Jeremiah's Bell Page 2

  ‘Aye, well, a’ good things come tae an end, dear.’

  ‘And what’s so special aboot Jimmy Daley? When we were up for oor dinner last week he looked like the ghost o’ Christmas past.’

  ‘He’s been through a lot, Ella. His heart, then that caper o’er at Inverkip. They fainting fits he’s been having.’

  ‘You got shot – twice – and you just had tae get on wae it!’

  ‘You know me, Ella. Where there’s nae sense, there’s nae feeling.’

  ‘You do yourself doon a’ the time.’

  ‘Maybe, but I know what I’m good at and what I’m no’. And let me tell you, I’m no’ good at being a manager.’ He marched out into the hall.

  ‘You’ll need your raincoat; it’s throwing it doon oot there.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll see you later!’

  Ella Scott heard the front door open and close, then sighed. It had been nice to boast to her friends that her Brian was an inspector. She had a picture of him in his new uniform on the mantelpiece. It made her proud.

  But he was right: Brian Scott, the man she’d loved, argued with, huffed at, been exasperated by – been to hell and back with – wasn’t cut out to be a senior officer, and she knew it. But hope sprang eternal; it was just that this hope’s spring had sprung long ago.

  She sighed again and began the weary task of clearing away the breakfast dishes.

  3

  Sergeant Shaw drew his finger across his forehead mimicking the braid on Symington’s cap, alerting Scott to the fact that his superior was in residence. Scott returned the favour with a wink.

  The Acting DI hated waiting, so he knocked on the door of the office Symington used when she visited the sub-division. Better to get things over with, he thought. In any case, with Daley’s return imminent he’d been half expecting her arrival.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said, poking his head round the door at her call.

  ‘Brian, the very man!’ she returned. ‘Come in and take a seat, please.’

  Scott sat in front of her, ready to be not only relieved of his temporary rank but also admonished for some mistake with the overtime sheets, holiday roster, or any of the other obscure and frustrating tasks that had fallen to him in Daley’s absence. But if Brian Scott was used to anything in the job he’d worked at for so long it was being hauled over the coals. The result of years of such experience had instilled a certain sangfroid on facing the music.

  ‘Now, as we know, Brian, DCI Daley should be back with us in a few days.’ Symington smiled broadly as she passed on this information.

  ‘Aye, he said he’d be back soon, right enough.’

  Symington sat forward in her seat. ‘This conversation is strictly between you and me, Brian. Off the record, so to speak.’

  Scott’s stomach began to churn. When a senior officer told you something ‘off the record’ it was rarely anything good. ‘Aye, fire away, ma’am. You know me, tight as a drum, an’ that.’

  ‘That’s why I know I can trust you with this, Brian.’ She looked at her desk, almost apologetically. ‘I haven’t forgotten our little experience on Gairsay, or what you did for me – despite what you may think.’

  ‘In the past, ma’am, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ She cleared her throat. ‘This matter is just as – delicate.’

  Fuck me, thought Scott. What other skeletons does she have in the closet? But he made sure his expression remained neutral and nodded his head sagely, ready to meet the great revelation with as much gravitas as he could muster.

  ‘I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to get Jim back, you know. It’s been bloody hard. There were plenty who wanted him put out to pasture, let me tell you. Especially after that incident on the boat.’

  Scott shrugged. ‘I cannae say much aboot that, ma’am; I wisnae there. But if it’s good enough for they c— I mean, them in Discipline, it’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Oh come on, Brian, we both know DCI Daley beat that man within an inch of his life. He had to have dental reconstruction!’

  ‘Surely he could just have done that himsel’ lookin in the mirror, like? Him a dentist an’ all. Let me tell you, Lizzie’s face wisnae too pretty when he’d finished wae her.’ Scott felt the bile rise in his throat.

  ‘That’s not the point, Brian. Jim was lucky – very lucky. He could be behind bars now, never mind coming back to work.’

