Well of the Winds Page 8

  ‘Do you know if Brian is involved?’ replied Daley with as much levity as he could muster.

  ‘He’ll be assisting, apparently.’ Shaw grinned.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Daley opened the door to the CID suite, but stopped, turning on his heel. ‘Would you mind looking out the service record of one of my predecessors, if you have a moment?’

  ‘No problem, sir. Who in particular?’

  ‘An inspector by the name of Urquhart.’ Daley could see that the name was unfamiliar to Shaw. ‘He was here towards the end of the Second World War. Do you think you can lay your hands on anything?’

  ‘I’ll have a go. It’ll be a request for information from HQ, sir, so I’ll need to give a reason.’

  ‘Tell them I’m giving a talk at the high school about the life of a cop during the war. Just say I’m looking for a bit of background – good PR and all that jazz. That usually works.’

  ‘Good PR, the magic words. That’ll do the job. I’ll get on to it now.’

  Daley went into his office. He needed cheering up, and the sight of Brian Scott as part of a press conference could almost be guaranteed to lift the spirits. He remembered watching him at Machrie, with the bereaved husband of Izzy Watson. It didn’t seem that long ago.

  ‘Remember, you’re just there to look the part, Brian.’

  He nodded obligingly. Whatever had been troubling Symington seemed to be behind her now.

  They were watching a cameraman set up his lights in the dining room of the Gairsay Hotel. A group of journalists were in a huddle, sharing anecdotes and glancing furtively at the detectives.

  ‘You cannae trust that mob, ma’am. They’ll dae anything tae get you on the wrong foot.’ Scott eyed the press warily. ‘I’ll be fine as long as I’ve no’ tae say anything.’

  ‘Just nod when I introduce you, and look as though you’re focused on the task in hand. Come on, Brian, you must have done a few of these in your time.’

  ‘Aye, but I’m no’ getting any better at them – worse, in fact. It’s just a piece o’ nonsense anyhow. I mean, what’s it going tae achieve?’

  ‘It’ll keep those vultures at bay for a while,’ said Symington, looking at the journalists. ‘There’s too much speculation about this one. Gossip on the island, mainly. We’ll pour some oil on troubled waters, then try and find out what actually happened to the family.’ She smiled conspiratorially, all silver braid and shiny buttons. ‘And please do up your tie, Brian,’ she continued, with mock exasperation.

  ‘Typical of oor Jimmy tae duck this. It would’ve looked better if you’d been sitting alongside him.’

  Symington shrugged her shoulders. ‘We can’t all be encamped over here. Daley has the sub-division to run.’

  ‘As well as sitting there gettin’ a’ maudlin aboot everything,’ said Scott with a grimace.

  ‘Well, he’s been through a lot. I don’t think I’d have been able to just carry on at work. He’s being very stoical, if you ask me.’

  ‘He’s got naethin’ else in his life, you mean. It was always like that. Apart fae him and the wife, the job was everything. Mind you, she kept him on his toes. I wish she was back, for a’ her faults.’

  ‘I don’t really know anything about that side of things,’ said Symington, looking around the room impatiently. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Ten tae three, ma’am. No’ long noo till we’re on display. At least I’ve no’ tae think aboot John Donald giving me a critique when we’re done.’ Scott raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘I get the impression that you and my predecessor had some issues?’

  ‘Aye, you could say that. But that probably doesn’t cover it . . .’ Before Scott could go into more detail about his tortuous relationship with his late boss, a harassed-looking PR officer made his way towards them, clearing his throat to interrupt the police officers’ conversation.

  ‘We’ll get you and Sergeant Scott seated, ma’am. Oh, and Special Constable McAuley.’

  Scott followed his eyeline to the back of the room. Sure enough, McAuley was there, in full uniform and stab-proof vest. ‘Are you having a laugh?’ joked Scott. ‘That bugger will likely forget whether he’s the butcher, baker or the candlestick maker. He’s no’ the sharpest tool in the box, you know.’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Symington interjected. ‘Besides, it’ll take the heat off us. He’s local. Have faith, Brian.’

