Jeremiah's Bell Page 3

  ‘You could take a whip tae them and it would make no odds, husband. We both know fine that’s the truth.’

  The man walked over to a wooden clothes horse by the fire, from which he picked a worn jumper similar to those that adorned the three younger men of the house, though newly laundered. He slipped it over his oval head and was immediately enveloped in the homespun garment, the hem almost reaching his knees. ‘They’re still strong, Ginny. But if we’re to survive they must be taught how to look after us. The years are rolling on, and I have no intention of spending my last days in the geriatric home in Kinloch. They’ll have to learn to think for themselves.’

  ‘Maybe so, Nathaniel. But hark at this: they are what they were intended tae be. We’re damn sure o’ that. And all considered, we’d maybe be better spending oor last days in the retirement home, eh?’

  He shrugged and left the room. Soon, the sound of a typewriter tapped in counterpoint to the gathering storm outside, like the rattle of bullets in a desperate battle.

  Ginny continued to rock back and forth in her chair, her eyes now staring blankly into space, lost in her own thoughts.

  Annie and Hamish eyed the two men in suits with growing suspicion. One of them was standing on a stepladder, examining the ceiling of the cosy bar at the County Hotel with a small bright torch. He muttered something to his youthful companion, who wrote quickly on a clipboard, then descended the steps and looked around.

  ‘Now, Mrs . . .’

  ‘Annie, Mr Foreshaw, that’ll dae just fine.’

  ‘Yes, Annie; of course, you did say earlier. I realise that you will have residents, but I’d like to see the empty rooms now and the others when the guests leave tomorrow morning, please. We’re staying overnight, as you know, so that shouldn’t be a problem, yes?’

  ‘No, no’ a problem, Mr Foreshaw.’ Annie swallowed hard and with her best effort managed a weak smile.

  Foreshaw muttered something else to his younger companion then addressed the hotel manager again. ‘Can you direct me to your facilities – Annie?’

  ‘Eh? You’ve seen the cellar, have you no’?’

  ‘No, I was meaning the bathroom – the Gents?’ Foreshaw raised a brow at the misunderstanding.

  ‘Doon the corridor and to your right,’ said Hamish sharply. ‘One door’s got a woman on it and the other a man – though his legs are missing since wee Arthur cut them off and replaced them wae a spectacle I’ll no’ discuss in polite company.’

  ‘Aye, the bastard,’ said Annie, a look of fury now on her face. ‘I’d tae ban him for a week. We managed tae get it off wae some Vim and vinegar, but we never got roon tae drawing the legs back on. But the lassie’s still got her skirt on, so you’ll be fine. I got tae him before he could deface her, thankfully.’

  ‘I dread tae think whoot would have been the result if you hadna,’ observed Hamish, sucking at his unlit pipe, face grim.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll manage to work things out,’ said Foreshaw, before disappearing from the bar in search of the elusive toilet.

  Hamish eyed the remaining man with suspicion. ‘You’ll be here for the health and safety, eh? Man, that’s becoming fair dictatorial these days, right enough. The boys on the boats tell me they canna make their breakfast withoot having tae fill in numerous forms. All aboot the quality of the eggs and the like, I shouldna wonder. Auld Adolf would be rubbing his hands with glee, so he would.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’ The young man sat on a barstool. ‘We’re surveyors. We do a lot of old hotels and the like.’

  ‘I jeest got a call tae book yous in for the night and let you look at whootever you wanted,’ said Annie, polishing a beer font.

  ‘So, for whoot reason would you be surveying the hotel?’ asked Hamish, his head cocked to one side.

  ‘Well, usually it’s for a sale, or remortgage, or that. Let me see.’ He consulted notes on his clipboard. ‘Ah, here we are. It’s a feasibility study – preliminary, of course.’

  ‘A feasibility study intae whoot?’ asked Hamish.

  The young man again consulted his notes. ‘For the purpose and intent of conversion for habitation, dwelling and utilisation of same.’ He smiled.

  Annie scowled back. ‘Gie us it in English, young fulla.’

  ‘Flats, probably – or maybe one big house, but that would be unusual.’ Again he smiled brightly, looking between Annie and Hamish.

  There was a choking sound before Hamish began a barking cough, tears coming to his eyes as he wheezed for breath.

