Well of the Winds Page 5

  ‘No, I guess not. Could you direct me to their farm, please? I’ve got the chief superintendent in the car and I want to get up there and see what’s what, especially now that we know the press are on their way.’

  Outside the shop, McAuley watched the two police officers drive off in the direction of Achnamara. To him, Superintendent Symington looked little more than a girl, and he marvelled at the fact she was the divisional commander.

  He was distracted from his ruminations when he heard footsteps from behind. A tall man of late middle age, with a deep tan and a shaven head, approached him and asked if he stocked postcards. He spoke in perfect English, with only a hint of a foreign accent.

  ‘Now, you can rest assured that you’ve come to the right place for postcards,’ replied McAuley.

  The man followed the special constable into the shop, pausing for a moment to look around before ducking through the door.

  After being shown round the cellar and examining the rest of the farmhouse, Daley, Scott and Symington stood in the yard. Scott was patting the old horse. ‘We’ll need tae get somebody tae look after the livestock, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, it’s in hand. The other farmers on the island are going to take it in turns to make sure everything’s in order. We’ll have to secure this house overnight, until we can get more bodies over here tomorrow,’ she said, looking at Daley, who appeared to be sniffing the air absently. ‘Can you arrange that, DCI Daley?’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ he replied. ‘DC Potts can take the first shift, then we’ll work something out . . . It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen,’ he said, referring to the cellar and its unusual contents. ‘Once we get a translator over tomorrow, hopefully we can make more sense of it. What do you think, Brian?’

  ‘Seems tae me there’s been much mair going on here than farming. But why would a family like the Bremners have all the Nazi stuff?’

  ‘If they are Jewish, I think it’s quite obvious,’ replied Symington. ‘There was a lot of activity here during the war. Kinloch was a main port for the Royal Navy – handy for the Atlantic approaches and so on. Maybe the Bremners just took a keen interest in it all. A lot of exiled families did, terrified that the Nazis might win.’

  ‘You’re very well informed, ma’am,’ said Daley.

  ‘My grandfather was in the army back then – in intelligence. His stories got me hooked from a young age. Been a kind of hobby ever since. I read about it all the time.’

  ‘Despite what we’ve discovered in the cellar, and the unusual circumstances, the family have to be our main priority. I’ve circulated their descriptions to the Royal Navy as well as all the usual suspects. Finding out what’s happened to them could go a long way to explaining all of this,’ said Daley.

  ‘I agree. I want to set up a temporary incident room in the hotel. Potts has been down there sorting it all out. They have a room they can let us use, plus accommodation, phones, broadband. We’ll hold the fort overnight, then get going in earnest tomorrow. Who knows, maybe the Bremners will have turned up by that time,’ said Symington.

  ‘I widnae hold my breath if I was you, ma’am. Whoever rigged that booby trap wanted tae set the whole place ablaze. If not the family, who else? If you ask me, they’re off on their toes – I’ve seen enough moonlight flits in my time. Used tae happen in oor street near every week,’ said Scott. ‘We’d nowhere tae go, so when the tally man came, my mother used tae make us lie on the floor under the window until he gave up. Either that, or my faither piled him o’er a hedge.’ Scott grimaced at the memory.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder just how you ended up in the police, DS Scott,’ remarked Symington with a smile.

  ‘Aye, me tae,’ he replied honestly.

  The night was cold, with low cloud obscuring the heavens and a breeze that cut through DC Potts every time he set foot outside the car to check the environs of Achnamara. He had another two hours until he was relieved, which meant trudging round the property twice more to make sure everything was secure.

  He turned the dial on the car radio in search of something more uplifting than a chat about economics. He settled upon a station playing hits from the eighties, drumming his fingers to a one-hit wonder.

  After listening to another couple of songs, he decided it was time to brave the elements and go through the routine checks DCI Daley had outlined. Make sure all the doors and windows are secure, and nobody is hanging about. If the press appear, refer them to me at the hotel. He zipped up his ski jacket and left the warmth of the car.

