Well of the Winds Page 17

  ‘What did he see?’

  ‘It was my ain fault,’ she wailed. ‘I might as weel have drooned my faither mysel’.’ She looked up at the painting above the fireplace.

  ‘But you were only a little girl. How could it have been your fault?’

  ‘Because I opened my big mooth, that’s how. I’d been warned tae say naethin’ at the school, but I didna listen.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said it once an’ it killed my faither. I knew no’ tae say it again, or I’d be the next one deid.’

  ‘Is that what you’re on aboot when you’ve had a few too many?’ asked Scott.

  ‘I’m no’ wantin’ tae say any mair,’ she hissed at him. ‘How dae you know I take a drink?’

  ‘Take a drink? I didnae think you did anything else!’ blurted Scott.

  ‘Get oot! Jeest get oot, the pair o’ you!’ shouted Glenhanity, struggling to her feet, her tear-stained face red with fury. ‘Yous’ll no’ catch me oot that easily. Get oot!’

  ‘Come on, Brian,’ said Symington, tugging at the detective’s arm as she got up.

  The two police officers were just leaving the room when the old woman called out to them to wait. She began rummaging in the drawer of a cupboard by the fireplace. ‘Here. Take this if yous don’t believe me, but I’m telling you, it’s the last help yous’ll get oot o’ me!’ She retrieved something small and shiny, and threw the object towards Scott with no little force.

  Scott reached out, catching the object just before it hit Symington. He turned it over in his hand. ‘What’s this?’

  Just over three inches in length, the cigarette lighter was slim and silver, with an eagle holding a black swastika on a red roundel.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Jeest get oot!’ shouted Glenhanity. ‘They never paid my faither for half the things he did, so he took this off them – wanted tae sell it tae get his money. Poor bastard never got the chance.’

  ‘So he took it from the Bremners?’ asked Symington.

  ‘Aye, he did that. It never brought him nae luck. I don’t know how I kept it for so long. As for the rest, yous are the detectives – get detecting!’

  Iolo Harris opted to dine in the bar at the County Hotel. He had enjoyed the starter, a crab cake served with prawn toast, and was now tucking into a thick fillet of cod served with chips and peas.

  A variety of drinkers came and went, all of whom, despite not knowing him from Adam, nodded in greeting as he sat at the back of the room.

  He took a sip of his pint before attacking the plate once more, glad the portion sizes were more generous than those of the restaurants he frequented in London. The fish was fresh and moist, and he was relieved not to have to consume a fancy foam, pickled broth or drizzled jus. This kind of fare was to his taste: back-to-basics, hearty food of the type he’d enjoyed as a boy in Port Talbot.

  The woman who had welcomed him to the hotel bantered with and chastised her customers in equal measure, her laughter and admonishments sounding above the convivial hum.

  ‘Are you all right o’er there, Mr Harris?’ she called, standing on her tiptoes to address him from behind the bar. ‘Oor chef’s made a lovely trifle the day, if you fancy a dessert. Or there’s the usual ice cream or sticky toffee pudding, if you prefer.’

  ‘I’m fine, Annie,’ he said. ‘Bursting at the seams here, so I don’t think I’ll manage a sweet.’

  ‘We’ve a lovely cheese board, tae. You canna beat a piece o’ Kintyre cheddar, I’m telling you. Folk come fae far an’ wide tae eat it. They’re selling it in Harrods noo, they tell me.’

  ‘Maybe later.’ He beamed a smile at her as she went back about her business.

  At that moment a tall, dark-haired man in a crumpled grey suit entered the bar. A corner of his shirt-tail was hanging over the front of his trousers, which he hastily tucked in. Despite the paunch, he still looked intimidating, though his face was drawn and bore deep lines that Harris didn’t associate with the age he knew the man to be. Though he looked more careworn than the image in the file, Harris knew who was now leaning wearily on the bar.

