A Double Death on the Black Isle (9 page)

“Blast and double blast!” This was as close to swearing as Joanne got. “Blast this machine and blast this story!”

“I'm happy to take over the story, but you'd be sorry if you give up. It could turn out to be very interesting,” Rob said.

Joanne gave up on the typewriter ribbon. She went to stand in the window.
Rain is not far off,
Joanne thought, peering through the grimy panes to an equally grimy sky,
knowing my luck it will probably sleet
.

“It never occurred to me that friendship could get in the way of a story.” She spoke to the clouds, not wanting Rob to see how upset she felt.

“We can work on this together,” he offered, “and whenever it starts to get hairy, blame me.”

“Thanks, Rob, but I have to learn to stick up for myself. Patricia is my oldest friend, but . . . I don't know what it is, but I sometimes feel . . . used.”

“I know. She's not my favorite person. We were forced to spend holidays together when I was a child, our fathers are friends.” Rob didn't elaborate; it would all sound so petty. “Speaking of friendship, I have a confession.”

He told her about the job offer.

“Never! You can't!” Joanne looked at him, at his cheerful face, his dandelion hair, the way he had of never standing but always
leaning in a casual film-star kind of way, and she felt the hot sting of almost tears. “Oh Rob, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It would be great for your career, but I'd miss you.”

“I'd miss you too . . . and all this.” He gestured round a room so tight you could almost touch the walls opposite. “It's flattering to be asked, and I haven't made a decision. The idea of a good job on a big Aberdeen newspaper is all very fine, but . . .” he grinned at her, “their accent is so thick I can't understand a word anyone says.”

At lunchtime, and only because Don told him to help select a shot for the front page, Rob met Hec at his studio, also known as his granny's washhouse.

Ducking under the clothesline, where negatives and proof sheets were dangling thickly from wall to wall, crisscrossing the tiny space, Rob noted, and was impressed by the custom-built cabinets stretching from floor to ceiling, all neatly labeled according to a classification system known only to Hec. It was then that Rob realized he was in the lair of a true professional.

“Here, take a pew, we'll sort through these.” Hec handed Rob proof sheets and negatives.

They looked through dozens of, to Rob anyway, very similar shots of fishing boats, and a harbor.

“I can't do this, Hec, I can't tell anything from a negative.”

“Fine. I'll look through the Black Isle negs, you look through the prints.”

In his own kingdom, Hec was different—not such a pest. He was confident, good company. Rob selected about a dozen of what he considered the best shots, then looked at them again. He stared at one particular photograph. He found another similar shot, but the figure was farther in the distance.

“Hec, can you make this bigger? Maybe blow up a part of it?”

“Easy peasy.” Hector looked over the shot. “That one's no good.” He leaned over Rob, patronizing, a man who knew best. “See, here, the angle's all wrong, the boat's only just caught alight, there's no drama in the composition.”

“So who's this then?” Rob pointed to a figure on the left of the frame, running along the canal towpath, away from the fire.

“Oh aye, him. I saw him. He was running towards the lock keepers' house at the end of the canal basin. You know, the locks that lead into the firth.”

“Hector!” Rob didn't realize he was shouting.

Hector immediately turned defensive, his shoulders hunching, his eyes blinking. “What?”

“Don't you see?” Rob shook the pictures six inches in front of Hector's face.

“See what?”

“I give up. You're hopeless, helpless, and useless.” Rob knew there was no point trying to get sense out of Hector. Instead he gathered up the prints and the negatives and the magnifying glass and drove back to the office where he dumped everything, including Hector, in McAllister's office.

“You can sort this out,” Rob handed the photographs to the editor, saying, “because if I stay, I'm likely to do him damage.”

McAllister took the prints and the negatives, saw what Rob had seen, then sent Hec home to print out some blowups. It was late afternoon before Hector returned.

The police station was a short walk from the
Gazette
office. Tucked beneath the castle walls, the too old, too small, too narrow building, its walls imbued with the scent and sound of misery, cast a spell on all who entered. Wee Hec was terrified. McAllister was scared too. Scared that Hec, who was only at the police station because he had been ordered to, would reach up and hold his hand.

“Detective Inspector Dunne, please.”

They were shown into an office, not an interview room, McAllister noted and approved. This inspector was shaping up to be a huge improvement on the previous detective inspector with whom McAllister had a traumatic history.

McAllister had already told Detective Inspector Dunne of the photographs. Now he handed them over and he and Hec sat in silence as the policeman examined them.

“Thank you for bringing these in.” DI Dunne's tone was formal, all business. “I'm intrigued by this particular picture,” he pointed to the shot showing a person running along the towpath. “But before we go on to look at these in detail, Mr. Bain . . .”

Hec took a quick look round to check if there was another Bain in the room.

“. . . It's been eight days since the fishing boat was set on fire. Why didn't you show these to us until now?”

Hector looked down at his hands and said nothing.

“Answer the Inspector.” McAllister poked him in the arm.

“Because they're no good, the shot is the wrong angle.” Hec gave an exaggerated sigh, treating DI Dunne as he had treated Rob earlier—as someone who was a complete ignoramus about art. “The pointy bit of the boat is straight on to the camera, so you get no idea of the size of it, and there's no smoke or flames. . . .”

“Hector.” McAllister's growl terrified Hector.

When he continued, Hec's voice had gone up an octave, so he sounded as well as looked eleven years old, “Mr. McAllister said I had to give you these pictures.”

