Well of the Winds Page 30

  ‘Aye, it’s the Well of the Winds. No mistaking it. I was only just there wae Carrie.’

  ‘Yes, Well of the Winds,’ repeated Daley, the words a quiet incantation.

  ‘Beats me why this place is so important,’ said Scott, interrupting Daley’s train of thought.

  ‘See that out there?’ Daley pointed out the window towards the sea and the islands of Islay and Jura, which looked almost close enough to touch.

  ‘It’s the ocean, you don’t need tae tell me that. I’ve been oot on it enough since we came doon here.’

  ‘Not just any ocean – the Atlantic. It’s an ideal route to flee mainland Europe.’

  ‘Aye, but mind, this place was crawling wae the navy in nineteen forty-five. Wid they no’ be suspicious aboot a bunch o’ guys in jackboats cloaking o’er the water towards them? You’re reading too many o’ they books, Jimmy. What are you on the noo – David Icke?’

  ‘I know what you mean about the navy, but what do you think the Bremners were doing here? From what I’ve seen, I think it’s clear: they spent the first part of the war spying on naval manoeuvres, and the end of it helping spirit away Nazis. Why is that not possible?’

  ‘Aye, right,’ said Scott doubtfully. ‘So, what’s this lassie and the wean in the painting a’ aboot?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something and nothing.’ Daley studied the figures in the painting again.

  ‘And?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know that look, Jimmy. What else are you thinking?’

  ‘That woman. There’s something familiar about her. I just can’t place it.’

  Scott peered at the painting. ‘Is she no’ a bit like the wee lassie that used tae work in Donald’s office in Paisley – you know, the wee blonde yin?’

  Daley shook his head. ‘No, Bri, I don’t think it’s her.’

  Mrs McAuley watched her husband as he pulled away in the red Post Office van, off to make his deliveries across the island. He’d take the time he always took – about an hour. She shut the shop door and flipped the sign to CLOSED.

  She picked up the phone and dialled the long number from memory. As usual, the phone was answered after three rings by a young man, who politely asked her to hold. The voice of the old woman she’d known for so long boomed on the other end of the line.

  ‘You have done what we talked about, yes?’

  ‘Yes. All traces have been removed.’

  ‘Good, good. You have done well – everything that was needed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It is time to put into action what we have been discussing for a long time. Now the family have gone, you too must leave. It will become too dangerous.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Money and further instructions will be sent through the usual channels. Be ready.’

  The caller hung up. No farewell.

  Mrs McAuley walked back to the door and turned the sign back to OPEN. Now she would have to persuade her husband to leave the island. As usual, she would succeed. To succeed was what she had been trained to do.

  The European Parliament, Brussels

  When the security officers arrived, he was sprawled face-down on the desk, lifeless blue eyes staring unseeingly at the letter with the silver lighter on top, a small but effective paperweight.

  The security chief was called for, and he arrived, panting through the door, in a few short minutes, his jowly face red and shiny.

  He sniffed the air and coughed.

  ‘Pierre, the smell, what is it? I can’t place the odour.’

  ‘Almonds, monsieur. Most distinct. Cyanide, I would guess, but that is only speculation.’

  He looked at Hans Neyermeyer. Bubbles were visible at the corners of his blue lips.

  ‘What is it with these people? Who would have thought it? Neyermeyer of all people. They send messages, even in death. But what is the point? We will clean up this mess, have a death certificate issued confirming this man died of a heart attack brought on by too much work, then quietly dispose of the nonsense he has written.’ He shrugged.

  ‘May I interject?’

  ‘Yes, if you must, Pierre.’

  ‘In this instance, monsieur, it will be more problematic to dispose of what was written. It is not a mere suicide note.’

  ‘How so, Pierre?’

  ‘There’s this hard copy’ – he nodded to the letter on the desk beside the dead man – ‘but he also emailed it.’

  ‘Where? To whom?’ The security chief’s face became more flushed, and a large bead of sweat trickled down his forehead onto his long nose.