  He got up from his table, taking his empty plate with him. ‘There we are, Annie,’ he said, putting the plate beside a water jug. ‘Lovely piece of fish. Please give the chef my compliments.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Harris. Much obliged – glad you enjoyed it,’ she said, pushing a small tumbler beneath an optic in order to pour a double measure of whisky. ‘There you are, that’ll warm the cockles o’ your heart.’ She turned to the large man at the bar and slid the glass towards him. ‘I’ll get the money in a second. Can I get you another drink, Mr Harris?’

  ‘Yes, please. Another pint of heavy, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Coming right up.’ She removing his empty plate from the bar and placed a pint glass under a beer font in one practised movement.

  Harris smiled at the taller man beside him. ‘Friendly place, this,’ he said, again hearing himself sound more Welsh than he was used to.

  ‘Yes, always friendly in here. Are you on holiday?’

  ‘No, I’m here on business, actually. And, if I’m not mistaken, that business might involve you, DCI Daley.’

  ‘Not your most diplomatic performance, Brian,’ said Symington, striding down the hill through the heather.

  ‘Ach, I don’t know what you’re getting yersel’ in such a pickle aboot, ma’am,’ he replied.

  ‘You might think she’s nothing but an old drunk and not worth bothering about, but it’s clear to me that she’s one of the only material witnesses we have. Not many of that generation left now.’

  ‘If they a’ have lifestyles like her, I’m no’ surprised. Hoose o’ horror, that place.’

  Symington stopped in her tracks and turned to face the detective. ‘I think we’re just about to uncover one of the most important crimes that any of us has ever investigated. That’s how important this is, DS Scott.’

  ‘How can we investigate anything? We’ve been flung off the job.’

  ‘Remember the photos you took of all those documents with your phone?’

  ‘Aye, a bloody pain in the arse it was, tae. Took for ever.’

  Symington ignored his grumbling. ‘I sent them to someone I know quite well, a professor at St Andrews who’s an expert in the Second World War. He’s only had time to scratch the surface, but he’s, well, he’s astonished.’

  ‘Does it matter? It’s got cover-up written all over it now Special Branch are on the case.’

  ‘A few years ago, maybe. It’s much harder to keep things quiet now. Think of how many of these big internet leaks there have been in the last few years.’

  ‘Aye, but that’s all current stuff. Who’s interested in something that happened o’er sixty years ago? The past’s the past. Might make it ontae the History Channel, but in the end nae bugger’s really interested.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’re right, Brian. From the off, I’ve been under pressure from more senior officers than I regularly speak to in the course of a year, and that’s just in the last few days. Why would they send a team from Special Branch up here in so much of a hurry? You saw the weather they landed in – there’s an urgency about this.’

  ‘The only reason I can think of is that there’s something that might be important now, but what fae then could have any impact these days? Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Och, you know yersel’, unless somebody wae a big job an’ lots o’ money has got something tae lose.’

  ‘Or maybe more than one person?’

  ‘Noo, that would be even mair like the thing.’ Scott chewed his lip. ‘You know, one o’ these days, I’ll investigate a case wae a good auld-fashioned ned at the heart o’ it. I swear, things are mair complicated now than they’ve ever been.’

  ‘You swear quite enough already,’ she replied with a laugh.

  They continued their progress back to the hotel, both police officers now deep in thought.r />
  25

  Brussels

  He stared at the screen and sighed. Timothy Gissing was dead.

  He’d trusted Gissing, as he’d trusted his father before him. Safe pairs of hands in a country he had always known had never fully signed up for their project. First to help keep the Soviets at bay, then to stop the world from discovering their mutual secret – their insurance, as it was often called.

  He sat back in his chair, angling his head towards the ceiling. The Project. That had been its original name, so, so long ago. It had been his job to make sure that the secret at its heart was protected. Now, he and the guardians faced the most significant problem they’d encountered in a generation.

  He dialled the number that was imprinted on his mind.

  ‘I’m in need of help,’ he said in German when the phone was answered. He waited, hearing various clicks on the other end of the line. Eventually he heard a voice: frail, feminine. Despite this he shivered involuntarily. ‘We have to meet.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ A pause. ‘If this is something to do with the Greeks, I’m not interested. I see them snivelling on the television almost every night. I’m sick of it.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with the Greeks. I can be in Munich this evening. Where and when can we meet?’