  ‘I didnae think you’d go for a daft idea like that, ma’am.’

  ‘It was my idea, DS Scott. Now, let’s get up there and get this over with,’ she continued brightly as they pushed their way through the knot of journalists to the end of the room where a Police Scotland backdrop had been set.

  ‘Here we go,’ muttered Scott, as he struggled to straighten his tie.

  The two boys were running at full pelt along the sand, a terrier barking at their heels. The sun was out, and the beach, near Derrybeg in County Donegal on the Republic of Ireland’s north-west coast, glinted white in the early spring sunshine. Disturbed by the boys’ antics, gulls wheeled and squawked overhead.

  Detritus washed up on the beach by the storms that had lashed the Atlantic coastline all winter was strewn everywhere. Old plastic fish crates, the gnarled branch of a tree bleached by sea and sun, juice bottles by the dozen, discarded netting, and the twisted frame of a plastic chair: all washed up by the restless sea and part of a playground of infinite possibilities for children now that the winter gales and short, dark days were over.

  The little dog stopped beside a cluster of rocks at the water’s edge, and started to whine, digging up the sand with its paws.

  ‘Hey, Rooney!’ shouted one of the boys, anxious not to leave his pet behind. ‘What are you playin’ at?’

  The terrier paid him no attention and continued to whine, backing away from the rocks.

  ‘What’s up, Declan?’ shouted the second lad, from further along the beach.

  ‘It’s Rooney. Maybe found a crab or something. Wait there, and I’ll go and fetch him.’ The boy retraced his footsteps to the little dog, which was now growling and barking excitedly.

  ‘Come on, you daft bugger,’ he said, leaning down to pat the animal. ‘Sure, we’ve to get back home, or Mammy will send for the Guards.’

  The dog raced back towards the rocks, confident now that his master was with him.

  The boy shook his head and jogged forward, intent on pulling his pet away from the distraction. He stopped in his tracks.

  The old woman lay on her back. The only eye she had left stared blankly at the sky; a tiny hermit crab made its way from a deep gash in the half of her head that remained intact.

  The boy screamed, making the little dog howl.

  12

  Symington, Scott and Special Constable McAuley took their seats. Scott ran his finger round the collar of his shirt; he felt as if he was being slowly strangled. McAuley, who had been persuaded to remove his stab-proof vest, took a gulp of water from the glass in front of him and looked out of the corner of his eye at his chief superintendent, who was listening intently to what the well-groomed PR officer in front of them had to say.

  ‘I would like to introduce Special Constable McAuley, resident here on Gairsay and the man who discovered that the family were missing, DS Scott from Kinloch, and Chief Superintendent Symington, Divisional Commander.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘Chief Superintendent Symington will begin with a brief summary of what has happened to date, followed by a Q and A. When you’re ready.’ He nodded to a floor manager wearing headphones, who held out his hand, then counted backwards from ten, indicating the last three numbers with his fingers only.

  Symington straightened her back and began to read from the script in front of her. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Isle of Gairsay. As you know, we are investigating the disappearance of the Bremner family. They are local farmers, well known and liked within the island community . . .’

  Daley was watching the proceedings in the AV suite.
On the huge screen, his colleagues looked surreally larger than life. He was especially impressed by Symington, but not surprised she was delivering such an assured performance in front of the gathered cameras and journalists. In full uniform, replete with braid, she sounded well briefed and confident, while giving the press only the barest overview of what had been discovered at Achnamara.

  He couldn’t help smiling at Scott’s obvious discomfort. His face was flushed and he looked to be breathing heavily, even though he was only really there for moral support. Likewise, McAuley looked like a fish out of water, glancing frequently around the room, his mouth gaping.

  In what seemed like no time at all, Symington had finished her summary of the facts and handed back to the PR man, who asked the assembled press corps if they had any questions.

  ‘David Lynne, BBC News,’ a young journalist called out. ‘Am I right to assume that no intimation of their possible whereabouts was left by the family?’

