Bitter Water (45 page)

McGregor came back in, tutting at the mess. He rounded up the household and broke out the mops. His son was already kneeling by the hinges of the big doors with a screwdriver.

Sangster was reluctant to go but his brain had seized as solid as the truck’s engine. He had so many more questions to ask me that he didn’t know where to start. I compromised with him by agreeing to spend more time at Albany Street in the coming days, if needed. I certainly expected to hear from Duncan, if only to have a pint or three with him and a good laugh, and to find out if his career had been resuscitated or killed off for good.

Finally the unlucky convoy sailed off, leaving a dust pall behind them in the lazy afternoon light. They took with them Kenny Rankin, who had drawn into himself, and was now silent.

Sam and I stood on the steps watching them drive away. We gazed down on the abandoned truck and the several dark patches left on the ground. I looked at my watch.

‘It’s six thirty. It’ll be dark in an hour. Do we have time to get over the hill? Are you up for night manoeuvres?’

Sam looked around. The evening was clear and sharp. A full moon was already faint against the deepening blue. ‘It’ll be like daylight up there in these conditions.’

‘What about the ferry?’

‘There’s a lantern kept at Rowardennan by the jetty. He’ll come if we signal. We’ll have to pay him double, mind.’

‘You’ve done this before, then?’

‘Not me. But my parents said they did once. They came over, like us, for a day with Colin and Clarinda. They made it sound magical. Up there under the moon.’ Her eyes were shining.

‘Well then, let’s follow in their footsteps, shall we?’

We brushed aside McGregor’s protests about putting us up for the night. Too many new ghosts.

We retrieved our Dixons and knapsacks and set off into the gathering twilight. We ploughed into the semi-darkness and chill of the forest at the foot of the hills. It seemed like a game, a child’s adventure. We didn’t talk, just grinned at each other as we flushed out pheasants and one lone deer that went crashing through the undergrowth. Then silence fell again. It was like being in a leafy cathedral just before evensong.

We broke out on the lower slopes leading up to Ben Uird. We were suddenly closer, much closer to the plane wreckage. We stopped and looked across at the scattered red fuselage. The cockpit was rammed head-first into the ground, its nose squashed flat against the rocks. There was no sign of life.

‘I would have fired, you know.’

‘I know you would, Sam.’

‘She deserved it.’

‘Maybe. But I already own a bad conscience. A few more sins won’t weigh me down.’

She reached out and took my hand, and searched my face. ‘I’m not so sure, Douglas Brodie. But thank you. Thank you.’

‘Do you want to see it?’ I asked, meaning
them
. Meaning
her
.

Sam shook her head. ‘No, they’re dead. There’s nothing to be done for them, except try to remember the good bits. Moira had good bits. Or so I thought. She just got greedy. For money, for life. Charlie was rotten from the start.’

We pressed on, our legs beginning to protest at this second tough excursion of the day. The moonlight was much stronger. Like daylight through a grey-tone filter. The giant gilt orb hovered to our left now and was rising strongly. For a while it seemed as though we’d climb to within touching distance of its pitted surface. We stopped near the summit and looked back. The castle was surrounded by tendrils of autumn mists seeping from the river. If we came back in the morning it would surely have been consumed entirely, as if it had never been.

She asked breezily, ‘What did the Chief Constable want?’

I laughed. ‘Me.’

‘Just your hide or the whole thing?’

‘A job. Detective inspector.’

‘Ha!’

‘What does
ha
mean?’

‘It means I’m not surprised.’

I stopped and made her turn to me. ‘Why, for God’s sake? You know what I think about the sleaze and incompetence in the force. What on earth would make me go back? And why would they want me?’

‘They want you because they need you. You’d do it because it’s what you’re good at.’ She held my gaze, daring me to contradict her. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘I said no. He offered me chief inspector.’

‘Not bad. Enough?’

‘I said it wasn’t about the rank, but if it was, I was used to having a crown on my shoulder.’

She whistled. ‘Superintendent? But if it’s not about the rank, what is it about, Douglas? You know you’re wasted as a reporter.’

‘You really don’t make it easy for a man to live a life of peace.’

