Well of the Winds Read online

  McColl pursed his lips, the skin on his face so translucent it was easy to picture the skull beneath.

  ‘Although the discovery of Mitchell’s body was reported two days after Urquhart disappeared, the shepherd had discovered it before then. He told the newspaper, quite plainly. I’ll read it for you.

  ‘“The lad’s body was trapped in a gully at the Goat Rock. I wasn’t able to reach it, though I did try. As soon as I could, I travelled into Kinloch to report what I’d found. It was the lambing season though, and because my ewes needed me more than a dead boy, I had to delay my journey there for two days.” ’

  ‘What on earth has this to do with me?’ There was now a distinct tremor in McColl’s voice.

  ‘In the absence of a proper investigating officer at the time, statements – including that of our shepherd here – were taken by the only person available. You. You signed it off. Your signature is still visible on the microfilm. The hand of an awkward young man, but yours, nonetheless.’

  ‘I made a mistake! Everyone thought Urquhart was off investigating something. He d-did things like that. I was left on my own to take statements. I had no experience then. It was a s-simple mistake!’

  ‘But you must have known that Mitchell’s body was discovered before the inspector disappeared – some six hours or so, as it turns out – so there was no way he could have been responsible for Urquhart’s death.’

  ‘Who talked about his death? He d-disappeared – was never found. No body, no m-murder.’

  ‘That was another thing that was covered up. I know that Urquhart’s body was never found. Because of suspicions as to what was happening at the time with German “escapees” – let’s describe them as such for now, shall we? – the American Secret Service took an interest. They even found his journal. Long after the war, they passed on what they had to Israeli groups looking to bring war criminals to justice. Still, nobody made the connection. Not until one man, a Mr Feldstein, thought he smelt a rat. But even they had traitors in their midst, and some of this evidence disppeared. Feldstein was tenacious, though. Tracked it down, and much more besides. Took him half a lifetime.’

  ‘This is fantasy. Utter f-fantasy!’

  ‘Solving this puzzle was easy, when I had all the pieces. I have read Urquhart’s journal several times.’

  ‘S-so?’

  ‘Only two people knew where he was meeting the men he thought were responsible for collaborating with the Nazis – rich, influential men, rather like your father.’

  ‘Huh.’ McColl waved his hand dismissively.

  ‘There was the unfortunate Mitchell, who we know couldn’t have had anything to do with Urquhart’s death, as he was dead himself, and one other: you, Mr McColl.’

  ‘T-too much of a leap, p-pure conjecture. It would never stand up in court. Never!’

  ‘He mentions telling you. States quite clearly that he doesn’t want you there as he has to do this on his own. You bring him the letter, in fact. Protecting you from the people you grew up beside, his reward for that was being murdered by the young man he thought he’d taken under his wing. But you weren’t at odds with your father at all, were you? You were working for him and a group of like-minded fascists. The poor, stammering, oppressed-son routine was just that: an act.’

  McColl’s head flopped forward. His breath rasped in his chest.

  Daley bent over the man he had just revealed as the murderer of Inspector William Urquhart. ‘What can I do? Shall I get the nurse?’

  ‘Please, no. Just pour me some water. M-must take my pill.’ McColl fumbled in his cardigan pocket as Daley poured mineral water from a bottle into a small crystal glass.

  ‘Here.’ Daley held the glass to the old man’s lips as, with a shaky hand, McColl slipped something into his mouth.

  ‘I knew this day would come,’ he croaked.

  ‘Drink this, quickly,’ said Daley, pushing the glass nearer to McColl’s lips.

  ‘Now you must bear the burden.’

  At that moment Daley heard the tiniest of cracks. As the scent of almonds permeated the room, McColl’s body convulsed in his wheelchair, his long and duplicitous life brought to an end.

  48

  From the bay window, Daley watched the body of Torquil McColl being taken into the ambulance in a body bag. There would have to be a post mortem, but the detective knew he’d witnessed the man taking his own life with a cyanide capsule.