  ‘Yes, that is correct, though we are continuing with a thorough search of the Bremners’ properties in case this yields any clues as to their whereabouts,’ replied Symington with a polite smile.

  ‘Linda Watson, Daily Record. We have information that some surprising items have been found amongst the Bremners’ possessions – is that correct?’

  Daley watched Symington carefully. She looked unfazed by the question, replying only that the contents of the house appeared to have little bearing on the family’s disappearance, but were being investigated just in case. Though he knew this wasn’t strictly true, he smiled at the easy way his boss minimised the true nature of what had been discovered at the farmhouse. Already, she was doing a much better job than he could have hoped to.

  A few questions followed about the individual family members and their history and position within the small island community, all of which Symington handled with ease, constantly underlining the need for information in order to make sense of their disappearance.

  Just as it appeared that the proceedings were winding down, a disembodied voice sounded from the back of the dining room. ‘Tell them the truth! It’s time everybody knew whoot went on!’ The voice was slurred and heavily accented, and as the camera jerkily refocused on who was causing the interruption, Daley recognised the dishevelled woman who had been swiftly removed from the hotel the night he’d been in the bar with Scott and Symington. Her clothes were ill-fitting and dirty, and her lank grey hair hung limply over her face.

  Before she could call out again, she was escorted from the venue, protesting loudly and incoherently. As the buzz of interest from the gathered journalists died down, the PR man brought the press conference to an end, with a brief apology for the interruption.

  Daley grimaced and flicked the screen off just as Sergeant Shaw hurried into the room.

  ‘Sir, we’ve just had this from the Irish Coastguard. A body’s been washed up on the shore in Donegal. Matches the description of Mrs Bremner senior, though it’s been pretty knocked about. They’re sending images as soon as they have them. They seem pretty convinced it’s her.’

  ‘Donegal?’ Daley thought about the geography involved. County Donegal was part of the Irish Republic, but it was visible from the Kintyre peninsula if the weather permitted. What could possibly have happened at Achnamara that would result in the old woman’s body ending up in Donegal?

  ‘Have we established the whereabouts of Alex Bremner? Finding him must be a priority now – especially if this body does turn out to be that of Mrs Bremner.’

  ‘Last heard of in Austria, sir. Part of some EU student delegation. We’ve passed it on to Interpol, but they report that the trail has gone cold. He’s taking some kind of sabbatical, sir.’

  Daley shrugged. ‘Keep at them, please. And keep me up to speed.’ Whatever the Bremner family had been involved with, it looked likely that their youngest member would have to cope with the loss of his relatives, prior to being asked some difficult questions.

  The sins of the father, thought Daley. All too often the offspring of those who involved themselves with crime, or some other unwanted notoriety, found that they bore a taint of those who came before. He’d seen the children of criminals bullied, ostracised, bad-mouthed, or taken down the wrong path simply because of who their family happened to be.

  It looked as though Alex Bremner – once they’d found him – ran the risk of such judgement.

  Kinloch, 1945

  Inspector Urquhart could see four big destroyers and half a dozen ancillary vessels at anchor as he made his way from his lodgings to Kinloch Police Station. He’d become used to the sight of the loch filled with warships and the streets of the town bustling with servicemen and women, but there was something brutal and unsettling about these great instruments of death in the warm spring sunshine. He’d been posted to Kinloch in 1944 and had little knowledge of the community in peacetime, but he had often tried to picture the pre-war community. There was no doubt that, with its rolling hills and white beaches, the area was idyllic.

  Come to think of it, he found it hard to remember what peacetime was like anywhere. He was originally from a small village in Ayrshire and, though he didn’t return there very often, the last time he had visited his elderly mother, the small community had borne little resemblance to the place he’d grown up in, thronged as it was with soldiers from the temporary army barracks.

  He remembered his time in the army – latterly in the military police – and unconsciously rubbed his right thigh, hoping to ease the pain there that still made him limp. As he stared out over the loch in front of him, the sunlit scene was replaced by the smoke-filled chaos of the beach at Dunkirk. The sheer cacophony, the frightened horses, the men screaming; the smell of blood and cordite that mixed with the tang of the ocean as thousands of soldiers waited on the beaches to be saved by the flotilla of small boats that had braved the Channel to rescue them.

