Well of the Winds Read online

  ‘Aye, son, nae bother. No’ like you tae take the whisky. Whoot’s up?’

  ‘Bad news, Colin,’ replied the youth, almost close to tears.

  The murmur of voices ebbed. ‘I’m sorry tae hear that, son. Whoot kind o’ bad news, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  The young man took off his bunnet, as though from respect, and bowed his head. ‘My great-uncle Dougie’s deid.’

  Colin placed a small glass, almost full to the brim with whisky, down in front of the man. ‘What? He was only in here this morning – my first customer, in fact. He seemed in fine trim. Whoot on earth happened?’

  Urquhart put down his own glass, waiting for the reply.

  ‘Killed by a bull. A hell of a sight, apparently. The polis has jeest been tae oor hoose tae tell my mother. I had tae get oot, I didna know whoot tae say.’

  Urquhart got up and walked to the bar. After having his photograph taken for the local paper, he had kept away from the office, busying himself with investigations regarding the dead sailor. Nobody had sought him out to tell him. But, if this was a farming accident, the involvement of the police would be minimal. ‘You have my condolences, young man,’ he said, reaching out to shake his hand. ‘Your uncle, what was his full name?’

  ‘Dugald Kerr, Inspector. He had a farm near Blaan. I don’t know if you know him.’

  Urquhart watched as the lad drank his whisky in one gulp, then coughed.

  ‘Get him another, please,’ said Urquhart, feeling cold now, despite the warmth of the day.

  22

  Daley had driven straight past the large gates to the retirement home, not realising that the imposing sandstone mansion tucked behind a screen of trees was in fact his destination. The tyres of his car popped and cracked their way along the long driveway. Originally the summer home of one of Glasgow’s famous tobacco barons, the building was now Kinloch’s most exclusive home for the elderly, hidden in the trees, away from prying eyes.

  ‘No’ bad, eh?’ said Hamish from the passenger seat. ‘Only those and such as those get the chance tae end their days here.’

  The pair walked up a flight of stone steps under an ornate iron canopy to the front door. A small brass plaque read WELCOME TO STONEBRAE HOUSE. PLEASE RING THE BELL AND WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE. Daley pressed the white enamel button.

  They were greeted by a young woman in a smart trouser suit, who introduced herself as Miss Heather Campbell, the manager, and led them through a tiled vestibule towards a lift.

  ‘We do our best to make this more like a home and less of a facility for the elderly,’ she said proudly. ‘Mr McColl’s on the top floor now. He likes the view – sits at the window for hours on end staring at the loch and the hills. Oh, he’s happy enough, of course,’ she added hurriedly, in case the visitors formed the opposite impression. ‘We all have to slow down, and Mr McColl’s well into his nineties now.’

  The lift juddered to a stop, and she took them down a wood-panelled corridor. Gilt-framed oil paintings adorned the walls, and crystal vases brimming with freshly cut flowers sat on each windowsill. Stonebrae House was at nearly the same elevation as Daley’s bungalow, and from the top floor the views across the tops of the trees and down to the loch were breathtaking.

  At the end of the corridor was a stout oak door bearing a brass plate with MR TORQUIL McCOLL etched on it. No room numbers here, Daley noted. Nor was there the odour of disinfectant or unwashed elderly bodies he associated with homes for the elderly. One of Brian Scott’s favourite aphorisms came to mind: Life’s a shit sandwich. The more dosh you’ve got, the less shit you eat. Here, there was only the scent of money.

  A faint voice could be heard in reply to the manager’s knock, and soon Daley and Hamish were shown into an airy, high-ceilinged room, home to a comfortable leather suite, grand fireplace and several antique paintings and ornaments. The only clues that this was a care home were a few emergency cords hanging from the ceiling and handrails placed around the walls.

  ‘Mr McColl, Chief Inspector Daley from the Kinloch Police is here to have a wee word. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. And you’ll remember Hamish,’ said Miss Campbell.