  ‘This will do nothing for the reputation of Stonebrae – of the franchise,’ wailed manager Heather Campbell, wringing her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Campbell,’ replied Daley. ‘If I were you, I would keep the press away as long as you can. I’m afraid this won’t end with the report of Mr McColl’s death.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She looked puzzled.

  ‘Nothing I can tell you about at the moment. Unfortunately, though, I suspect your recently deceased resident may well gain some notoriety in the near future. I can’t say any more, but be prepared.’

  Daley took the lift to the ground floor, deep in thought. Everything had fallen into place. The Bremners weren’t the only people working for the enemy; they’d had some level of support in the community.

  As he was about to step into his car, he looked out across the loch. Two people were walking across the causeway, oblivious to the sad events that had taken place there during the war. He wondered how many people who were still alive did know. Very few, if any, he reasoned. Still, he felt strangely unburdened, relieved that he’d been able to get to the truth of what happened to his predecessor; he was now finishing the job Urquhart thought he’d be unable to complete.

  His phone rang. Symington.

  ‘Are you ready to come back to the office, Jim?’

  ‘Yes, on my way,’ he replied, noting that her insistence on correct usage of job title from Brian Scott didn’t extend to him.

  He drove back through the centre of Kinloch. As usual, he waved to a couple of casual acquaintances, but was mildly surprised when his greeting was returned with scowls.

  Back in the office, Shaw told him that Symington was waiting for him in the AV suite with Scott.

  He made his way there, and on entering the room immediately sensed the heavy atmosphere. His colleagues were sitting in silence. Scott’s arms were folded, and he was staring determinedly at the ceiling while Symington was keying a message into her phone.

  ‘Everything in order at Stonebrae?’ she said, looking up at him.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I can fill you in on the details if you like.’

  ‘Later, Jim. I’m just waiting for a video call from Professor Carr at St Andrews University – you know, the chap who’s been looking at the documents we photographed at Achnamara.’

  ‘I hope he’s discreet. I have a feeling this is about to become a major news item.’

  ‘Oh, he is, don’t worry. I know him quite well. A good friend, in fact.’

  Scott glanced sidelong at Daley, and the latter guessed that whatever had passed between sergeant and chief superintendent had not been reconciled.

  Before Daley could comment, the large screen began to flicker into life, revealing a slightly dishevelled man in early middle age sitting in front of a beautiful stained-glass window.

  ‘Carrie, how are you? Lovely to see you – even slightly pixelated!’

  ‘You, too. How are the good people of the Kingdom of Fife treating you? I know how hard it is starting a new job,’ she said, smiling rather nervously, Daley thought.

  ‘Fine, fine. New challenge, and all that . . .’

  As this idle chit-chat continued, Scott turned round in his chair, curling his lip in disdain. The last time Daley had seen him make this surreptitious gesture was behind John Donald’s back.

  ‘Let me introduce you to my investigating officers, Nigel,’ Symington announced. ‘DCI Jim Daley’ – she waved in Daley’s direction – ‘and his number two, DS Brian Scott.’

  Scott turned back to face his friend, mouthing the words ‘n
umber two’ with a sardonic look.

  Symington asked Carr what he’d come up with.

  ‘Oh, a veritable treasure trove, Carrie. I’m compiling a detailed report for you, of course, but I thought I’d give you the heads up on the bare bones. We have a major find, here. I’ve traced the Bremner family – well, Mr Bremner – back to pre-war Munich. His name is Bremer – a subtle, most convenient Anglicisation. He was originally a member of the SA, then the SS, but disappeared from the records before the commencement of hostilities in the late thirties.’

  ‘Planted on Gairsay,’ observed Daley.

  ‘Indeed, forward thinking, and by no means unusual. We’re discovering that the Nazis placed a surprisingly large number of observers around the coast, particularly the Atlantic approaches. I must say, the Bremers were in an excellent position to observe shipping movements on the North Channel, and beyond. Also, they made contact with fellow agents on the west coast of Ireland. Seems far away to us over here on the east, but no more than a hop, skip and a jump from Gairsay.’

