Well of the Winds Page 16

  The greater good must prevail. His nation’s security was the greater good, and he reconciled himself to the fact that anything he did was justifiable in keeping its people safe, whether they be from Port Talbot or Peterborough, Paraguay or Potsdam.

  He’d read the briefing file. He knew what he had to do. How he would do it was another matter entirely.

  He hated working with outside agencies. In this case, he would have to deal with officers from Police Scotland and Special Branch; in his view, both agencies had their justifiable detractors. He particularly disliked Special Branch’s flat-footed cops who fancied themselves as James Bond.

  He’d have to stamp all over that lot.

  A voice made him jump. ‘Is this the right place for the plane tae Kinloch?’

  ‘Yes, this is the right gate.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said a small elderly man with heavy stubble, an old-fashioned flat cap and the distinct odour of whisky on his breath. ‘Dae you know, I’ve no’ been on a plane since my national service? That bloody road’s collapsed at the Rest again, so I’ve nae choice. Here,’ he said, presenting a wrinkled paper bag, ‘dae you want a mint imperial?’

  Harris was about to politely refuse the kind gesture, unsure as to the hygienic provenance of the confectionery. However, something about this old man reminded him of those of a similar vintage who used to watch him play rugby in Maesteg, and it warmed his heart. ‘Right, thanks, buddy,’ he said, reaching into the bag and grabbing a mint, hearing himself sound more Welsh than usual.

  The old man rubbed his nose on his sleeve and sniffed deeply. ‘Is this you away tae Kinloch, Taffy?’

  ‘Sorry? Oh yes, I am.’ Harris sat back, propelling the sweet around his mouth with his tongue, feeling, for the first time in a long time, perfectly at home.

  Scott and Symington were struggling up a small rise through the heather, their boots squelching in the muddy ground underfoot. Scott seemed to have an ample supply of profanities, fit for any occasion, and Symington was amused that it hadn’t failed him on this latest expedition.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked, as her companion slipped forward onto the heather.

  ‘Aye, just fine,’ he replied, pulling himself back up and examining the mud splattered up his trousers with dismay. ‘The going leaves a bit tae be desired, mind you. It looked like a wee jaunt fae the bottom o’ the hill.’

  Symington consulted her OS map, then looked along the rise, only a few yards away. ‘Nearly there, I think.’

  Soon, the muddy conditions gave way to harder rock, and in minutes they were surveying the scene from one of the higher points of the island. Behind them, with its low hills and sandy beaches, stretched the Kintyre peninsula. In the opposite direction, looking out to sea, was the distant loom of Ireland, and on the other the land masses of Islay and Jura, the latter’s peaks silhouetted sharply against the sky.

  ‘We go this way,’ said Symington, pointing to her right.

  As Scott complained about his muddy clothes, he heard a low noise, a cross between a rumble and a moan, which intensified as they walked.

  ‘Sounds like the hame o’ the deid,’ remarked Scott.

  ‘Oh, wait,’ said Symington, cocking her head to one side. ‘Wow, I think that’s a snipe.’

  ‘A whit?’

  ‘A snipe, you know, the bird.’

  ‘Oh, right, I’ll take your word for it, ma’am. My experience o’ birds is kinda limited.’

  ‘Because you’re a city boy?’

  ‘Naw, ’cause my missus would string me up.’ He smiled to himself. ‘What’s the other noise – that moaning racket?’

  ‘That, Brian, is the Well of the Winds.’ They walked on until, in front of them, amid long rushes, appeared a lochan. The water was grey, the wind rippling its surface. The moan sounded more like a lament for the dead now – a deep wail with no determinate source. ‘Creepy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, you can say that again. Near as bad as that bloody Rat Stone.’ He shuddered at the thought. ‘Does everything make a bloody racket here?’

  ‘The difference is that this is an entirely geological feature. It just happened by accident, not the product of some ancient fevered mind. Something to do with the way the rocks are configured and the undergound action of the tides, or so I read last night.’

  Just as she finished her sentence, a woman’s high-pitched laughter could be heard above the rumble of the Well of the Winds.

  Scott groaned.