  ‘Och, we’ve a’ got something we’d rather folk didnae know – eh, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ It was time for Carrie Symington to clear her throat again. ‘But as I say, it took a great deal of persuasion and personal guarantees from me in order to make this happen.’

  ‘Good of you, ma’am. I’m sure the big fella will appreciate that.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll see. However, one of the guarantees I had to give was that DCI Daley would be under close scrutiny during his first few months back at work.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  ‘Now, clearly I can’t be in Kinloch all the time, so the task of keeping an eye – and writing regular reports – on DCI Daley will fall to someone else.’

  ‘So, another new face, eh?’

  ‘No, Brian, an old face.’ She stared unblinkingly at the man across the desk.

  ‘Wait, you’re saying you want me tae spy on oor Jimmy – write reports on him?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’ She silenced Scott’s protests with a wave of her hand. ‘Nobody knows him better, and there’s no one he trusts more.’

  ‘Exactly! See where I come fae, that’s called being a sneaky rat bastard, if you pardon the language, ma’am.’

  ‘From where I’m sitting – and trust me on this, Brian – it’s the only way back for your friend. If you won’t do this – well, I don’t think I can make HQ wear it. Simple as that!’

  ‘This is blackmail. How can I spy on a man who’s been my best friend for so many years? If he ever found oot it would break his heart, and I couldnae blame him.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t get to come back to work, or gets kicked into the long grass to some shit desk job, how will he feel then, Brian?’

  ‘He’ll cash in his chips and resign – who wouldnae?’

  ‘This job’s all he has, and you know it. The only way I can make this happen is if you agree to monitor him. That’s the bottom line.’

  Scott shook his head. ‘You’ve left me wae nae choice, haven’t you? You knew I’d have tae agree under these circumstances. But let me tell you now, ma’am, I’m sick tae my stomach at the thought o’ this. And I mean sick!’ Scott banged his fist on the desk.

  ‘You’re doing the right thing for your friend – and for me, Brian. He’ll probably fit right back into the swing of things, and this will be forgotten. We’ll be back to normal.’

  Scott recalled the last time he’d seen Jim Daley. He had looked pale, agitated and nothing like his normal self. Scott wasn’t at all sure that coming back to work was the right thing for his friend to do, but he had to give the man who had done so much for him a chance. ‘Aye, I’ll dae it. But I want tae register my reluctance – aye, an’ disappointment, tae.’

  ‘There’s a silver lining, Brian – well, two, when you think about it.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Well, firstly, you’ll be helping in the rehabilitation of an old friend.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Once this period of observation is over, I’m instructed to inform you that your move to inspector will be made permanent.’ Symington smiled broadly.

  ‘You can tell them at HQ where tae stick their promotion. I feel bad enough having tae dae this in the first place. I’m certainly no’ taking thirty pieces of silver for the privilege. I’m mair than happy as a DS. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I’ve a sub-division tae run. For the time being, at least.’

  Before Symington could reply, Scott thrust back his chair, made for the door, and slammed it in his wake.

  ‘Well, that could have
been worse,’ said Symington quietly to herself.

  Even Alice Wenger had been anxious as the small aircraft approached the runway at Machrie side-on. Frequent flyer though she was, the belting rain and high winds made her doubt the decision to allow the flight to go ahead. She was further alarmed when the pilot casually informed the dozen or so souls aboard that he’d have a go at landing, but if that proved impossible it was back to Glasgow.

  Alice clutched the arm of her seat firmly as the plane hit the tarmac four times before landing was complete. She recoiled as a young man in front of her spewed copiously on the floor, and an elderly couple across the aisle screamed in unison. But as the plane came to a halt on the wind- and rain-lashed runway, her anxiety soon dissipated and she began to feel more like herself.

  It was ironic in a way. The last time she’d seen this place she’d had to flee with her heart in her mouth. Now, after all this time, she was back, experiencing much the same sensation, albeit for very different reasons.

  The small party was ushered down the few steps from the aircraft and huddled across the short distance towards the terminal building. Through security, Alice collected her luggage and addressed an elderly man in overalls marked with the airline’s logo.

