The Low Road (23 page)

“The doctor says she's making progress.” McAllister was curt. He needed no one to remind him of his responsibilities. “And we have an appointment with the specialist at Raigmore Hospital on Friday morning.”

“Aye, she's better than she was,” Don agreed, yet there was something about Joanne that bothered him. She was bright, could walk, cook, see to the garden—all this he knew from Granny Ross, but when he saw her—he called by about twice a week, usually when McAllister was otherwise occupied—he felt an absence, a difference from the Joanne he knew well.

“It's perpetual pandemonium in our house,” McAllister continued. “Not much peace to convalesce. Mrs. Ross and Annie are forever at each other, and now Mrs. Ross and my mother are at daggers drawn. Joanne doesn't seem to notice; she leaves the moment an argument starts, sits down at the piano, and plays loudly, drowning out everything.”

“Wise woman.”

“I wish I could do the same. An old bachelor like me, it takes some getting used to, all these people.” McAllister hated himself for sounding so self-pitying.

“Aye,” Don agreed, “that's why I stay single.” But, observing his colleague, he didn't like the look of defeat in McAllister's eyes, the slump of his shoulders, nor his chain-smoking—and this from a forty-a-day man.

Although he was typing, McAllister could sense the silent examination. That he couldn't sleep, that wanting to be back on the chase for a story, any story, was haunting him, that the longing to be in a pub in Glasgow, with colleagues, with Mary, laughing, plotting, being his old self, the successful journalist, acknowledged by his peers, admired by readers, he would never admit.

Don half guessed. And he knew there was nothing to be done. And that saddened him.

Next afternoon, Thursday, a quiet after-deadline day, when five o'clock struck, Don said to McAllister, “I've invited myself to your place for tea. I'll finish up some business wi' the father of the chapel, then we can walk there together.”

“Am I invited too?” Rob asked.

“Not a chance,” Don told him as he went out the door.

Rob laughed. “Just as well, I'm playing doubles with Frankie Urquhart at the billiard hall. Want a small wager on us?”

“No,” McAllister said. Then looked at Rob.
He seems to be recovering from his ordeal
, he thought,
but he wasn't hit on the head
. “Och, go on then, five bob for you two to win.”

“Great.” Rob took out his reporter's notebook, marked it in, and McAllister put two half crowns on the table. If they won they would make a tidy sum; all in the print room had placed a bet on the
Gazette
team.

Granny Ross was still there when the two journalists arrived at McAllister's house.

“My, my, Elsie,” Don said, “your man is a right saint. Six o'clock and his tea no' on the table. He must be starving away to nothing by now.” He said this in his best joking manner, knowing that Granddad Ross was more than happy that his wife was looking after his beloved grandchildren. “And I did hear say that the flower display in the church is no' the same wi'out your special touch.”

This was a sore point with Granny Ross. Her archrival in the flower stakes, Mrs. Colquhoun, was attempting to take over and push Granny Ross off the flower arrangement roster.

Standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, her soup ladle held like a cudgel, she told him, “Joanne and the bairns need me.”

Joanne went to sooth her mother-in-law. Laying a hand on her wrist she said, “Granny Ross, you've done so much for us. But tonight I'd like to impress my future husband with my cooking.” She grinned at Don, then added, “Make sure he doesn't get cold feet—you know what they say about the best way to a man's heart . . .”

That swung it—that and the church flower arrangements.
Mrs. Ross relented. “Aye, well, I need to see what flowers can be found for Sunday,” she said, taking off her pinny, and left Joanne in control of the kitchen.

Mrs. and Mr. Ross senior, Granny and Granddad, they too had their secret worries—secret even from each other; with their former daughter-in-law remarrying, and their only son about to depart for Australia with his new wife and baby son, they were terrified of losing their granddaughters.
Not that Joanne would ever do that
, Granny Ross told herself over and over,
but what if Mr. McAllister decides to return to the city?
She sensed his restlessness, but hadn't the capacity to see that it was being alone and quiet he missed. To her, being alone equated to loneliness, a fate worse than death.