  ‘To this address, monsieur.’ He pointed to the recipient’s address.

  ‘Who is this?’ The bead of sweat now slipped off the end of his nose, plopping onto the document with a tiny splash.

  ‘We do not know, monsieur. A journalist, perhaps, a colleague, friend. We are looking into it.’

  ‘Find out, Pierre. We must find out.’

  The security chief picked up the silver lighter, then pulled a packet of Gitanes from his trouser pocket.

  ‘But, monsieur, the regulations!’ cried Pierre.

  He didn’t reply. He flicked the lighter into life, igniting his cigarette and inhaling deeply, and examined the eagle embossed on the side with narrowed eyes.

  46

  As soon as Daley stepped back into his glass box, he detected a change in atmosphere. Symington held up her hand, not lifting her eyes from the document she was reading.

  Daley and Scott stood in silence; the former irritated that he was being silently ordered to shut up in his own office, the latter with a puzzled frown on his face.

  After scribbling her signature across the bottom of a letter, Symington looked up, her expression neutral.

  ‘You’re back, gentlemen. I trust your trip to Gairsay was a fruitful one.’

  ‘You want tae hear this one’s theory, Carrie,’ said Scott, angling his thumb in the general direction of Daley.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Symington, or ma’am, when we’re in the office, please.’

  ‘Sorry?’ replied Scott, momentarily mystified.

  ‘The correct designation, please, DS Scott.’

  Daley watched as Scott’s face took on a deflated expression.

  ‘In that case, may I ask when I’ll get to sit back behind my desk in my office, ma’am.’ Daley was furious at the offhand way she had put his friend down.

  ‘As soon as I’m finished here, which won’t be long,’ replied Symington, stopping Daley’s protests in his throat. ‘I need a few minutes with DS Scott, please.’

  Daley gave an irritable sigh, turned on his heel and left the office, attempting to slam the door in his wake, which simply glided shut in a glassy, insubstantial protest.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Scott.

  ‘There are ramifications after our little problem the other night.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bosses know that you were involved in the assault of a fellow officer,’ she said, a slight tremor in her voice.

  ‘Oh aye. Well, it’s his word against oors, and there’s two o’ us, ma’am.’ An angry tic appeared beneath Scott’s right eye. ‘This is Scotland, and you’ll have heard of corroboration, ma’am?’

  ‘Even so, I have to be careful. I’m getting pressure from higher up and you don’t seem to have a lot of friends in high places.’ She exhaled. ‘Listen to me. This little misdemeanour can be overlooked. I can fix that. As you say, there were two of us. But we can’t treat this like some scrap in the playground, trust me.’

  ‘Meaning I’m aboot tae get the order o’ the boot?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that. Just keep your nose clean from now on, for both our sakes!’

  ‘And what about Harry boy?’

  ‘He says he’s happy to overlook this if he gets a written apology.’

  ‘And I’ve tae write the letter?’

  ‘Just do it. It’ll be better for both of us, Brian.’
<
br />   ‘Detective Sergeant Scott, if you don’t mind – us being in the office, ma’am . . . Right, I get the picture. You’ll get your letter.’

  Symington closed her eyes and tried to convince herself she really hadn’t had a choice.

  Daley flicked through the old microfilm records. Almost everything was digitised now, but the process hadn’t quite reached the forties.

  He wasn’t happy at the way Symington had spoken to Brian, but he supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised. It was unlikely that the young woman had reached her rank so early in her career without possessing the tools of all the other executive officers he’d encountered during the course of his long time in the police. He was disappointed, though.

  The search seemed interminable, but searching through yards of microfilm came more naturally to him than perusing a database, so he soon reached the dates he was looking for.

  There it was. The statement was dated two days after the death of Inspector William Urquhart, just as he’d been informed. He read on. Suddenly the expression on his face changed. He pushed the chair away from the desk and hurried from the room.

  At last, it all made sense.