  ‘I need a cab. You got any numbers?’

  ‘No need tae worry on that score,’ he replied. ‘McLintock’s always have some taxis waiting – especially on days like this. Just go oot the main door there and you can’t miss them.’

  She nodded by way of a thank you and made for the exit. The elderly man watched her leave, stroking his chin thoughtfully, before returning to his luggage duties.

  A red taxi sat behind a low fence. Alice Wenger leaned into the wind and made her way through an open gate to jump into the back seat with her luggage, thankful to be free of the dreadful weather. ‘You take me to Machrie House Hotel, yeah?’

  The young man behind the wheel smiled at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Aye, nae bother, missus. Hooroa day, eh?’

  Alice smiled at the expression she hadn’t heard for so many years. ‘Yeah, it sure is, kid.’ She studied her driver: squat, red hair and blue eyes. ‘Tell me, are you Duncan’s boy?’

  The driver looked puzzled for a few moments until the penny dropped. ‘Dae you mean my grandfaither?’

  ‘Your grandfather – wow!’

  ‘Aye, dae you know him? It’s still his taxi company, but he doesna dae much driving now on account of his knees, you know.’

  ‘We went to school together.’ She was pleased to note the look of disbelief in the young man’s eyes. It clearly seemed impossible to him that the woman now sitting in the back of his taxi could possibly be the same age as his grandfather. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Jeest an’ auld bugger – if you pardon my language, missus. My name’s Duncan tae. I’m called after him.’

  ‘I can certainly see the resemblance.’

  Her driver laughed. ‘You obviously havena seen him for a few years. Bald as a coot noo.’

  As they drove through the rain, Alice rubbed some of the condensation from the window with the back of her hand. She could make out the hills she’d known so well, looming ghosts in the gloom. They were shadows, mere glimpses, but in her time she’d come to know every path, burn and glen. Walking in the hills had been an escape, the need to free herself of other people in an attempt to find peace. Though she couldn’t see them clearly, she could picture them vividly in the full glory of a bright summer’s day. The way they cosseted the town had in turn made her feel warm, protected – somehow in their care. She even remembered the names of some of the farms they passed on the road to Machrie. Nothing seemed to have changed, but everything had changed. She was no longer the frightened girl dressed in rags with holes in her shoes, the butt of her classmates’ jokes and barbs. That was another life.

  They pulled up at the hotel, the taxi’s diesel engine shuddering to a halt.

  ‘I’ll get they bags in for you,’ said Duncan, opening her door.

  ‘Thank you, young man.’ With Alice taking the lead, they made their way up a short flight of steps to a large glass door, which was opened by a liveried doorman.

  ‘Welcome to the Machrie House Hotel,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll take those bags for you, madam.’

  Alice watched Duncan hand over her luggage as she delved into her handbag. ‘What do I owe you, Duncan?’

  ‘We’ll call it seven quid, missus, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Here, take this for your trouble,’ she said, giving him a fifty-pound note.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Duncan stared at the note as though he’d never seen money before.

  ‘Sure. I picked up some UK cash at Heathrow. It’s yours, kid.’

  Duncan turned to go, but stopped. ‘Can you tell me your name – jeest so I can tell my grandfaither, like?’

  Alice thought for a moment. ‘Oh, he won’t remember me, but nice meeting you, yeah?’ She showed him the card she had picked up in the taxi. ‘I’ve got your number, so if I ever need a cab . . .’ She smiled and turned towards the large reception desk.

  Duncan shrugged and made his way back to his taxi, making sure that the large denomination banknote was tucked safely in the bottom of his trouser pocket.

  ‘Mrs Wenger, welcome to the Machrie House Hotel,’ said the receptionist, perfectly turned out in a kilt and matching dark blue jacket.’

  ‘It’s Ms Wenger.’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ The young woman began to blush.

  ‘Hey, don’t sweat it. Take my advice, marry some rich bastard then get rid of them as quick as you can, honey.’