  The small plane landed with a thud on the tarmac at Machrie airport, tyres squealing as the pilot fought to keep the aircraft in a straight line in the strong crosswind.

  While other passengers cowered in their seats or let out little yelps of fear, Iolo Harris leaned back and smiled contentedly. The flight had been short, but some of the views from the small window at his side had been spectacular. Little strips of white sand and rocky outcrops reminded him of a recent family holiday in the Caribbean, and the heather-covered hills brought to mind the Valleys of South Wales.

  As they opened the door of the plane, the fresh tang of the sea filled the compartment. Harris waited until everyone else had left the aircraft, then crabbed his way along the aisle and down the steps, taking time to return the smile of the air steward.

  After a cursory security check in the terminal building, he was soon on his way to Kinloch in an ancient Peugeot now being used as a taxi.

  This is where the discretion would begin.

  *

  ‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Scott as the old woman walked towards them, still cackling.

  ‘Shh.’ Symington held her finger to her lips to discourage her colleague from making any other negative comments as Glenhanity strode towards them. She was wearing a woollen skirt, and her bare legs were splattered with mud above capacious old Wellington boots.

  ‘Hello,’ said Symington, her voice friendly. ‘How nice to see you. It’s lovely up here.’

  ‘It is?’ said Scott under his breath, still annoyed at the state of his trousers.

  ‘No’ many comes up here these days. And jeest call me Glenhanity, every other bugger does.’

  ‘I would’ve thought this would be one of the tourist attractions of the island,’ said Symington.

  ‘Aye, it was, until they dancin’ ladies got built.’ She pointed south to where the blades of the wind turbines that dominated the island’s skyline were turning briskly in the breeze. ‘No’ forgettin’ the auld man an’ the auld woman. They’re doon there, tae.’

  ‘What’s a’ this wae auld men and women and dancing ladies? I telt you, ma’am, this one’s two bricks short o’ a full load,’ said Scott, in a whisper just loud enough to be heard over the moaning of the Well of the Winds and the crash of the sea below.

  ‘I can hear fine,’ said Glenhanity with a toss of her head. ‘You’re a thrawn bugger. I don’t like you at a’. Folk jeest want tae see big things, like they windmills. They forget the other things – the secrets.’

  ‘Are there any secrets here?’ asked Symington.

  ‘There are so. Big yins, at that. Come doon for a wee refreshment, and I’ll tell you aboot it.’

  ‘Come on, Brian,’ said Symington.

  ‘Come on where?’

  ‘We’ll go and have a cup of tea with Glenhanity.’ The Scottish name sounded odd in Symington’s Yorkshire accent.

  ‘Here, I’m kind of choosy where I eat and drink. You’d need tae get the place fumigated before I neck any tea at her hoose. Aye, and that’s if tea’s even an option. The only drink she’ll likely have will be in bottles wae forty per cent by volume written on them.’

  Symington ignored him and fell into step with the old woman.

  ‘The things I’ve tae dae in this bloody job,’ grumbled Scott as he trudged after the two women.

  Harris’s room was simply furnished with a bed, a wardrobe with a crack which ran its full length, and a chest of drawers. As he opened the wardrobe to hang up his suit bag, he was dismayed to catch the whiff of mothb
alls, which added another layer of mustiness to the room. He tried to visualise some of his Whitehall colleagues being accommodated in such a place and grinned.

  He sat down on the bed and pulled his briefcase onto the bed beside him. After keying in the combination he opened it up and removed two red files, both marked TOP SECRET. The first contained a close-up of the battered face of a dead woman. The purple bruises that covered what was left of her face made her look hideous. As he flicked through the notes, he came across another image, this time of farm buildings surrounded by green fields, the sea visible in the top right-hand corner of the photograph. This was Achnamara farm – his destination for the following day.

  He read for a while, reacquainting himself with the case information. He now better understood the need for subtlety and discretion. His boss had given him an outline, but the detail was explosive, or had the potential to be, if it fell into the wrong hands.