  ‘Here,’ said Annie, quickly pouring some dark beer into a wine glass. ‘Gie him this o’er, would you, son?’

  The junior surveyor handed the drink across to Hamish, whose face had turned a shade between red and purple. He grabbed the glass, drained it in one gulp and made to speak, though nothing emerged from his mouth other than a coarse whisper.

  ‘Whoot’s he saying?’ asked Annie. ‘Is he after an ambulance?’

  The youth jumped from his stool and leaned into Hamish’s face, trying to make out what the old man was attempting to convey. ‘I think he wants a pram – a big one.’ He shrugged his shoulders, a confused look on his face.

  Annie narrowed her eyes, took a small glass from a shelf and held it under a large bottle of whisky on the optics gantry. ‘Here, gie him his pram,’ she said, handing over the large measure.

  Hamish took another deep draught, and seemed to regain his equilibrium, though his face was still an unhealthy hue. ‘An auld man like myself shouldna be facing such dilemmas.’ He took another gulp at the whisky. ‘Enough tae take life fair away, a shock like thon.’

  Foreshaw walked into the bar and immediately focused on the old fisherman. ‘What on earth’s happened?’

  Annie flung her bar towel aggressively over one shoulder and glared at her newly returned guest. ‘I think you’re the one tae be answering that, Mr Foreshaw, don’t you?’

  The surveyor thought for a moment, then addressed his young charge. ‘Anthony, a word, please.’

  5

  Alice Wenger had considered the rain lashing against the windows of her hotel’s dining room with impatience. She had things to do, self-set tasks to accomplish, and rain like this would most certainly impede her. Still, as the motto of much of her life had been ‘nothing is impossible’, she decided to adapt her plan.

  On finishing her first meal of the day – light fare of coffee, cereal and fruit, as opposed to the fat-fest that was the ‘Traditional Kintyre Breakfast’ – she walked across the tartan carpet to reception, where Daisy was already in place, her permanent smile seemingly painted on.

  ‘Ms Wenger, good morning. How can I help you today?’

  ‘I need some wet weather gear. You know, gumboots, rain jacket. I forgot how shit the weather could be around here.’

  Daisy thought for a moment. ‘Not something we have in the hotel, I’m afraid. But there’s a place in Kinloch – McGryffe’s – they supply all that type of stuff. Your 4x4 should be arriving shortly.’

  ‘Well done, just what I need. I remember McGryffe’s – the bottom of Main Street, right?’

  Daisy looked slightly taken aback. ‘Yes, next door to the newsagents.’

  ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, honey. Yeah, I’ve been here before.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised.’ Daisy retained her composure.

  ‘No, I’m quite sure that will apply to quite a lot of folks. It’s been a long time. Give me a ring when that car arrives.’

  Alice took the lift back to her room and flung herself on the bed, mind working overtime. She had always been an early riser, and here in Machrie she’d made no exception. She’d been the first at breakfast at six-thirty, having already been up for two hours sending emails and making notes to ensure things went smoothly back in California. Even though she enjoyed frequent vacations, she never really let go of the reins of power. In any case, it was so easy now with Skype calls, email, smartphones. There were few places in the world in which she felt cu
t off from her business, and that’s the way she liked it.

  As she contemplated an hour in the hotel’s gym, the unfamiliar tone of the phone at her bedside sounded. She greeted the call in her habitual style. ‘Wenger, speak.’

  ‘That’s your car arrived, Ms Wenger. Would it be okay if you came down to sign the paperwork?’

  ‘Yeah, sure thing.’ Alice heaved herself back to her feet, pocketed the entry card to her room and took a deep breath. There’d be no time for a workout. Things had to be done, things that had preyed on her mind for far too long. As she opened the door to her room, though, she felt her hand tremble. Shit, still after all this time, she thought. Without warning, five faces filled her thoughts.

  Alice Wenger closed her eyes, banished the unwanted image and left the room. Soon, the hatred that had plagued her, driven her through most of her adult life, could be addressed. And there was no time like the present. Automatically, she reached for the lump above her right eye, and, as always, its presence reinvigorated her.

  Scott was leafing through some papers in the glass box, nine constables along with Sergeant Shaw standing before him.