  The old man sitting in a wheelchair by the bay window turned to face his guests. ‘Heather, I’ve been talking to policemen for most of my life, as well as being one myself for more years than I care to remember. Hello, Inspector Daley, and it’s nice to see you again, Hamish. I know you’re still fishing, because I see your wee lobster boat chugging in and out the loch, through these . . .’ He held up a pair of expensive binoculars, rather unsteadily.

  Daley studied the old man. Torquil McColl was painfully thin, with wispy hair and an aquiline nose. His hooded blue eyes, washed pale by the years, peered out from a heavily wrinkled face; he very much looked his age, though he smiled at the detective with a steady, determined gaze. Daley guessed that his mind was still sharp, despite a failing body, and pictured the photograph of the three men in the newspaper cutting that Hamish had given him earlier. It was hard to believe that the gangly youth in the oversized suit, standing proudly next to Inspector William Urquhart, was the man now in front of him.

  ‘Can I get you some tea or coffee, gentlemen?’ asked Miss Campbell brightly. When they declined, she left the room, reminding them to give her a call when they were ready to leave.

  ‘Lovely place,’ said Daley, reaching out to shake McColl by the hand. He was surprised to note the strength of the old man’s grip.

  ‘Yes, it is. I’d rather have stayed in Hong Kong, but even then we knew that the Chinese would be back in charge before long, and I didn’t want to be left to their tender mercies,’ replied McColl. ‘Since here and there were the places where I spent most of my life, the choice was s-simple.’

  Daley smiled, detecting a hint of the stammer that Urquhart had mentioned in his journal. ‘How many years did you serve there, Mr McColl?’

  ‘Most of my career. They had to drag me out kicking and screaming. I was the assistant commissioner by then. But all good things must come to an end. I’m glad I’m not there now, though things have turned out better than most of us thought. I fully expected blood on the streets. We’ve had some of that, but who would have thought the Chinese could change their ways? Power of money, Inspector Daley, the power of money. Even works on communists.’ He coughed, a broad smile still spread across his face. ‘Now, you didn’t come to hear me babble on about Hong Kong. What do you want from this ancient artefact?’

  Brian Scott prided himself on the fact that he knew the workings of the female mind much better than most of the fairer sex were prepared to give him credit for. There were still areas of mystery, of course, like shopping, clothes, soft furnishings and the love of small children, but when it came to things that mattered, he was sure he could penetrate their psyche. He’d watched Symington closely since the arrival of the Special Branch team from London, and though he didn’t know her well, he had spotted a dramatic erosion in her confidence – a nervous quality he hadn’t hitherto associated with his new boss.

  He was watching her again as she looked out of the dining-room window, a small coffee cup poised in front of her mouth, her face bearing a blank expression.

  ‘Penny for them,’ he said, making her blink.

  ‘Sorry? Oh, just daydreaming. I didn’t sleep too well – all that rain and wind. It reminded me of home.’

  ‘When I think of home I get a’ nostalgic. No’ the same for you, I see.’

  She smiled. ‘Nostalgia mixed with a little sadness, in my case.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Oh, I had a nice childhood, really. My father managed an estate, and he passed on his love of the outdoors to me. Do you know North Yorkshire?’

  ‘Me and the wife took the weans tae Scarborough once. Long time ago, noo – thon Flamingo place.’

  ‘Flamingo Land. Yes, I went there, too, when I was young. All the fun of the fair, eh?’

  ‘Och, I cannae bear a’ that fairground stuff – left that tae her
an’ the weans. Some nice wee boozers aboot, mind you.’ It was his turn to stare out of the window, remembering when alcohol had played such a large part in his life.

  ‘Missing a pint or two, Brian?’

  He snorted. ‘That’s the problem having a conversation wae another cop. The buggers are always trying tae analyse your response, like an interrogation. Oor Jimmy does it tae me all the time. Might as well talk tae thon Keith Floyd bloke.’

  Symington decided to let the Floyd–Freud confusion go. ‘You’re worried about him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Who, Jimmy? Aye, I am, a wee bit. He’s taken a hell of a blow recently. I never thought he’d leave Liz, like we said. And for that tae happen tae Mary. Well, it would put anyone intae a downer. The bugger thinks too much, though – he’s always been the same.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’m thinking you might be the same, tae.’