  ‘Right, I’ll remember that. I’m Daisy. We have your suite ready for you, Ms Wenger. Tommy will take you upstairs. If I could just ask you to sign the register and have your credit card details, please?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Alice handed over her Amex Black card and signed the register. Her journey had been a long one: not just the flight from California, the journey of her life. But now here she was back where it all began. Automatically she ran her hand through her hair and let her forefinger linger again over the lump above her eye. ‘Oh, I’ll need to hire a set of wheels while I’m here. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Yeah, certainly,’ said Daisy. ‘If you can let me have your driving licence and passport for ID – I have your card details. I’ll sort it out now. Mason’s in Kinloch hire cars; I’ll get them to deliver.’

  ‘None of that stick-shift crap, either. I want an automatic, okay?’

  ‘Certainly, Ms Wenger.’

  ‘Good stuff. You look after me, Daisy, and I’ll do the same for you.’ She handed the receptionist twenty pounds. ‘First of many, yeah?’

  ‘Thank you, Ms Wenger.’ Daisy smiled. Maybe her new guest wasn’t such a bitch after all.

  4

  The thin old woman sat in the rocking chair, her fingers working nimbly with a pair of thick knitting needles. The chair creaked rhythmically as she rocked to and fro, eyes staring not at her work but at the three large men who sat round a rough wooden table. They were dressed in matching jumpers, oily black, with food stains spread liberally over the front of all three. Each man had dirty brown hair in various stages of retreat. The slightest of them had only three strands that stood on end from a balding pate. At his temples slivers of grey speckled nature’s tonsure. It was hard to put an age on any of them, but this man was clearly the eldest, possibly in his mid to late fifties, though he looked older.

  Without warning, the largest of the three – with the most hair and likely the youngest – burst into fits of laughter as he threw the dice, jumped up and clapped his hands manically.

  ‘Enough!’ the old woman shouted, and looked on with pleasure as the men at the table cowered and the laughter stopped abruptly. ‘You boys would be better served getting ready tae get they sheep in before the weather gets worse, instead of sitting rolling dice like children.’

  ‘Aye, Mother, jeest going,’ mumbled Three Strands, his voice slurred lik
e a drunk’s.

  ‘See that you do. It’ll be dark soon and I want they sheep in the fank noo! I hope you sorted that fence, tae, or you’ll be chasing them up the hill.’ She hesitated, watching them with a steady, malevolent gaze. ‘Well, whoot are you waiting for?’

  She watched them troop out one by one, pausing only to collect three filthy black capes from hooks on the wall. They shrugged them on and left, the gale already sounding a braying lament as the old door opened and closed.

  ‘You’re too abrupt with them.’ A thin man appeared at her side, his loose-fitting trousers held up by braces over a grey vest. He had a lick of shaving soap on his scraggy neck and a cut-throat razor in his hand. ‘It’ll be worse tonight than last,’ he commented, looking through the small panes of the filthy window. On its ledge sat a handbell, the brass tarnished but the name Jeremiah still plainly etched in black on its mottled surface.

  ‘Why don’t you take mair responsibility for them, then?’

  ‘I’m working, you know that.’ The man looked at her with an expression that was hard to gauge. Though his face was grey and old, his bright green eyes still shone below a deeply furrowed brow. There was something about the way he spoke that didn’t quite match his surroundings. His refined, modulated tones clashed with the hovel. An old brick fireplace stood at the gable end of the room. Under the window the roughly hewn table sat behind an ancient couch from which the stuffing fought for freedom out of age-worn holes in the faded brown fabric. The floor was of bare boards, not the polished, prettified affairs so in vogue, but rough, uneven planks, punctuated only by two sheepskin rugs that had clearly once belonged to beasts long since deceased. It was as though the modern world had been cast aside, and the cottage was held fast in time, as sure as the hills under which it nestled.

  As the pale light of day bade a premature farewell from the lowering sky, the peat fire and an old storm lantern began to hold sway in the musty space as another lash of rain broke against the thin glass of the windows.