  The old mare whinnied as he flashed his torch around. A distant oystercatcher called plaintively against the backdrop of the restless ocean, which washed back and forth on the rocky beach a few hundred yards ahead, its tang ever-present.

  Potts was whistling tunelessly to himself as he rounded the corner of an outbuilding to check the rear of the property. A scraping noise made him direct the beam of the torch across a paddock, where something flitted out of sight. He hurried towards a fence, leaning on it as he waved the torch about. He jumped when the eyes of a sheep reflected the light, then smiled at his racing heart.

  As he turned, a blow caught him full in the face, sending him crashing to the ground. The torch spun through the air and landed with a crunch on the stony ground, shattering the tiny bulb and returning the farmyard to darkness.

  Daley lay in his hotel bedroom in the dark, staring at the ceiling. He’d passed a pleasant enough evening with Symington and Scott. First, dinner, with a delicious turbot that he had enjoyed as much as anything he’d eaten in months, then a few drinks in the cosy bar. With Scott drinking orange juice and Symington on soda water and lime, he’d felt awkward drinking alcohol, but had had three pints nonetheless, in the hope that they would help him sleep. They hadn’t.

  The few locals who populated the bar were inquisitive, but not obtrusively so; just asking politely about the Bremners and if there was any word from them. When the police officers answered in the negative, heads shook; the islanders appeared to be as mystified by the disappearance of the family as those investigating it.

  Only one wizened old woman, three sheets to the wind, caused a scene, screaming unintelligibly at no one in particular. She was soon dealt with by the bar staff, who spirited her away, back to her home in the hills above the village, much to everyone’s relief. From what the detectives could understand, it seemed she was no friend of the Bremners.

  Daley switched on his bedside light, looked at the time, and considered picking up the paperback he had found on a bookshelf in the hotel lounge. He read a few pages before trying to sleep, but the book – about a divorcee who fled her mundane existence to make a new life on another continent – failed to capture his imagination, and he gave up after the first chapter.

  This, now, was the pattern of Daley’s life: an hour-by-hour struggle to sleep, to soothe his mind, to distract it from the grief, guilt and sadness. It felt like a wall of insurmountable difficulty, stretching as high as the eye could see.

  Initially, he’d regretted his promise to Mary about staying in his job. Now, though, he wondered just how he would have coped in the months since her death without the daily grind of police work to occupy him.

  He eased himself out of bed, his back stiff from lying on a new mattress and the twinge in his right knee a testament to middle age, and switched on the kettle.

  As the water boiled, he looked at his watch – just after 3 a.m. He decided to have a strong coffee and then head over to Achnamara to relieve DC Potts earlier than planned. At least one of them might be able to get to bed and get some rest.

  Before long, he was padding downstairs in the silent hotel. He unbolted the front door and made his way to his car, shivering as he crossed the road. Turning the heater on full, he turned away from the sea and towards Achnamara farm.

  It took Feldstein seconds to drag the unconscious body of DC Potts behind a barn. He held a chloroform-soaked cloth against his mouth for a few moments, making sure he’d remain unconscio
us while he entered the farmhouse. He’d been surprised at how lax the police officers in the hotel had been, talking openly about their plans to watch the Bremners’ property overnight. He had plenty of time to do what he had to do.

  He took out a large jemmy from his backpack and went to work on the front door. In a few moments, it splintered open. He caught a whiff of the smoke from the bomb as he moved down the hall. Soon, he was descending the stairs to the cellar.

  Daley saw Potts’s empty car as he drove into the farmyard. Assuming his DC was busy checking the property as instructed, he made his way around the corner of the house, cursing the fact that he’d left his torch in the hotel. He called out to Potts, waiting for a reply that didn’t come.

  As he fumbled along the rear of the house, his foot caught on something bulky. He cursed loudly as he landed heavily on his knees, wincing as he tried to pull himself back to his feet.

  He could smell something – a chemical smell. He was surprised when he heard a groan coming from the object he’d tripped over. He edged towards the noise and leaned down. ‘Potts, is that you?’