After supper, when Don was about to leave, he took Joanne's hand. “Lass, that was a smashing fish pie. Best I've tasted in a long time.” He winked. “But don't tell Elsie I said so. Thanks for a lovely evening. It's right good to see you looking so well.”

“I'm spending every minute in the garden,” she replied. “Never know when this weather will break.”

“Aye, you're right, it's right strange for Scotland to have so much sunshine.” He turned to Mrs. McAllister. “Thanks for the pudding, missus. Fair enjoyed it.”

“Thank you, Mr. McLeod,” was all Mrs. McAllister said, before excusing herself and going to bed at the same time as the girls.

McAllister knew his mother's exhaustion was a consequence of their flight, but also stemmed from her unease at being away from her flat and sleeping in a strange bed, something she had never done since the few nights they had slept in an air-raid shelter in the bombing, and a week's occasional holiday in Millport when her husband was alive. And he was proud of her.

He had posted a letter from her to Mrs. Crawford, the
neighbor who had the spare key. He included a note from himself saying that his mother was getting to know her future daughter-in-law. He did not want her to know, and worry over, the truth. “You can trust Mrs. Crawford,” McAllister had said. “She's a right sensible woman.”

As the house quieted and the last of the evening filled the deep bow windows with a soft pink light, Joanne and McAllister sat together, listening once again to the
Pastoral
Symphony.

“Soothes me,” Joanne said. Then once again, she went to bed before the darkness arrived, leaving him with a kiss to the forehead and a “Night-night.”

He tried to read. He smoked. He drank. He worried. Most of all he was irritated. He had gone to the aid of Jimmy McPhee. He had put his life in danger for him. Now it was over. Jimmy had said so. Mary said so. But Mary had her scoop. Her career. A future.

He poured another dram. He needed it to sleep, and to escape the face of the young man he had wanted to kill that night in the close, knowing he had been a moment away from murder.

• • •

“I'll take the car this morning,” McAllister told Joanne over breakfast, which for him consisted of two aspirins and two cups of tea. “Pick you up at eleven.”

“The appointment's at eleven,” she reminded him.

“Half past ten, then.”

“I'll be ready. See you then.”

He kissed her hair, drove to the office, left the car in the castle car park. Three-quarters of the way up the steep stairs leading to Castle Wynd he was short of breath and his knees ached.
Maybe the doctor is right about cutting back on smoking.
He was one of those who believed the alternative medical opinion, that smoking was good for you. Continuing on to the
Gazette
, he justified his smoking,
telling himself that, when accosted by the more belligerent of the
Gazette
's readers, who, often, would tell him how to run a newspaper, a cigarette would prevent him running amok with an axe.

“Mr. McAllister.” He was surprised to see Detective Inspector Dunne. And worried. Standing beside the local police inspector were two men. From their buttoned-up overcoats and faces that suggested they suffered from constipation, McAllister guessed they were policemen.

One of the men stepped forward. “John McAllister, I'm—”

“Not here.” DI Dunne stepped in front of the man, practically pushing him to one side. “Mr. McAllister, would you care to come to the police station, we'd like a wee word.”

McAllister nodded, grateful for the local man's courtesy. Glancing over the heads of the visitors, he saw Fiona the receptionist staring, her normally ruddy cheeks pale.

“Phone Angus McLean, the solicitor,” he told her. “Tell him—” One of the men gripped his elbow, turning him towards the doors. Fiona was nodding, too shocked to speak. Now with a man on each side of him, the one slighted by DI Dunne gripping his other arm tightly, he called over his shoulder, “Tell Don Joanne has an appointment—”

“That's enough,” the second policeman interrupted.

“What?” Fiona was doing her best not to panic.

“This is my jurisdiction,” DI Dunne intervened.

McAllister was through the doors, out into the deserted lane, when a sly shove in his back made him stumble on the last step.

“Joanne has an appointment at Raigmore at eleven,” he repeated, as he was marched over the cobblestones the short distance to the police station.

“I'll let someone know,” DI Dunne promised.