  ‘I cannae see how it’s happened. It took me half the night tae work oot this week’s shift roster, what wae annual leave, re-roster rest days, sick days, court appearances and a’ that. Mind you, Ella was in my ear. She was watching some crap on the telly – thon cooking programme, quite good – so I was finding it hard tae concentrate, know what I mean?’

  ‘Well, basically we’re three up today and five down tomorrow,’ said Sergeant Shaw.

  ‘I’d to cancel a weekend away with my boyfriend,’ said Constable Janice James. ‘We were going to the Lakes – a lovely wee cottage, too. Lost a fortune on the deposit, so we did.’

  ‘Oh, it’s great down there, Janice,’ said Constable Mike Fearns. ‘Me and the wife have been down about five times. Great for the kids; but you don’t have that problem yet.’ He smiled.

  ‘We’re trying for a baby, but what wae Alex’s shifts on the ambulances and mine, well, it’s hard going, you know.’

  Fearns nodded in sympathy. ‘My other half’s a midwife; she can be off at a minute’s notice.’

  ‘Aye, but reassuring, is it not? Especially when she was having her own, eh?’ commented Constable Bob Fletcher. ‘I mean, she knows fine what she’s at, and all that.’

  ‘She didn’t haul the wean out by herself, if that’s what you mean,’ replied Fearns. ‘We’re not talking DIY plumbing here.’

  Janice James was about to speak when Scott banged the desk with his fist. ‘Would yous shut up! I’m trying tae think.’ He shuffled some more papers, reading glasses perched at the end of his nose.

  ‘Mind I’m going to the Christmas markets in Germany in three weeks. I handed you a leave request,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Is this Holiday ’86 – do I look like Barry fucking Norman?’ said Scott impatiently.

  ‘He was the film guy, Brian. You’re thinking of Cliff Michelmore,’ remarked Shaw.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ shouted Scott. ‘Whoever it was, it’s no’ helping the fact we’ve got far too many bodies the day, and bugger all tomorrow! Fletcher, James, can yous jeest go home the noo and come back in tomorrow morning instead?’

  ‘No can do, sir,’ replied James. ‘I’ve got an appointment.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have tae cancel it.’

  ‘Can’t do that, sir.’

  ‘How no’?’

  ‘It’s personal, sir. A medical matter.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll have a look and see what I can do,’ said Shaw with a sigh. ‘I’m sure we can come up with something.’

  ‘Well, you better take this pile o’ crap then.’ Scott handed the desk sergeant a bulky, untidy pile of papers all bearing his familiar spidery handwriting.

  ‘You’ll need tae bring in one of they experts from the university to decipher that,’ said Fearns, making his colleagues giggle.

  ‘Smart arse, eh?’ Scott glared at him. ‘Just you wait until you’ve got some responsibility, see how you’ll like it. Any bastard can cloak aboot gathering up drunks or helping auld dears across the road. This is the sharp end here, son!’

  ‘Sorry, sir – just a joke, you know.’

  ‘Right, is that it sorted, Sergeant Shaw?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll work something out,’ replied Shaw doubtfully.

  The door swung open to reveal Chief Superintendent Symington in all her finery. ‘Problem, DI Scott?’ she said, looking round the crowded room.

  ‘Naw, just planning the Christmas party – och, you know what it’s like.’ Scott smiled guilelessly.

  ‘I hope I’m getting an invitation?’

  ‘Oh aye, goes without saying, ma’am.’ Scott turned to the assembled company. ‘Right, so we all know what we’re at, just get oot an’ arrest some bas— I mean get stuff done in an orderly fashion, an’ that.’

  Symington did her best to suppress a smile as her officers trooped out, most acknowledging her with ‘Ma’am’, or an incline of the head. ‘Everything fine, then, Brian?’

  ‘Oh aye, hunky-dory, ma’am. Well oiled machine here, as you can see.’

  ‘Big shift out today. Is there something on?’

  ‘Noo that’s a good question, ma’am. Reports o’ a motorcycle gang at Lochgilphead. Might be heading doon here. You cannae be too careful.’

  ‘No, absolutely, DI Scott, absolutely. Anyway, I’ll let you get on – almost lunchtime, I see.’