  She smiled weakly and took a sip of coffee. ‘Touché, Brian.’

  ‘So, your faither, dae you no’ see so much o’ him noo?’

  ‘He died not that long ago – a couple of years, in fact.’ Her expression remained bright, but Scott could see a flash of pain in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry tae hear that. I lost my folks a while ago, noo. Never gets any easier, really.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ she replied honestly.

  ‘Oh, aye. Me and my big mooth. Sorry . . .’

  ‘Not at all. It has been hard. Dad and I were really close. And, well, I suppose these days you just don’t expect people to die in their early sixties. Everyone seems to live for ever. None of my friends have lost their parents. I feel cheated, somehow.’

  ‘Where I come fae, if you make it tae your mid fifties the bloke fae the Guinness Book o’ Records comes roon for a chat. We’re no’ famous for being long-lifers in the East End o’ Glasgow.’

  ‘Right. We better get going. I want to have a look at a couple of places on the island. Would you like to come with me? We’re kind of kicking our heels until I get the green light to leave, which won’t be today.’

  Scott’s attention turned to the weather. The storm seemed to have blown itself out. The pale green sea was still capped by scudding white horses, but the sky no longer glowered overhead. He even spotted a patch of blue. ‘Aye, a wee walkaboot would be grand. Apart fae my wee run, all I’ve really seen o’ this place is that farm, and the inside o’ the hotel. Dae you think they’ll ever get tae the bottom o’ all this?’

  ‘They might, but I don’t think they’ll be quick to tell us. It’s one of the reasons I want to take this walk. That old woman has been bothering me.’

  ‘The old woman? You don’t mean that auld soak, dae you?’

  ‘That’s a bit judgemental, Brian. She knew the Bremner family well. Strikes me there just might be some information hidden under all that booze.’

  ‘Well, you’ll need tae get a deep-sea diver tae swim doon an’ get it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘So you’re no’ giving up on the investigation, even though the Branch has arrived?’

  ‘No, why should I? This is our patch. We have the right to investigate what we want.’

  Scott watched as she shifted uncomfortably. It had taken a while to be sure, but he was now convinced that there was something about the team of investigators who had landed on Gairsay that Carrie Symington didn’t like. Well, one of the team in particular, thought Scott, as they readied themselves for their excursion.

  Daley was surprised to see tears welling in McColl’s eyes. ‘He was a good man, Inspector Daley. Oh yes, very brusque, didn’t suffer fools gladly and all that. But if he’d not been kind enough to keep me on, my life would have been very different.’

  ‘You’d have found another job, Mr McColl.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, my father would have seen to that. However, I’d always wanted to become a police officer – since childhood, in fact. The trouble was, if you’ll pardon the sentiment, my father had a very low opinion of the police.’

  ‘Why so?’ asked Daley.

  ‘A lot of snobbery in those days. We were distantly noble, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Man, so it’s right,’ said Hamish, slapping his own knee. ‘Yous are off the Duke o’ Argyll, right enough.’

  McColl spluttered, then took a sip of water before he could reply. ‘Does that hoary old tale still have legs? My word, Hamish, I’ve not heard that theory for a long time.’

  ‘Oh, so are you sayin’ it’s no’ true?’

  ‘No, no, not in the slightest. I think my great-grandfather had something to do with the duke’s estate. But relatives? Not at all. Though my father behaved as though he could have been a belted earl.’ He smiled at the thought. ‘To answer your question, Inspector, my father had been the procurator fiscal in Kinloch for a number of years. He was a clever man – law at Cambridge. However, in those days, if you wanted to have any success in private practice, you had to have a very large silver spoon in your mouth. We didn’t, so he had to settle for life as a junior member of the rural judiciary.’

  ‘He must have come into contact with some interesting people at Cambridge?’