  ‘So,’ said Symington, ‘we have reports of shipping movements and so on, but what about as the war neared its end?’

  ‘That’s where things get interesting. Nothing too unusual about planted agents passing on details of naval manoeuvres, but the next part of their operational lives involved the spiriting away of senior Nazis through Scotland and Ireland to various locations – usually South America, but a few to the United States.’

  ‘And there is documentary proof of this?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Yes, there is. They have used codes, but we broke them some time ago, so we’ve been able to identify some of the individuals, many of whom were thought to have been assassinated by the Russians; not so the Bremers. The whole thing was quietly forgotten about at the end of the war. After all, a defeated, humbled Germay was no longer the enemy. It lay further to the east. Let sleeping dogs lie seems to have been the watchword. It will come out now, don’t you think, Carrie?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she replied.

  ‘Do we have any information about the local groups who aided and abetted this?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Most people don’t realise, or have conveniently forgotten, that support for the Nazis was not confined to certain members of the royal family and the aristocracy. There were many who admired the Third Reich and despised the Soviets, including nationalists, right-wing conservatives, businessmen who spotted an opportunity, some religious sects, union members, even some masonic lodges – in short, many more people than you would imagine, and some of whom supported the organisation known as die Herzen der Helden. Hearts of the Heroes.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard that phrase before, Professor Carr,’ said Daley.

  ‘Still in existence. An organisation initially dedicated to the removal of Nazis from under the Russians’ noses, then in later years a source of support to their children and families living in exile. The founder, Frau Weber, is still alive, in fact.’

  ‘And what about those whom the Allies helped escape to the USA? Like Wernher von Braun, for instance.’

  ‘Yes. There is no doubt that certain war criminals were assisted in their escape. Remember, German technology was cutting edge. It’s unlikely that Neil Armstrong would have walked on the moon had it not been for the genius of the same man who was responsible for the doodlebugs. It’s a sobering thought.

  ‘Oh, and another thing – these little cigarette lighters, the silver ones with the eagle insignia . . .’

  ‘Yes, where did they come from?’

  ‘As you know, the bottom was falling out of the German economy and money was becoming worthless. To incentivise those people from whom they needed help, they had to think of something else. These lighters were issued to the highest-ranking members of the party.’

  ‘Then used as a type of currency?’ asked Daley.

  ‘Different days, Chief Inspector. All of Europe – including ourselves – was on its knees. Goodness me, Hungary in 1946 suffered the worst inflation ever recorded. In those postwar days, certain items took on a more precious significance.’

  ‘And that’s it. Long gone and forgotten about.’ Daley watched the professor shrug. ‘But if this was all so neatly swept under the carpet, with everyone conveniently ignoring the truth, why the interest from Israel? Why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff with our security services?’

  ‘That, Mr Daley, is a question I am unable to answer.’

  Daley and Scott adjourned to the County Hotel. It was early evening, and the usual suspects were dotted around the bar, at favourite tables, or sitting on stools near to the point of purchase.

  ‘Evening, boys and girls,’ said Scott, in his customary breezy manner.

  Instead of the normal, good-natured greetings, many customers turned away from the policemen, or pretended not to have heard him.

  ‘Mr Daley, Brian,’ said Annie. ‘The usual?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daley. ‘And you can also tell me who’s died.’

  Scott winced. ‘Sorry, Jimmy. I should have kept you up tae speed,’ he said under his breath. ‘Wae all that’s been goin’ on, well, you know . . .’

  A thick-set fisherman sitting at the bar got off his stool. Daley recognised him from his visit to Hamish in the hospital – it was Erchie, one of the old man’s nephews.

  ‘Dae us a’ a favour an’ dae your drinking elsewhere.’

  ‘Sorry?’ replied Daley.

  ‘You heard,’ he continued, to a murmur of agreement. ‘My uncle’s near at death’s door, and a’ yous can dae is get drunk. If it wisna for you, he’d likely be in here having a dram himsel’.’