  The reply was indistinct, but he could discern the strong odour of chloroform now. In the darkness, knee twinging painfully, he dragged Potts back around the building to his car. As he struggled to get the young DC out of the cold, he picked up the mobile phone lying on the dashboard. He listened for a few moments before a familiar tired voice answered the call.

  ‘Brian, get yourself up to the Bremner farm now! We’ve got a situation.’

  Before Scott could reply, Daley hung up and, using the torch on his phone, looked around. The farmhouse door was ajar, the shattered lock visible.

  Daley took a deep breath, then, as silently as he could, made his way up the front steps. Even with the little torch on his phone, it took him a few moments to become accustomed to the gloomy interior of the farmhouse. He stopped in the hall for a few moments and listened. There was definitely movement, muffled footsteps, the sound of something being dragged across a floor. It was hard to pinpoint from exactly where the sound was coming, until he noticed a sliver of light from under the door in the hall. Someone was in the basement.

  Scott yawned as the car engine spluttered into life. ‘The bloody press – any bets,’ he muttered under his breath as he pulled away from the Gairsay Hotel.

  He had been irritated by the brevity of Daley’s call, but not surprised. His old friend still wasn’t himself. It was as though he was on automatic pilot, just going through the motions at work, keeping going. He’d noticed that Daley was drinking more heavily then he’d ever seen him, but he had no right to comment. Besides, in all the years he’d known the man, he’d rarely seen him the worse for booze. He supposed that it took a lot to intoxicate someone with a frame like Daley’s. He thought back to his own battle with the bottle: the blackouts, the pounding head, the upset stomach, the feeling that the world was about to collapse around him. Yet he still missed a drink.

  He accelerated up the single-track road to Achnamara.

  8

  Kinloch, 1945

  Inspector Urquhart stared at the slender youth, who was standing alongside his rotund father, turning a Homburg hat over nervously in his pale hands.

  ‘I take it that you’ve heard from Chief Constable Mathieson, Inspector Urquhart?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Well, glad to hear it.’ Retired procurator fiscal Thomson McColl ignored the curtness of the inspector’s reply. ‘I’m sure that my son here will prove to be a fine asset. You want to do your bit, don’t you, Torquil?’ he said, nudging his son with his elbow.

  ‘Y-yes, y-yes, of course,’ came the stammered response.

  ‘Why didn’t you join the army or navy to do your bit like the rest of the lads your age?’ asked Urquhart, pointedly addressing the son rather than the father.

  ‘He is prone to headaches, Inspector, migraines, in fact. The admission board felt—’

  ‘Are you a coward, Torquil?’ Urquhart didn’t give McColl time to finish his sentence.

  ‘That’s an outrageous accusation, Inspector!’ Thomson McColl’s face turned crimson, a thick vein pulsing in his temple.

  ‘Answer the question, boy,’ said Urquhart, again ignoring the lad’s father.

  ‘No, of course not,’ mumbled Torquil.

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ said Urquhart.

  ‘N-no. I’m n-not a coward,’ stammered Torquil, his voice thin and cracking.

  ‘Rest assured, Inspector Urquhart, the chief constable will hear about this. You shall not insult my family. I don’t care how many medals you can pin to your chest.’

  ‘You may leave now, Mr McColl. Your son can stay here. I’ll let you know my decision in due course.’

  ‘Your decision! The decision has been made, Inspector, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Please, F-father. I-I’m a m-man now. I can stand up for myself.’ Torquil clenched his fists, crushing his hat further.

  There followed a heavy silence. McColl, still red-faced, stared at his son, mouthing words that refused to form sounds, while Urquhart casually signed a document on his desk with a flourish of his fountain pen. He looked up, gazing between father and son.

  ‘Well, I think you should do as your son asks, Mr McColl. I’m not too old to forget my father telling me that I should stand on my own two feet. I think it’s time you let your son stand on his, don’t you?’