  He held his breath as the scream of the Luftwaffe’s dive-bombers sounded again in his head. He could feel the spray of blood and gore splattering his face as his fellow soldiers were blown to bits beside him by a bomb blast. A head, ripped from the body at the neck, rolled along the sand, its remaining eye hanging by a bloodied stalk from a now empty socket.

  ‘Fine day, Inspector,’ said an old woman as she passed, making him jump and come back to the here and now. ‘I see McArthur’s the bakers are selling torpedo-shaped loaves the day.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You know, bread in the shape of a torpedo tae celebrate the sinking o’ thon U-boat. Good for them, says I. If I hadna bought a new loaf yesterday, I’d buy one mysel’. Bloody Nazis, don’t know when they’re beat. No’ even wae Hitler deid.’ She walked on, tutting and shaking her head. Wartime or not, the community of Kinloch was never short of an opinion – normally trenchant ones.

  Urquhart continued his walk along the esplanade, pausing to watch a small fishing boat and her crew leave the harbour. An old fisherman with a pipe clenched between his teeth poked his head from the wheelhouse window as the vessel made its way out into the loch, threading incongruously between the warships that dwarfed it.

  Hitler or no Hitler, the war wasn’t over yet. He’d faced the German army and fled for his life along with the rest of the British Expeditionary Force. He’d marvelled at the ruthless efficiency of the Nazi war machine. No, despite all that had happened, he found it impossible to believe they were beaten.

  He walked on up Kinloch’s Main Street. Sure enough, a queue had formed outside the bakery. A young woman, her hair tucked into a knotted scarf, passed him with a torpedo loaf in her basket, smiling shyly at a group of sailors who were laughing their way up the street in their baggy uniform trousers and black caps, the name of their ship embroidered in gold along the headband.

  ‘Inspector, a word, if you please.’

  Urquhart turned round to see Thomson McColl. ‘Yes, Mr McColl, how can I help you?’

  ‘My son tells me you’ve had him cataloguing the personal effects of dead
German sailors.’

  ‘Yes, and what about it?’

  ‘Surely that’s the job for some clerk or a wee lassie, not a trainee detective?’

  Urquhart stepped towards McColl. ‘His job is whatever I see fit. Any more interference from you and he won’t be a trainee anything. I thought I made myself clear yesterday. Good day to you, Mr McColl.’

  As Urquhart climbed the hill to his workplace, the pain in his leg made him wince. ‘Arrogant bastard,’ he said under his breath, as a dark blue RN truck thundered past him in a haze of belching engine fumes.

  Daley looked at the image on the computer screen and compared it with a photograph of Mrs Bremner. There could be little doubt, despite missing half of her face, that this was the woman they were looking for. ‘Do we know anything else, Sergeant Shaw? Was she the only one found?’

  ‘Not really, sir. They’re searching the shoreline, but nothing yet.’

  The Bremner family had disappeared from their farmhouse on Gairsay, and now one of them had turned up on a beach in the Irish Republic. Daley looked at the map on the wall. The distance involved was relatively small, the journey taking just over an hour or so, depending on the vessel. He stared at the empty desk in the CID suite. DC Mary Dunn wasn’t coming back, and neither was Mrs Bremner.

  In her hotel room, Symington listened carefully to Daley’s report. She thanked her DCI, then ended the call. She would have to seek the advice of her superiors; it wasn’t what she’d been hoping for.

  She looked at her reflection in the long wardrobe mirror. She looked tired and was sure that the fine lines around her eyes hadn’t been there a few weeks ago. She supposed her mother’s warnings were right. She would age prematurely in the police force. It would drain her self-worth and vitality and then spit her out. She seemed destined for a lonely old age, forgotten and discarded by the society she had served, forced to take desperate singles’ holidays for the want of something to do, with a dwindling hope of finding a partner with whom she could spend her final years.