  He could hear a wheeze in her throat as she contemplated his proposal. ‘How long has it been?’

  ‘Almost eight years,’ he replied. ‘You’ve lived longer than you thought.’

  ‘I’ve stayed alive because I’ve had to. Who will keep things together when I’m gone? You?’

  ‘Things will be kept together until so much time has passed that no one will care. Regardless of whether you and I live or not.’

  ‘I wish I shared your optimism. Things are a mess – not just the Greeks, everything. But our grip is strengthening. And when the rest of the world knows, then it will be our time again.’ Her voice had regained strength and force – become almost manic.

  ‘Where do we meet?’

  ‘Not here. Not in Munich – not in Germany. There are too many cameras now; these phones that everyone has. There is no privacy any more.’

  ‘There are people with phones everywhere, not just in Germany.’

  ‘We meet in Linz.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘We meet in Linz, twenty-four hours from now. You know the place. I’ll be there at noon.’

  Before he could reply, the phone went dead. He shuddered.

  Near Blaan, 1945

  Inspector Urquhart was on his hands and knees, examining the cattle float; the young farmhand was watching him in silence. McColl was in the yard making a sketch of the scene, as he’d been ordered.

  ‘What’s your surname, Andrew?’ asked Urquhart, still busy with his task.

  ‘Mitchell, Andra Mitchell.’

  ‘And how long have you worked for Mr Kerr?’

  ‘Near five years. I came here when I left the school.’

  ‘And what age are you now?’

  ‘Nineteen. Whoot’s that got tae dae with anything?’

  ‘Just answer the questions.’

  Urquhart looked around the float in disgust. The smell of dung was overpowering in the cramped space. Red blood and gore was splattered across the straw bedding and up the walls. White matter, shot through with dark arterial blood, lay congealed at his feet. The remains of Dugald Kerr’s brain.

  ‘We’ll go through it again.’ He heard the farmhand sigh behind him. ‘And again, and again, if I feel it’s necessary. Is that clear?’

  ‘Aye, perfectly,’ replied Mitchell wearily.

  ‘You were in the barn, you heard screams and you ran out. Am I right?’

  ‘Aye. I was busy sorting oot some bailer twine when I heard him.’

  ‘Was it normal for Mr Kerr to handle the bull by himself? It’s a huge beast, surely it would be a two-man job?’

  ‘Depends. The auld boy thought he knew it a’. He was always daein’ stuff he shouldna. Thought he was too clever tae let yin o’ the beasts get the better o’ him.’

  ‘You don’t sound very fond of him, Mr Mitchell. Nor do you sound very upset by his death.’

  ‘That’s jeest how I am, ask my mother. Never cried when my auld man got killed in the war. Whoot good does it dae?’

  Urquhart ignored the farmhand and stepped down the ramp. ‘You say the door was in this position when it happened. Yes?’

  ‘Aye, jeest the way it is noo.’

  The detective leaned forward, pulling at a brass ring that was set in the door. It was loose. ‘Is this the keeper for the catch that secures the ramp when it’s closed?’

  ‘Aye. Why dae you ask?’

  ‘Because the screws are loose. And these marks look like hoof imprints to me. A bull kicking back at the door with its hind legs, trying to batter it down. Loosening the catch, even?’

  ‘Ayrshire bulls. They’re really bad-tempered. The big bastard was a’ways trying tae batter doon the door. Naethin’ unusual aboot that. That’s jeest their nature.’

  ‘And Mr Kerr never asked you to fix it?’

  ‘No’ recently. Here, whoot are you trying tae say?’ said Mitchell, suddenly realising the implications of Urquhart’s enquiries.

  ‘When you saw him he was inside being trampled by the bull?’

  ‘Aye, he was. Screaming, it was horrible.’

  ‘Right.’ Urquhart wiped his hands carefully. ‘I want you to come to Kinloch with me. I have a few more questions to ask you.’

  ‘Whoot? Are you arresting me?’