  McColl, puffing heavily, shook his head at the inspector, nodded peremptorily to his son, turned on his heel in military fashion, then left the office, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘I’m s-so s-sorry. M-my father is used to getting his own way.’

  ‘High time he learned some manners, then.’ Urquhart put down his pen and massaged his temple wearily. ‘I don’t like being told what to do when it comes to my job, Torquil. Not by your father, the chief constable, anyone.’ He stood up, a solid broad-shouldered presence behind his desk. ‘But you can hardly be held responsible for the actions of those who should know better. I have a simple rule, though.’

  ‘Y-yes, sir.’

  ‘Do what I tell you, no matter the circumstances. Do you understand?’

  ‘Y-yes. Absolutely.’ Torquil gave the detective a weak smile.

  ‘Absolutely, sir. I’ll give you a fortnight to prove your worth. If you can, well, then we’ll see if we can turn you into a police officer. If not, I don’t care who your father thinks he is, or what favours he asks of his friends. You will have no future in the job. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Y-yes, sir,’ replied Torquil in the strongest voice he could muster.

  ‘And another thing – stop bloody stammering!’

  Taking care to do so as quietly as possible, Daley lifted the hatch and made his way tentatively into the cellar, pausing only when one step creaked under his weight. When the sounds from below continued, undisturbed by his footfall, he carried on until he reached the bottom, where he paused, heart thudding.

  The immediate area was empty, so he followed the pale light further into the cellar, trying to recall the layout he’d seen only a few hours before.

  The door to the room with the beds and the filing cabinets lay open, but the movement – a shuffling noise, like something heavy being dragged across the floor – ceased. Daley stopped dead, hardly breathing in case whoever was in the cellar heard him.

  Silence. He could see that one of the filing cabinets had been dragged into the middle of the floor. An open drawer revealed a rank of yellowed files, each marked in neat, faded German handwriting. The door to the next room – a small kitchenette, as far as he could remember – lay wide open, though no light issued from within. Assuming whoever was in the cellar must be in this room, he tiptoed towards it, pausing just behind the doorframe to listen for signs of life.

  ‘Don’t move.’ The voice was deep and authoritative. ‘Turn around slowly.’

  Daley did as he was told. The man facing him was older than himself, muscular with close-croppe
d hair. He was holding a pistol, which was now pointed at the detective.

  ‘I was hoping you would arrive,’ he said casually. ‘It makes things easier. Of course, I’m sure your colleagues won’t be far behind, so we don’t have much time.’ The man’s accent was hard to place, but he spoke clearly and with precision.

  ‘My detective sergeant is on his way. Whatever you think you’ll achieve here, let me assure you, you won’t. Please put down the gun.’

  ‘You should have been more careful, checked behind the filing cabinet. A rudimentary error, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  Daley didn’t reply, but knew he should have made sure the room was empty before pursuing his quarry into the next. He wasn’t thinking properly. He had to get his head straight. ‘Just put down the gun,’ he said eventually, with more confidence than he felt.

  To his surprise, the man laid the pistol on top of the filing cabinet and picked up something else as he did so. ‘Take this, and take my advice. Keep it to yourself, or soon it will be removed from your possession. Read it and understand it. It is the key to what happened here.’ He handed Daley a leather-bound notebook. The cover felt rough and brittle with age. ‘What do you mean, keep it to myself? I’m a police officer, and this is evidence.’

  ‘I know who you are, DCI Daley. And, as I said, in a way, I’m pleased you have stumbled into this on your own. Otherwise, we would have had to work out a way of getting this to you without raising suspicion. From what I know of you, you are a straight, determined man – much like the person who wrote this.’ He gestured towards the notebook and moved closer.

  Suddenly, Daley realised that he’d seen the man before – briefly, in the hotel bar. ‘You are under arrest, Mr . . .’

  The man smiled. ‘My name is Feldstein, and you may place me under arrest if you wish. But I can assure you that it will be short-lived.’

  ‘I’ll leave that for the procurator fiscal to decide,’ replied Daley, suddenly aware of a commotion coming from the ground floor.