  He closed the first file and picked up the other. The jowly face of a middle-aged man with dark hair and a neutral expression stared out from an official ID photograph. Harris studied the face carefully. Despite the man’s age and the fact that he was obviously carrying a bit of extra weight, he could still discern a strong jaw line and keen eyes. The expression was serious, bordering on melancholic, with an intimidating undertone he suspected few others would have picked up. His wife would have described this man as ‘lived-in handsome’, one of the many pro-forma descriptions of people she used frequently. Yes, he thought, you’d be right about this one, love.

  He locked the briefcase and slid it under the bed before quickly changing into a pair of black jeans and a sweatshirt. He headed downstairs to see what culinary delights this rather down-at-heel hotel had to offer.

  24

  Scott looked around the room, aghast, until he caught Symington’s eye.

  ‘Your mouth is gaping, Brian,’ she said in admonition.

  ‘Is it any wonder?’ He made a conscious effort to close his mouth, then continued his perusal of Glenhanity’s chaotic home.

  The place was dark. The curtains were drawn, obscuring two tiny windows on either side of the room. The walls were covered in what looked like decades-old wallpaper, stained brown by age and nicotine, and slathered with large patches of black damp. Glenhanity had lit a fire, which was now crackling away in the little black iron grate. Above that was a painting of a refined-looking woman in a rather extravagant hat, standing beside the Gairsay Hotel. It faced the police officers, who were perched on an ancient couch, from which straw poked through holes, its wooden frame visible under the threadbare upholstery. Scott’s end of the couch appeared to have entirely lost its springs; consequently, he was sitting a few inches lower than his superintendent. He recoiled, a strangled noise in his throat, as he spotted a large silverfish appear from under the picture frame and proceed along the wall above the fireplace.

  ‘Dae you see that?’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’ Symington replied, her voice equally low.

  ‘That . . . that beastie crawling along there.’

  ‘Oh, be quiet, Brian. You’ve been in worse places than this. There are some lovely paintings – that woman, those seascapes. An amateur, but a good one.’

  ‘Never knew you was an expert in fine art, tae. And as far as having been in worse places than this, aye, I dare say I have, though I must have put them oot o’ my mind ’cause I cannae remember any.’ He sniffed the air. ‘What’s that stench? Smells like something’s died. Aye, an’ been deid for a while, tae.’

  ‘Dae yous baith take sugar?’ Glenhanity’s head appeared around the kitchen door.

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ replied Symington. ‘Brian?’

  ‘No, no, you’re fine, thanks.’

  The old woman disappeared again.

  ‘You do take sugar, Brian.’

  ‘No’ in here I don’t. I dread tae think what’s been crawling through it – aye, even if it’s sugar at a’. Mair likely dandruff.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, Scott still following the progress of the large insect that had now reached the mantelpiece and was feeling its way along it using its long antennae.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Glenhanity, bearing a tray upon which sat an old brown teapot with a cracked lid, and three mugs, all of which were chipped and bore dubious stains. ‘Sorry I don’t have any biscuits or the like. I don’t get many visitors these days.’ She smiled, revealing a row of blackened stumps.

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Scott, still eyeing the silverfish.

  ‘So you’ve been in this house all your life?’ Symington took the mug of tea she’d been given and warmed her hands.

  ‘I have that. I was born on that couch, wid you believe?’

  ‘Eh, which end?’ asked Scott, looking down at the worn fabric he was sitting on in horror.

  ‘You needna worry. The thing’s been re-covered a pile o’ times since then.’ Glenhanity’s cackle filled the stuffy room.

  ‘Could you tell us something about yourself, your family?’ said Symington.

  The old woman sat down heavily, tea slopping out of her mug as she did so. ‘My faither was a fine man, missus, the best fermer on the island. Aye, an’ the best at the fishing, tae. Wisna a bad painter, neithers. I heard you talkin’ aboot his paintings.’

  ‘Oh, so they were painted by your father. He was very talented, indeed.’

  ‘You’re right there. He could dae a painting in a matter o’ hours. Naebody was interested, mind. If we came fae somewhere else, maybes folk wid have taken mair notice.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure. He was really, really good.’