‘“Blessed are the peacemakers.” Depends how you do it.’

‘I said I wouldn’t fit. That the Sangsters would hate me. Besides, I wasn’t a Mason.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he’d find a way round it. Maybe report straight to him.’

‘Tempting?’

‘Eddie and Wullie are both in hospital. I’m needed at the paper.’

I turned and started up the hillside again. I didn’t want to talk about it any more. We suffered two false summits before finally reaching the top. Too symbolic for words.

We stood, chests heaving from the last climb, and gazed around us. It was a different world from the one we left this afternoon. Laid out before us was a palette of lustrous grey and black. We could see clearly right to the distant horizon and the last bars of light like the gateway to a promised land. The folds and bumps rolled away on every side, cut and slashed by pewter rivers and lochs. The great loch itself was riven by moonlight. A shimmering bar of molten silver fled down its length from Balloch in the south on up to the far north. A tantalising highway that beckoned travellers. If only they dared.

Without speaking, we sat on a rock left by the last ice age and I pulled out my cigarettes. I lit two and we watched the light march across the land in hues of grey and silver. We let our eyes be greedy, gobbling up the drama of it all. And I had a sudden clear understanding of our own unimportance.

‘It puts it in context, doesn’t it?’ I suggested.

‘A midsummer’s night dream.’

‘Nightmare.’

‘But it’s over, Douglas. Isn’t it over now?’

‘Yes. I think it is.’

‘Even Drummond?’

‘He was heading north. Maybe he’ll get his old job back with the Inverness police. Maybe he’ll become the wild man of the glens. I suspect we’ll hear one way or the other.’

The evening air floated up around us carrying the latent smells of the day.

‘Those tales you gave Sangster. Will they hold?’

‘Why not? It’s mostly true. And convenient. For everybody.’

‘Even Kenny and Colin. Between them, Moira and Charlie would have driven both old men into the poorhouse. Kenny was running out of money. Moira couldn’t bear the idea. That and Helensburgh. Charlie promised her London and Paris. Poor Moira. Chose the wrong horse. The Maxwells were in worse straits than Kenny.’

‘And ready to kill to get their hands on the contracts.’

‘Charlie at least. After you stopped his flow of drug money from the Slatterys!’

‘Ripples, eh?’

‘Will you write about that?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think we can prove anything. Besides, what’s the point? There’s no one left to accuse. As you say, just two old men. I’ve got enough for a column or two. Enough for a whole paper.’ It brought our thoughts round to the same thing.

‘I hope Wullie’s all right,’ she said.

‘It’s not looking good.’

‘Poor Stewart.’ She said it carefully.

I looked at her. She returned my unspoken question with a raised brow. I turned to look down at the glittering loch.

‘You know?’ I asked.

‘That they’re not brothers? Yes. That was obvious.’

I nodded. ‘It took me a while to ask myself how Wullie was always first with news about the queer killings.’

‘You think he knew them? Personally?’

‘It’s probably how he got the first inkling of the goings-on in the council planning office. Maybe he met one of the dead clerks at the Monkey Club. Maybe at one of the other haunts.’

‘It must be hard.’

‘Living a lie? Yes, I expect so. No one should have to.’

We sat for a while longer, unwilling to move, even though the temperature was falling. We drew closer for warmth and shared another cigarette. It was like sitting in a pot pourri. The air rushed up the slopes at us, bringing a mix of smells: dry heather, the bitter tang of deep water, of earth giving up its heat, tobacco, rough tweed and her own scent.

‘Sam? Samantha? About us . . .’

‘Wheesht, Douglas. Don’t break the spell.’

Thanks

Big thanks to: Bill Mann, Honorary Secretary and saviour of the splendid Western Baths Club of Glasgow; John Bell, of the Iona Community, for his eclectic insights and knowledge; Richenda Todd, my all-seeing editor; Nic Cheetham for opening wide this door; Becci Sharpe and Fran Owen in Team Corvus for getting the message out; James Hanley, for reviewing first drafts and for unstinted encouragement; Tina Betts, my agent, for limitless faith. And Sarah Ferris, unpaid marketing director, principal reviewer, chief supporter and helpmeet.