  ‘You’re helping with enquiries, Mr Mitchell. A man has died here. I want to be sure that we get all the facts right.’ He walked away from the float and turned to face the farmhand. The bull, back in the paddock, was snorting, dried blood on its nose where the ring had been pulled frantically by Dugald Kerr. ‘Tell me. Did Mr Kerr mention where he was going later in the day?’

  Mitchell shrugged his shoulders. ‘I canna mind.’

  ‘Try and mind, Mr Mitchell.’

  ‘Och, I think he said he’d tae go intae the toon. Away drinking in the County, likely.’

  ‘Oh, so he said he was going to the County?’

  Mitchell swallowed hard. ‘No, but he went there near every day. Jeest a wild guess.’

  ‘Come with me, Mr Mitchell. McColl, have you finished the sketch?’

  ‘Yes, nearly.’

  ‘Hurry up, then.’

  Urquhart stared thoughtfully at the young farmhand as he escorted him to the car.

  As they drove into Kinloch, Urquhart was surprised to see bunting being stretched across Main Street by two council workers standing on wooden ladders on either side of the street. Other workers were busy erecting a large podium outside the town hall.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked, turning to McColl in the passenger seat.

  ‘It’s the c-celebration of Hitler’s death, on tomorrow. M-my father was telling me about it last night.’

  ‘Organised by whom? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘B-by the provost, I think. S-surely it will be the end of the war, sir?’

  Urquhart sighed. ‘As I’ve told you before, if anyone thinks the Germans will lie down and die just because Hitler’s dead, they have another think coming. I dread what will happen to the POWs, for a start.’

  ‘B-but the Geneva Convention – surely they’ll be safe?’

  ‘Do you really think the Germans care about that? You mark my words, there are horrors we’ve yet to discover.’ Urquhart gripped the steering wheel, trying to control his irritation.

  ‘Dae you no’ like them, then?’ scoffed Mitchell.

  ‘I wonder, why is a fit young man like you not off serving his country in the hour of its greatest need?’

  ‘I’m a fermer,’ replied Mitchell, staring defiantly at Urquhart in the mirror. ‘Who would feed the country if a’ the fermers was away fighting wae the army?’

  ‘You tell me, son. I’m quite sure there are old
farmers – women, too – who can work the land. In my view, if you’re young and fit, you should be helping win the war.’

  He suddenly realised that McColl was staring at him from the passenger seat. He thought of apologising, but didn’t; he didn’t feel like giving the grinning farmhand in the back of the car anything else to sneer about.

  They drove up the hill and were soon through the gates of Kinloch Police Station.

  Daley studied Iolo Harris’s ID. They were now sitting at the back of the bar, Daley’s normal perch.

  ‘You’ve done your homework, Mr Harris.’

  Harris smiled. ‘It’s my job to be one step ahead, Chief Inspector. I needn’t tell you the challenges our nation faces these days. I’m paid to keep us all safe, as are you. We’re on the same side.’

  ‘So, you thought you’d just come here and hijack me, rather than use the normal channels?’

  ‘I’m all for the friendly approach, Jim. May I call you Jim, by the way?’

  Daley shrugged. ‘If I can call you Iolo.’

  ‘Nice little hotel, this. Good grub, too. Can’t stand the bloody fancy stuff I keep getting put in front of me in London.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand living in London.’

  ‘No, I’m not that fond of it, either. But, you know, you get used to it. Been there for twenty-odd years now.’

  ‘Working with the MOD?’ It was Daley’s turn to smile.

  ‘Somebody has to. You had a bad experience with us, then? I know you’re not ex-military.’

  ‘You’re a spook, Iolo. Plain and simple. You might be working for the MOD, but you might as well have MI6 tattooed on your forehead.’

  ‘Not true, Jim. My job is only to investigate incidents that come within the remit of the ministry.’ Harris surprised himself at how easily he could lie. It hadn’t come naturally. Unlike some of his colleagues, for him it was the least appealing part of the job.

  ‘When are you heading over to Gairsay?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Tomorrow. I have to liaise with a Special Branch team over there.’

  ‘Yeah, the guys who replaced our investigation team.’

  ‘Wasn’t my decision, I can assure you of that. I can’t stand those bloody cowboys.’