“Do you understand why?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”

“These photographs could help us find a criminal.” The policeman was patient, interviewing Hector as he would a child. “They could be important evidence.”

Hector was listening now.

“What I don't understand is, why didn't you mention this to the constables at the scene of the crime?”

“The sergeant doesn't like me.”

“Which sergeant?”

“The fat one. He says I'm a peeper.”

“That must be Sergeant Patience.” A most inappropriately named man, Detective Inspector Dunne always thought. “Is that why you didn't come in earlier? You'd already spoken to the sergeant?”

“No, he saw me and I saw him, so I hid.”

“He only wanted to take your statement about what you saw.”

“Why me? There were plenty other folk there. He's always picking on me.”

The Inspector tried again. “You saw someone running away from the fire?”

“No, I never.”

“But I thought you did.”

“I never.”

“Hector.” McAllister knew it was time to intervene.

“What? Rob found this picture. There is somebody running. But how was I to know they wis running away from the fire? Maybe they wis going to the lock keeper's house, or the swing bridge on the railway line 'cos the other bridge was closed—I mean open. Maybe they wis late for work, maybe . . .”

“You took his picture,” Inspector Dunne said.

“No, I never.”

“You took a picture and in the picture was a man running. . . .”

“No.”

“No?”

“I'm not sure he wis a man.”

“Hector.” McAllister nudged him.

“I was taking pictures of the fire. The person happened to be there. I happened to take this photo. I didn't pay any heed 'cos I was that busy taking that many shots. Rob saw the picture. Then Mr. McAllister told me I had to come here and show it to you. So I'm here.”

McAllister guessed where the conversation might lead. “I apologize for not getting this photo to you sooner,” he spoke to DI Dunne in a formal, official manner. “We only found out about its existence today. The
Highland Gazette
would never withhold evidence.”

“Apology accepted,” DI Dunne said. “I'm glad you didn't go ahead and publish before showing it to me.”

No,
thought McAllister,
I won't tell him that I was sorely tempted. Better to keep on the good side of the police.

“Hector, thank you for providing the photographs.” DI Dunne was once more the formal policeman. “But in future, if you have anything that will help us in our inquiries, try to get it to us sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, sir.” Hector was so relieved he jumped off his chair and was out the door before McAllister or the inspector could say another word.

As he walked back to the office, McAllister thought of the new detective inspector with respect, admiration even; how the man refrained from reaching across the desk, grabbing Hec by the neck, and throttling him, he would never know.

McAllister was about to leave for the day when his phone rang.

“McAllister.”

“Angus McLean here.”

McAllister knew from the tone that this was a formal call.

“The Ord Mackenzie family and Achnafern Estate on the Black Isle are my clients,” Mr. McLean explained.

“Yes.”

“I am giving you the courtesy of a call before I write to you on behalf of Mrs. Alexander Skinner née Ord Mackenzie.”

“And?”

“She asks that you stop publishing articles about a private family matter. If you do not do so, she will be forced to take further steps.”

“A fishing boat set alight by a Molotov cocktail, in a public waterway—namely the canal—attended to by the fire brigade and the police and subject to an inquiry by the procurator fiscal, is hardly a private family matter.”

“I've told her that.”

“Thank you, Mr. McLean, I will note that you called and I will make sure that we do not publish any story that could be deemed as private family business.”

“Thank you. I will draft a letter accordingly.”

“Yes.” McAllister knew the formalities were over and dropped into the not-for-publication, friendship mode, “But Angus, just so you know, I have no intension of being bullied by any member of the Ord Mackenzie clan.”

“Quite so.”

McAllister could hear the smile in the solicitor's voice as they said their good-byes.

Threaten all you want, Mrs. Skinner née Ord Mackenzie,
McAllister thought,
but your husband's affairs will be on the front page of the next edition and there is nothing you can do about it.

C
hiara Kowalski née Corelli was the one person with whom Joanne felt she could completely be herself.

“We're both outsiders,” Joanne joked. “I may be Scottish, but I could live my whole life here and I'd still be an outsider.”

Not much younger than Joanne, Chiara had come to the town with her aunt to join her father, Gino Corelli. He, as well as hundreds of other men released from prisoner-of-war camps throughout Scotland, had decided to make this country home.

Gino Corelli started with a mobile fish and chip van, and now his café and chip shop was as much a part of the town's landscape as the castle.

Living in the north was a mixed blessing for the Italians. Highland regiments had served in Messina, Sicily, at the battle for Monte Cassino, and many other skirmishes on the long march through Italy. Flesh wounds healed, but memories didn't. Many remembered all too well that Italy had been on the side of the Germans initially. Joanne's mother-in-law, Mrs. Ross, was one. Being called a turncoat was one of the milder taunts Gino had had to put up with.

But Italians had been a presence in Scotland for centuries, contributing to the life of the community with not just cafés; they were citizens as much as any native-born Scot. Then the war came. Men were interned in freezing barracks in desolate parts of the countryside, leaving the women and children to run the businesses. When the war ended, they remained and rebuilt their
lives. Keeping to themselves mostly, the bright ice-cream parlors, the cafés, the chip shops, and vans with “O Sole Mio” jingles were welcome—as long as no one mentioned the war.

Chiara had been a teenager when she and her aunt had left Italy to join her father. After a journey that she never spoke about, through a desecrated Europe, they were reunited; she attended the local convent school, studied, made friends, and married another of the war's casualties—a Polish aristocrat who, along with thousands of his compatriots, had escaped in the weeks before the occupation.