A Small Death in the Great Glen (55 page)

“I could well ask you the same thing.”

He had had a restless night. All the information, the suppositions and the infuriating realization that still there was no real information had sent his brain swirling, the thoughts as dark
and as dreadful as water emptying out of a canal lock. McAllister now sat with his morning tea, trying to resist the temptation to add a slug of whisky. He wasn't ready to go into the office for the Monday meeting. They could manage without him. He fiddled with the button. He had scrubbed it with soap. It was a Military Police Service button. He picked it up, put it down, ran his thumb over the raised emblem. He fiddled with the worn metal tag attached to the key. The number on it had been scratched on by hand, probably with a screwdriver. He looked at the clock. Eight. He could call now. He got up, went into the hall, picked up the phone and dialed.

“Highland Bus Station, can I help you?”

“Sorry, wrong number.” He replaced the phone, went straight back to the kitchen, poured a dram into a second cup of tea, telling himself it was medicinal. He went back into the hall to make another call. Before he could pick up the receiver the phone shrilled deep into his hangover. He was regretting the dram already.

“McAllister.”

“When are you coming in? I've something to tell you.”

“Rob, I've more important things to think about than the
Gazette.
”

“No, it's not that, it's—” The shrill briiing of the doorbell gave him a start.

“There's the door. We'll talk later.”

He hung up. The shadow darkening the stained-glass door panels was large and ominous. He shuddered; “Someone stepping on my grave,” his mother used to say. He opened the door. Looming in the doorway like a specter at the feast was Constable Willie Grant.

“Morning, Mr. McAllister, sir. DCI Westland asked, special like, that I bring the news in person. It's Father Morrison. We've found him.”

T
WENTY-FOUR
 
 

Westland had had enough of the Highlands. He couldn't wait to be on the train home; home for Christmas, home to his family, his city, away from this town and this case. Years in the police had formed his view that no one wanted to know the truth—they only wanted a version of the truth that would fit their preconceptions. McAllister wanted a truth that would relieve him of the guilt of neglecting his brother, the boy's parents wanted a truth showing accidents happen with no fault on anyone's part, the town wanted a truth where no blame could be laid on a native Highlander, the Church didn't want any truth that might reveal priests as mere mortal men with faults and failures and all that that implied, and the chief constable wanted his officers shown as valiant men—he was yet to notice the token women—going about their duties without fear or favor, a bright shining example to the populace of the Highlands and Islands and as good as any police force south of the Grampians.

What the chief inspector hated most of all—and he acknowledged that this was not exclusive to this part of the world—was the denial, the complicity, the hiding of society's ills in order to maintain that all-pervading moral imperative, respectability.

Morrison, found dead in a snowdrift, was a solution to all their problems. He would remain innocent as the lamb but would privately be blamed for any and every sin.

Westland sighed. The meeting with the chief constable had gone as expected. The suspicions that he voiced were met with more than disbelief; he was ridiculed and threatened with an
adverse report to his superiors. There was no evidence against this Polish fellow, the chief constable agreed, but the man was not entirely innocent. He has no papers and I have to agree with Inspector Tompson, the senior policeman had said, his alibi is very convenient. The parents couldn't have killed their son, they were at work and seen by half the town, so that theory was gone. The priest is not, and never was, a suspect, Westland was told, and was ordered to leave out the other outrageous, if not downright libelous, suggestion. No officer on
my
force would ever subvert a criminal case to protect his church. That's me told, Westland thought, sighing to himself, having long ago lost the capacity to be shocked by decisions from senior officers.

Tompson continued in his duties. The fatal accident inquiry into the priest's death would deem it just that, an accident. And still there was nothing, nothing that could show Tompson was covering up for a fellow Catholic.

“I've talked to him,” the chief constable had said, “and Tompson explained to me that while he was checking the house, gathering up all that valuable photographic equipment and the rest of Morrison's belongings, he found a greatcoat in the stove and was only finishing off the job to clear out the stove. He is on a church committee that looks after their properties.”

“Aye, checking the house in the dark.” But again DCI Westland was ignored. He next tried to put a case before the procurator fiscal. They reviewed the photographs found in Morrison's luggage, they tried to piece together any evidence connecting Morrison with the boy Jamie. There was nothing.