  Scott pounded down the road to the County Hotel, still smarting from his encounter with Symington. It was mid afternoon, and the place was peaceful. Annie was sitting on a stool behind the bar, polishing glasses with a pristine white cloth. The vacant look on her face indicated that this process was automatic, her mind elsewhere. A solitary old man was sitting in the corner, his chin resting in his hands as he flipped through a newspaper spread across his table.

  ‘Should see a bit o’ tumbleweed rolling through here any time now,’ quipped Scott.

  Annie jumped, almost dropping the glass she was holding. ‘Near scared the life out o’ me there, Brian. What can I get you?’

  She seemed to have lost the carefree, down-to-earth spirit he’d become accustomed to over the years. Despite having her mind on the job of pouring him a glass of ginger beer and lime, she still looked distracted, a bit depressed even.

  ‘No’ you, tae. What is it wae people today? Naebody’s behaving normally.’

  ‘Och, sorry,’ replied Annie, tears welling. ‘Jeest had a bit o’ maist unwelcome news, a few minutes ago. Knocked me for six, so it has.’

  ‘I’m sorry tae hear that. Anything I can help with?’

  ‘Nope. If you was a surgeon, aye, maybe, but I’m thinking that it’s the polis that’s tae blame for this.’

  ‘Eh, what on earth are you on aboot?’

  ‘Just had Hamish’s nephew in. The auld fella’s taken a turn for the worse – Hamish, I mean.’

  ‘I’m sorry tae hear that, aye, right sorry. But oor Jimmy telt me he was on the mend, just waiting for the green light tae get hame.’

  ‘Aye, so he was. That was the plan. But the auld bugger got up this morning – likely tae go tae the toilet or something. You know him, proud man, he widna be wantin’ tae pish in a cardboard potty.’

  ‘What happened? Did he fall?’

  ‘Naebody really knows. Whoot I’ve heard is that he was found slumped on the flair out for the count. Poor Hamish. He doesna deserve this.’

  ‘What’s it got tae dae with us, the police, I mean?’

  ‘You know whoot they’re sayin’ in the toon, Brian?’

  ‘No, enlighten me.’

  ‘That it’s a’ ’cause o’ his involvement wae the polis. You know fine, he’s never done helping yous. He was out wae Mr Daley the other day. Everyone puts two and two the gither. He got battered on the heid ’cause o’ something Mr Daley found.’

  ‘Well, I hope he improves. I know Jimmy will be upset when I tell him. He was quite cheery – for the first time in ages – when he came back tae the toon and telt me Hamish was getting better.’ He swirled the ice cubes in his glass. ‘You mind and tell any o’ his relatives that come in here we’re asking for him. Everyone up at the office.’

  ‘Maybe if he’d stayed away fae the office, he widna be in the state he is,’ she replied indignantly. ‘But, aye, I’ll gie yous a shout if anything changes.’

  Having failed to gain any kind of cheer, or even a shoulder to cry on, Scott left the County and headed onto Main Street in search of an alternative, just in time to see Daley’s car speeding down the road. He waved, trying to catch his colleague’s attention, but Daley was looking straight ahead with a grim look on his face.

  Some poor bastard’s in for it, thought Scott.

  47

  Daley skidded to a halt outside Stonebrae House, sending an arc of gravel into the rose bed bordering the immaculate lawn. He hastened up the stone steps to the front door, and in minutes he was being accompanied along the familiar corridor to Torquil McColl’s suite.

  The young Czech nurse in front of him tried to make conversation, but she elicited only grunts from the big policeman.

  McColl’s wheelchair was sitting as always in the bay window, its occupant looking across the broad vista of the loch, only the back of his small, wispy-haired skull visible.

  ‘Mr Daley for you, Mr McColl. Your new friend?’

  ‘Thank you, Darina. I’ll ring if we need any refreshments,’ said McColl weakly, still not turning to face his guest.

  ‘Are you sure? It is no problem to bring coffee now.’

  ‘It’s fine!’ Suddenly there was strength in McColl’s voice as a little buzzer sounded and the motorised chair swung round. ‘You people never listen.’