  ‘Aye, I’m fair ravenous, ma’am.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll see you once you’re fed and watered.’

  ‘Yes, will do.’ Scott smiled happily.

  Symington turned to leave, then checked herself in the doorway. ‘Jonathan Ross.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He’s the first guy I remember doing the film programme.’ She turned on her heel, closing the door gently in her wake.

  ‘Every bugger’s a comedian, here,’ muttered Scott to himself as he shrugged on his jacket. Ella was having lunch with some new friends she’d made at a library book group, so Scott decided to treat himself to lunch at the County Hotel. He left the office, passing Shaw with his head down over work rotas.

  ‘Good man. Just you make sure you get something tae eat, noo,’ said Scott as he pressed the buzzer and left Kinloch police office.

  ‘Sure thing, Brian. In a hundred years, once I’ve managed to work this out,’ the sergeant said to himself with a shake of the head.

  6

  Alice Wenger was toiling up a muddy path, her newly purchased walking boots making light work of her trudge, despite the conditions underfoot. She was dressed in a matching storm jacket and rain trousers – one of the best brands. The young man in McGryffe’s had smiled broadly as she paid for the goods. Probably the best single transaction they’d had in a while, she reckoned.

  On the way to Kinloch, under clearer skies, she realised that things had changed. During the five-mile journey into the town she spotted a number of new houses and a couple of dilapidated farmsteads that had once been thriving little businesses, homes to some kids with whom she’d been to school. When she drove through the town change was even more marked. Old familiar shops had gone to be replaced by places she didn’t recognise. There was even a tattoo parlour, something she couldn’t have envisaged in her youth. By the same token, she silently mourned the loss of the greengrocers on Long Road, the old bookshop on Main Street, and the little Italian café on the seafront. She’d known all these places so well; she could still smell the musty bookshop and the old woman who seemed to have been behind its counter for ever.

  Books were the only things that had made her life bearable back then. Those and the little transistor radio her best friend had given her – a prized possession that Alice hid away carefully and listened to through a single earpiece late at night when she knew nobody else could hear.

  One dreadful day her mother had discovered her pride and joy, and when Alice returned home from school the wom
an had taken a mallet to the little radio, smashing it to pieces on the big old table, a broad smirk spreading across her face at her daughter’s evident distress.

  ‘You’ve no need for this tool o’ the devil. You’ve no’ got long left at school, mind: then you’ll see the error of your ways.’

  As she reached a thicket of trees she couldn’t remember having been there before, Alice shuddered at the memory. She could see that face in her mind’s eye as though it were yesterday. The small dark eyes, black almost – well, to her anyway. The hair pulled into a tight bun, the mole sprouting hair on her left cheek, and the tight, cruel mouth, more often than not downturned in a perpetual scowl.

  Despite herself, Alice Wenger had to stop for breath. The very thought of this woman had forced the air from her lungs.

  Thankfully, the heavy rain had eased to a light drizzle, though the storm hadn’t yet blown itself out. A stiff breeze rustled the dark branches of the trees all around her, the very last leaves of autumn tossed in its wake and dashed to the muddy ground. These bare trees reminded her of her mother’s thin gnarled fingers as they gripped her arms, the malicious cuts left in her young flesh by the woman’s razor-sharp fingernails.

  Alice plodded on. She had been able to take the large 4x4 further than she’d expected. But in a way she was grateful to make the last part of her journey on foot, feeling the elements, breathing the air, stoking her hatred with every step.

  Soon the little glade of trees thinned out, and Alice found herself on a bare hillside, a storm-tossed sea far below. She walked up a rise, picturing in her mind the sharp drop at its far side. In a few minutes she had reached the summit, and the wind caught the collar of her jacket so that it flapped in her face. She pushed it away with her gloved hand and edged as close to the almost vertical drop as she dared.

  Her gaze was still elevated, staring across the waves to the horizon, where she could make out the bread-shaped mound of Ailsa Craig through the smir. Slowly, she lowered her head, just as a gust of wind caught her, making her take an involuntary step forward to resist its push. There, far below, sat the little cottage, a deep strand of seaweed banked up on the shingle at its front, a sharp finger of black rocks poking into the surf like a defiantly drawn, malevolent sword. Alice fancied she could already smell the taint of seaweed on the wind.