  ‘Oh yes. That’s where the stories about our being related to the duke probably come from. He had a number of very influential friends – lords, ladies, even some of the more minor royals. He’d lived in that world prior to the first war. Things were very different, as he kept telling me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Lots of ways. Part of him could never reconcile the fact that we were at war with Germany for the second time. Always quoting Wellington – you know, about how fine the Prussian military were. They’d been our allies against the French for many, many years.’

  ‘So he was sympathetic to the Germans?’

  McColl’s face darkened, the smile of recollection disappearing from his lips. ‘It was a strange time, Inspector Daley. He wanted me to go into the army but was keen I should wait until after the conflict.’

  ‘So you were fit enough to go? Sorry – for some reason I thought you had some kind of medical condition.’

  ‘Friendly doctor, enough said. For all our disagreements as we were growing up, he didn’t want to see me come to harm. Said that the world would be a very different place after the war – a better place. We would finally see the error of our ways in Europe and pursue our collective interests, rather than knocking lumps off each other.’

  ‘Sounds like the Common Market,’ said Hamish, still disappointed that his theories as to McColl’s connection to the dukes of Argyll had been proven wrong.

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’ He stared out of the window again, the lids of his eyes slowly closing.

  ‘You should have a rest, Mr McColl. Thanks for seeing us. I’ll come back and see you again, and maybe I can hear more about Inspector Urquhart.’

  ‘Yes. I am feeling rather tired now. All this reminiscing. Please, do come back soon. Nice to talk to a fellow officer again.’ He nodded, smiling, then paused. ‘Oh, Hamish, before you go, I have something you might be interested in. Funnily enough, I just looked it out earlier – came across it when I was tidying what’s left of my possessions. Can’t leave a mess behind and all that – time is short.’ He pointed to a chest of drawers on the far side of the room. ‘It’s a book, on the top there. I know an old sea dog like yourself will give it a good home.’

  The dust jacket of the old book was faded. The title read, The Ring-net Fishermen of Kintyre.

  ‘Thanks, Mr McColl. Jeest the thing for a wet afternoon. What good luck you came across it before I appeared tae see you,’ said Hamish.

  ‘In my experience, luck like that is a regular occurrence. The Chinese have a saying – buggered if I can remember it now. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. It’s a little treasure trove.’

  Daley rang the bell, and in a few minutes they were being escorted out of the building.

  As the car headed down the driveway, the detective looked across the loch. As always, the big island stood sentinel over the harbour. The tide was l
ow, and the causeway snaked from the shore through the shallows.

  23

  Iolo Harris sat at the departure gate in Glasgow airport. His Celtic blood was stirred by the change in accents and the friendliness he associated with being at home in Wales, across the water in Ireland, or, as he was now, with his Scottish cousins. Though he’d made London his home, worked there for many years, he’d never really come to terms with the anonymity of the place. Now that it was becoming an even larger melting pot, folk tended to stick to their own. He’d even joined a Welsh choir. That closeness, the familiarity, made him feel closer to the Valleys.

  When he listened to his children now, they were English in heart and mind. He recalled the funeral he’d attended in Port Talbot a few weeks before – an old uncle who had lived a remarkably long life. One of his cousins was now working as a computer programmer in Los Angeles. He’d been struck by how American his cousin’s children had sounded and behaved. This amused Iolo until he turned to his own son, his eldest, who had also made the trip to pay his respects. He was the spitting image of his father but he wasn’t at home amongst the belching steelworks, chimneys and narrow streets of Port Talbot. For him, home was London.

  But, in his heart, Iolo knew it would never be his home. He was glad he was going to a seaside town. He’d done some research on the Isle of Gairsay, the Kintyre peninsula, and his immediate destination, the town of Kinloch. Its proximity to County Donegal, where the body of Mrs Bremner had been found, was striking.

  Be bold with this, his boss had advised. We’ve lived with cover-ups for too long. But be discreet.

  Being discreet was the essence of his profession. In his opinion, discretion could be defined in a number of ways. Sometimes he had to persuade and cajole; at other times he had to deploy less sophisticated techniques. Threats and the ability to dissemble while remaining an apparent pillar of the state were some of the tools he had to use.