And in the space of fifty yards the weather changed, a cloud as black as the bruises on a boxer covering the sun. The
temperature dropped. McAllister shivered. Not from cold—
someone stepping on ma grave,
his mother would have said.

And the nightmare began.

Fiona called the solicitor. She knew nothing of the law. Had no idea that a phone call to Angus McLean meant nothing; Scots law indulged no rights of representation after a charge was made. Then she ran up the stairs to tell Don McLeod. “Mr. McAllister said Mrs. Ross has an appointment—”

The phone rang. “
Gazette
,” Don said, holding up his hand in a “one minute” gesture. He listened, saying nothing, but his body slowly uncurled from his usual stoop until his spine was straight and his face beetroot-red. “Thanks, Sergeant Patience, right good o' you.” He slammed down the phone. “Rob, where does McAllister keep his spare car keys?”

“Why, has he lost his again?”

“Shut up and listen.” Don was almost shouting. “McAllister has been . . .”
Charged
was what he was about to say, but he didn't know that, so he quoted Sergeant Patience. “McAllister is being questioned by the police over an incident in Glasgow.”

That got Rob's attention.

“You take Joanne for her appointment at the hospital. Make up an excuse for McAllister, and make sure Joanne doesn't realize . . .” He guessed from the way Rob turned away how fragile the reporter still was. “Your father is onto it, so it will all work out.”

Lightning flashed directly overhead. Thunder boomed out seconds later. Fiona squealed. Then burst into tears. “I hate thunder,” she lied. Another burst of thunder. Again right above them, rattling the high window, darkening the room.

“That fair set ma fillings a'rattlin'.” Don smiled at Fiona. “Rob, call McAllister's house, speak to Mrs. Ross, ask her what time Joanne is due at Raigmore, say . . .”

“I'll say the press room is flooding, so it's all hands to the
pump, so to speak.” Rob followed this with a grin, but his heart wasn't in it and his mouth looked like a stretched, deflated balloon.

Don cocked his head, listening to the rain drumming louder than a Boys' Brigade band kettledrum. “Aye, that'll do.” He saw Rob was more than nervous.
Fear,
Don realized.
He'd had enough of hospitals
. “On second thoughts, ask your mother to take Joanne. A woman's touch,” he explained.

“My mother is good with doctors. She understands their gobbledy-gook.”

As Rob dialed home, Don turned to Fiona. “You mind the front desk, lass. And if anyone should hear of this—”

“I'll no' let on anything to anyone, Mr. McLeod.”

“Good girl.” He patted her as though she was his favorite puppy. Then he looked at the two juniors; their joint ages wouldn't add up to forty, yet he knew he could rely on them, trust them. “Like the storm, this'll all blow over soon.”

• • •

None of them was sure of that, but chose to believe it anyway.

In the interview room at the police station, when asked about “an incident” outside his mother's flat on Sunday night, McAllister said, “I've no idea what you're talking about.”

The policemen kept up a barrage of questions and threats. “Where were you on Sunday night?”

“At the
Herald
, then home,” he replied.

“Who did you meet in the close outside your home?”

“No one.”

“We have witnesses who say different.”

If the inspector in charge, Detective Inspector Willkie, had said “witness,” singular, McAllister would have worried. It was the plural that made him suspect the detective had nothing, no one.

When the inspector said a name, describing him as a “close acquaintance of leaders of the criminal fraternity,” asking, “Why was he outside your mother's house?” again McAllister answered, “I've no idea, why don't you ask him?” The inspector replied, “I'm the one who asks the questions.”

So he wasn't the boy I thought he was.
From the way the inspector was questioning him, McAllister considered the possibility that the inspector had been tipped off.
But why? And by whom?
He knew he would eventually find out.

Who did you meet? Why were you meeting him
?
I know you know this man. I have witnesses. Of course your mother will back you up. But who'd believe your mother?
He continued to threaten McAllister, threaten the
Herald
, promising to come back with a warrant, promising to lock McAllister up and throw away the key. He made it clear he hated journalists.
Scum
was one of his less profane words for the profession.