  The carer made her excuses and quickly left.

  ‘Back again, Chief Inspector,’ said McColl. ‘Can’t keep away, it would seem.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about the events surrounding the disappearance of Inspector William Urquhart,’ said Daley, forgoing any social niceties.

  ‘So I assumed. But I don’t know how I can help you further,’ replied the old man, his voice more assured than Daley remembered.

  ‘Andrew Mitchell. He was blamed for killing the inspector and disposing of his body, then, a couple of days later, he himself was found dead, having apparently thrown himself from the cliffs at the Goat Rock. I think I’m right so far, yes?’

  ‘Just so, Mr Daley. As I remember it, anyway, from such a distance.’

  Daley walked across the room and settled into an armchair facing McColl. He rubbed his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

  ‘You look tired, Chief Inspector, if you don’t mind my saying. No medals to be gained by wearing yourself out. Trust me, you’ll get no thanks.’ The old man looked rueful.

  ‘Did you manage a lot of time off in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Not with the triads with their fingers in everything – no, not likely. We had our work cut out, I can tell you.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Mr McColl. You spent most of your life there – why did you come back?’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation. Everyone is from somewhere, and I’m from these parts. You come home to die.’

  ‘William Urquhart didn’t get that opportunity.’

  ‘No, no, he didn’t. But, well, bad things happen, as you well know. Police officers see this more than most – past and present.’ He smiled, red cracks showing on his thin, dry lips. There seemed to be a steel about him, a resolve Daley hadn’t noted until now. He said nothing.

  ‘You clearly have something on your mind. Spit it out, man.’

  ‘I know what really happened. On the strand, down there.’ Daley nodded at the window.

  ‘And that would be?’

  ‘I looked through the records – still on microfilm, most of it.’

  ‘Microfilm, now those were the days.’

  ‘Indeed. I read the shepherd’s statement. It was dated two days after Urquhart disappeared. So Mitchell instantly becomes the likely culprit. He already has some sort of involvement in Kerr’s death, though nothing can be proved. He has many fancy friends – wealthy young men whose idea of right and wrong he doesn’t necessarily share but is so keen to please – and he goes along with t
hem. People who would rather side with the remnants of the Third Reich than our ally, Russia.’

  A flash of anger passed across the old man’s face. ‘And they were right! Look what happened. A whole continent riven in two for years. The brink of global nuclear destruction not long after. All this from a country that should have been on the bones of its backside, were it not for what they plundered from Germany.’

  ‘I’m not sure the majority would share that view, Mr McColl.’

  ‘They should. I came into daily contact with communism. An evil, evil doctrine. Subjugated, starving peasants and landowners alike. No one safe. Look at Stalin’s purges. Mao was worse!’

  ‘But you didn’t just form these views in Hong Kong, did you?’

  ‘I have no idea what you mean, Chief Inspector.’

  Daley walked over to McColl and leaned on the window frame. He looked down at the old man. ‘What was he like, really like, I mean?’

  ‘You mean Urquhart? . . . He was convinced that he was right. Arrogant, you may say.’

  ‘Yet he stood up for you against your father. Gave you your chance to become a detective, which gave you a career for the rest of your life.’

  McColl was unmoved.

  ‘Why did you go to Hong Kong? I know I’ve asked you this before, but I’d like to hear it again.’

  McColl shrugged. ‘Everything after the war was grey and drab. Kinloch returned to being in the middle of nowhere when the military left. I didn’t want to spend my life in a one-horse town. My father had influence and got me the position in Hong Kong. One of the few good things he ever did for me.’

  ‘But that wasn’t the reason you left.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have it here – printed it off the microfilm. We can do that now.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a newspaper article. It accompanied the case on the disappearance of Inspector Urquhart, but this portion had been redacted for years. When it was available again, nobody bothered to take a look. Dead farmer, dead farmhand, missing police inspector, presumed dead. All too long ago for anyone to bother about.’