  ‘I didn’t have time tae tell you, Jimmy. The auld man’s taken a turn for the worse.’

  Daley turned to ask Annie about Hamish, when a blow caught him on the back of the head, sending him staggering forwards.

  ‘Right, you,’ shouted Scott, making for the man who had caught Daley a glancing blow with the bar stool. He was too slow, though.

  Daley turned and sprang forward in one smooth movement, his outstretched fist connecting with Erchie’s chin. The big man fell backwards, crashing across a copper-topped table, from which glasses tumbled to the floor, to the protests of the drinkers sitting there.

  Daley lunged across the bar and made to go for the man again.

  ‘Jimmy, enough!’ shouted Scott.

  Daley swung round, both hands bunched into fists, a wild look in his eyes. The blow had enraged him. His vision was flickering and flashing red, and he felt as if he were floating above the floor.

  Scott held out his hand, fearful that his friend was about to lash out at him. ‘Come on. Let’s get you oot o’ here.’

  He nodded to Annie as he led his boss from the hotel, expecting a look of concern or a word of goodbye from her. Instead, she turned on her heel and leaned across the bar, silently wiping it with a cloth.

  Once outside, Scott stopped, taking deep breaths. ‘You lost it there, Jimmy.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Hamish?’

  ‘Didnae get the chance, big man. We was straight intae that call fae the prof when you came back in.’

  ‘There’s always an excuse, isn’t there, Brian?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard me. I think I preferred you on the bevy, do you know that?’

  ‘That’s a cheap shot, Jim.’

  ‘The hell with you. I’m going home.’

  Scott watched in dismay as his best friend stomped down Main Street, almost knocking a pair of hooded youths flying as they passed on either side of him, catching the big policeman with their shoulders.

  A black crow cawed overhead as it flew down Main Street in Daley’s wake.

  49

  Daley helped himself to a large measure of the finest malt he had. It was a mild evening, and, desperately needing to clear his head, he decided to sit on the decking at the front of the house.

  To his right, the town was spread out before him, lights twinkling in the twilight; the dis
tant rumble of traffic was punctuated by the occasional car horn, used as a greeting, rather than as a warning.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Hamish. He’d been pleased to see the man apparently return to health after his brief visit, and wondered what had gone wrong. He felt a lump in the pit of his stomach at the thought of his friend’s relapse. He considered calling the hospital, but couldn’t face it until he’d had another soothing dram. It had been that kind of day; it had been that kind of year, in fact.

  The dark island loomed to his left, silent and indomitable as always, the guardian of the loch around which the town had sprung. The man who had dominated his thoughts for the last few days had been the same: William Urquhart, the silent and indomitable protector of the good people of Kinloch, some of whom had so callously engineered his end.

  He was surprised to see a car’s headlights coming up the long gravel drive towards his bungalow. Scott, he assumed, anxious to make amends; he should really apologise.

  In the semi-darkness, though, he could see that the vehicle was a local taxi, and he listened as the passenger got out of the vehicle and paid the driver.

  Daley was still sitting on the decking when he heard the chime of the doorbell. He wearily hauled himself to his feet to answer the door.

  ‘Now then, boyo. Haven’t you been busy?’ Standing on Daley’s porch was Iolo Harris.

  With a sigh, he admitted his unexpected guest, showing him onto the decking and offering him a drink, which the Welshman accepted gratefully.

  ‘I love this malt. They sell it for an outrageous price in Harrods, did you know that?’

  ‘I’m not in Harrods very often,’ replied Daley. ‘Thank the Lord.’

  ‘No, me neither, Jim. I read it on the internet. My favourite shopping destination is Neath Market – faggots and peas to die for, boy. My kids hate them. But then again, they hate anything that’s not London.’

  ‘Symington has copies of the documents, you know,’ said Daley.

  ‘Yeah, I knew she would have. She’s a good liar, that woman.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’