  ‘He was a clever man. Read a’ the papers front tae back every day. He knew aboot the world, but the world didna know aboot him here on this wee rock. Och, we got along a’ the same. We only had this croft, but we put they buggers wae the big ferms tae shame. Folk used tae come fae all over tae get their hands on my faither’s cocks.’

  Scott, now holding the stained and chipped mug of tea he’d been given as far away from his face as possible, widened his eyes in disbelief.

  ‘I don’t know whoot you’re staring at, you scunner. Tae hell wae they turkeys, you canna beat a big black cock at Christmas. And my faither had the best cocks aroon. Auld Mrs Gemmill – her family used tae own the island, a way back, that’s her in the painting above the fireplace – she widna go back tae London until my faither gied her his best cock, an’ that’s a fact.’

  This latest statement gave even Symington pause for thought, but the bright smile soon returned to her face. ‘He was really good at people as well as landscapes.’

  ‘Don’t forget his cock,’ said Scott under his breath, eliciting another glare from Glenhanity.

  ‘I’m interested in your father’s time on the boat. You told me he helped the Bremner family. Did he know them well?’

  ‘He did that. Worked for them. For a whiles, anyhow.’

  ‘So he didn’t work for them for long. Why was that?’

  ‘They made the same mistake wae him that they made wae the rest o’ the village. They thought we was jeest a band o’ yokels that didna know oor arses fae oor tits, if you pardon the expression,’ she said apologetically, then broke wind.

  ‘McAuley telt me everybody liked them,’ observed Scott, his mug of tea now abandoned on the floor at his feet.

  ‘Aye, sure, that’s whoot maist folk were like. My faither saw through them fae the off.’

  ‘Saw through what?’ asked Symington.

  ‘Saw whoot they were. On this island everyone’s too polite tae each other. We’ve a’ tae muddle through the gither through thick and thin, so it doesna dae tae have any bitterness between folk. Love your neebours, that’s whoot it says in the good book, and that’s what folk are like here.’ She began to cough violently, the strain making her face turn red.

  ‘Are you okay?’ enquired Symington, getting up from the couch.

  ‘Fine, dear, jeest fine.’ Her cough now subsided, Glenhanity made a
rumbling sound deep in her throat, then expertly spat a large glob of phlegm into the fire, where it hissed as it landed on a lump of burning coal.

  ‘Oh, fu—’ A furious look from Symington stopped the oath in Scott’s mouth.

  ‘Are you member o’ the gentry or something?’ Glenhanity turned to the policeman, whose face still bore a disgusted expression. ‘’Cause you sure don’t sound like one.’

  ‘You were saying about the Bremners and your father,’ said Symington, raising her voice slightly in an effort to end the bickering between her DS and the old woman.

  ‘Aye, they killed him in the end.’

  There was a silence in the room for a few seconds, save for the ticking of an old clock on the mantelpiece that the silver-fish had mounted and was now feeling its way across, and the crackle of the fire.

  ‘What do you mean, they killed him?’ asked Symington.

  ‘He knew fine whoot they were at. They’d been at it the whole war. Helping the Nazis. Aye, and mair besides.’

  ‘They were Jews who escaped the Nazis,’ said Scott, making his first real contribution to the conversation. ‘Why would they be helping them? They’d get nae help fae that quarter. My grandfaither was at the liberation o’ Belsen. He never spoke aboot it. Every time anything aboot the Holocaust was mentioned he just burst intae tears. Aye, an’ he wisnae a man prone tae greetin’, neither.’

  ‘They was nae mair Jewish than I am,’ shouted Glenhanity. ‘At the start o’ the war they were spies. When the war was coming tae its end, they helped loads o’ they Nazis tae escape. Fae this very island, tae. They were treated well. But they’d a bigger secret than a’ that, I can tell yous.’

  ‘So they killed your father because he knew this?’ asked Symington.

  ‘They did that. Drooned him, they did.’

  ‘That’s a very serious accusation, Glenhanity. Do you have proof?’

  ‘He telt me they were going tae dae it, that’s my proof!’ She held her head in her hands and started to sniffle. ‘I was only a wee lassie, but I mind my faither telling me plain as day, efter whoot he saw.’