear that he’d had in his heart for so long was back at its worst. He could hear his pulse pump in his ears. Yet another fight to keep the truth at bay. Yet another fight to save his own skin, as well as the skin of so many others. Yet another fight to stay out of jail.

  The voice he’d heard in his ear only an hour before echoed in his mind, making the noise of the shower almost inaudible.

  Fix this and fix it now! Do what you have to do – anything! We can’t afford to have your Scottish police stumble on something. We can’t trust that they won’t realise the truth.

  He stepped out of the shower and towelled himself down, wincing at an ache in his lower back. The truth was that this would never go away. He could be in his office, on holiday, at home, in the sack with some giggling girl, having a meal, anywhere in fact. Even retirement was no guarantee. He’d been deluding himself for too long. He felt exhausted. He’d had enough.

  He walked into his bedroom. He no longer slept in the same room as his wife, hadn’t done for a very long time. More self-delusion. The idyllic Cotswolds home with the roses around the door was nothing but a fantasy. A ridiculous fantasy.

  He unlocked a drawer in his bedside cabinet and removed a large manila envelope. With finger and thumb, he eased it open and looked inside. The papers were exactly where they’d been for so long.

  He sealed the envelope, lifted a fountain pen from the top of the cabinet and wrote an address on the front, then affixed some stamps from a perforated strip which he left on the counterpane.

  He pulled on a tracksuit and bounded back down the stairs and outside, clutching the envelope. He jogged to the end of the street and stopped at the post box, which was set in the wall.

  He breathed deeply, then forced the envelope into the box, making sure it was safely inside.

  He looked up and down the street. All was quiet. He took the little glass phial from his pocket, slipped it into his mouth, and bit down hard, hearing the glass crack.

  In seconds, Timothy Gissing lay convulsing on the pavement, only yards from his home.

  The watery morning sun filtered through the blinds in Daley’s kitchen. He cursed when he remembered that there was nothing to eat in the house, but decided to brew a pint of coffee in the machine Liz had left behind. He may have to go to work hungry, with a queasy stomach from the whisky the night before, but at least the beverage would wake him up and relieve his thirst.

  As he waited for the coffee, he thought about what he’d read the previous evening, and the mysterious phone call.

  He padded through to the lounge, lifted the phone and dialled three numbers. ‘Yes, business number, please. Elliot’s boatyard in Belfast.’ He waited for a moment. ‘Yes, put me through, please.’

  ‘Elliot’s, can I help you?’ The woman sounded young and friendly, but slightly distracted, probably due to the early morning call. Daley had been ready to leave a message, but was glad he was actually talking to someone.

  He introduced himself, but before he could finish, she interrupted him. ‘So have you found our Denny? Where’s the stupid bugger ended up?’

  Though her voice was bright, he detected a note of anxiety, as though she was determined that their conversation would be positive. Daley had first noticed this phenomenon as a young cop. He would knock at the door of a person who was in hospital, had gone missing, or had been in trouble of some kind – the list was endless – to be confronted by a mother, wife, daughter, father or friend. He knew as well as they did that as a police officer he was there to impart bad, often tragic, news, but so often he felt that those whom he addressed were trying to make sure that they only heard what they wanted to hear. In reality, how often did the police knock at a door to tell someone good news?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied. ‘I was asked to phone this number by someone last night. I don’t know why, or who the caller was. I suppose I’m really wondering if you can throw any light on the matter.’

  The woman on the other end of the line was silent for a few moments, then spoke again. ‘Kinloch, you said. That’s the one across the water in Kintyre, am I right?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘Denny had a job in your area, well, not far from there. I wasn’t supposed to know where he was going, but I had to find the place for him on the satnav before he left. Great seaman, but not too clever with the technology, if you know what I mean. He told me to keep it quiet, but he’s been missing for a while now, and we’re all really worried.’

  ‘In this area, you say? Where, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Eh, just a wee island. Gairsay. The day before yesterday. He told me it was a rush job, but he was getting crazy money. We had to cancel a couple of jobs, but he said it was worth it.’

  ‘Who was the client?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. Denny never said.’

  ‘And how much money?’

  ‘No idea. He never told anyone here. He only had time to plot the course and get there – sailing in the dark, too.’

  ‘Is Denny the boss?’

  ‘No, no, that would be his father, Ray. He’s not in just now. We’ve been making sure there’s somebody he
re day and night, you know, just in case the daft bugger turns up. I don’t know what the weather’s like with you, but it’s been hellish here.’ Her voice was suddenly flat.

  Daley heard her breathe in, and realised that she was clutching at straws. He had the feeling he knew exactly what had happened to the unfortunate Denny, but he couldn’t mention it at this stage – not until he was sure, not until he’d been through the process. ‘I see. Okay, you’ve probably been through this with the coastguard already, but can you describe the vessel for me, registered number and the like? The call I received last night was anonymous, so I don’t quite know what it was about, but logically it does seem a bit of a coincidence if your colleague was sailing to the coast here.’

  Daley listened as the woman described Denny, the boat, and the route that had been plotted.

  ‘Do you think I should call Ray and let him know you’ve been on?’

  ‘Yes, please do. I’ll be back in touch as soon as I’ve checked a few things out.’ He ended the call with a heavy heart. It was unlikely he’d be phoning back. If the boat was the one he was thinking of, another policeman in a different uniform would be knocking on the door of Elliot’s boatyard.

  Daley dialled Kinloch Police Office. ‘Get me the number for the Irish Coastguard, would you?’

  17

  Kinloch, 1945

  ‘Inspector Urquhart, thank you for bringing this to our attention so quickly. Beats me why this fisherman didn’t come directly to us.’ The commodore’s accent bore the plummy tones of privilege. No matter what the branch of the military, they were invariably the ones who held the top jobs, thought Urquhart once more. It had been the same in the army and it rankled. He longed to live in a world of equality, but doubted he ever would.

  ‘No reason why he should. He spotted wreckage, but didn’t know whether it was naval or civilian. The local police station was the natural choice,’ he said, in the most congenial tone he could muster.

  ‘Well, what’s done is done. We’ll take it off your hands now, old chap. This body, it’s at the mortuary in Kinloch Cottage Hospital, I take it?’