“Tompson went to the house to tidy up, as he put it, within five minutes of receiving the phone call that Morrison had been found.” DCI Westland pointed out, “He didn't even bother to inform
me
that the body had been discovered; I heard it from the
desk sergeant.”

“He was only trying to protect the Church from any scandal over Father Morrison's wee hobby,” was the reply. “Not that there is anything criminal in the photos. Distasteful as they are, there is nothing that would warrant laying charges. Bring me evidence, and I will make sure the truth is known,” the fiscal had promised.

At least he is willing to consider that a priest could be corrupt, Westland thought. But it was of little consolation.

One hundred yards away, McAllister sat in his office, feet on the desk, door firmly shut, lobbing scrunched-up balls of copy paper into the top hat that had mysteriously migrated from the reporters' room. Rob had told him—in great detail and with accompanying gestures and sound effects—about his derring-do confrontation with Inspector Tompson in the Big House, as he now referred to it, having picked up the name from the children.

Angus MacLean had phoned McAllister explaining that his contact in the church had discovered that the demise of the Boys' Boxing Club was due to the war. There had been talk of an inquiry into some aspect of the club, Angus was told. It was probably nothing more than gossip, his friend had added. So, nothing.

The Reverend Macdonald passed on to McAllister the information that Father Morrison Bain had disappeared for a year or so; on retreat, was the story. He was next heard of as a particularly active chaplain in the Clydeside Blitz. A hero, a friend, a comforter, was the consensus of those who knew him from that time. Again, nothing.

DCI Westland phoned McAllister, relaying the details of Inspector Tompson's explanation to the chief constable for his visit to the priest's home. Westland was livid. He had been forced to apologize for implying that Tompson might be involved in covering up a crime. Not that Father Morrison could possibly be a
suspect in the boy's death, the chief constable had added at every opportunity.

Nothing, nil, nada, McAllister doodled in his notebook. The key was on his desk next to the button. No point in informing Westland. He watched clouds, counted passing seagulls, drank four cups of tea, took five aspirins, then, halfway through the morning, his hangover receding, idleness turning to boredom, then instinct kicked in. He was a reporter, so he started with the story. Maybe I should do as Don does, start with headings. Right.

First heading:
Key.
Second heading:
Greatcoat.
Third heading:
Big House.
Fourth heading:
Prisoner.
Under
Key
he wrote,
Visit boy's
—he crossed out boy's—
Jamie's parents.
Under
Greatcoat
he wrote,
Whose is it? Why burn? Button?
Under
Big House,
he listed
Tompson's search—for what?
Under the last heading, he paused, then reached for the phone. While he waited to be connected he made a decision. He respected DCI Westland, but he was not going to share any information with any police officer, ever.

“Angus? McAllister. I wonder if you can arrange something for me?”

In the reporters' room, they were getting on with a Monday morning not defined by the ritual news meeting.

“You're looking good.” Rob examined Joanne. There was definitely something different about her. She looked younger. “New hairdo?”

“Don't be silly, when would I have the time—or the money—for that?”

“It's what I always say to women because if they have had a new hairdo and I don't notice I get into big trouble.”

“Let's just say that I'm looking forward to the New Year.”

“Talking of which,” said Don, “I'm off to chase ad copy for the New Year edition.”

“From the liquor merchants, no doubt.”

“Cheeky bizzom. No cherry liqueur chocolates for you.”

“I'm away out too,” Rob said, “and, Joanne, if you need a babysitter, I'm free.” He couldn't look at her in case she spotted his guilty conscience—she would not be happy if she knew he wanted to question Annie.

“Oh aye, and where am I supposed to go for a wild night?”

It had been some time since Rob had looked after the girls and now that Bill had vanished, and Chiara was on her honeymoon, there was no social life for her.

“My mother loves it when you come over. Why don't you call her?”

“Well, I have to return the dress I borrowed for the wedding.”

“Call her.” And he was gone.

McAllister came into the reporters' room five minutes later. In a much smaller bandage, his cheek was down but still swollen, with a shade of light blue-green that gave him a resemblance to a cartoon character—Man with Toothache.

They were comfortable again alone together.