The Low Road (24 page)

McAllister knew DI Willkie was enjoying himself and he kept refusing to answer, except to say, “I don't know. I was at work. I came home. I saw no one.” He knew his refusal to say more meant the interview would continue until he, or the inspector, gave in. It might also mean time in a police holding cell. Without a cigarette.

The only bright spot was DI Dunne's refusal to leave the room. “My station, my jurisdiction,” he repeated.

Finally, when the policemen realized there would be no answers, particularly with DI Dunne insisting everything be done following police regulations, they told McAllister he had to come back to Glasgow with them.

“Do you have a warrant?” he asked.

“It would be regarded favorably if you helped the police in their inquiries.” DI Willkie was attempting to appear conciliatory.
The effort to hold his temper in strangled his voice and made his already red nose—a boozer's nose, McAllister noted—turn a color worthy of Rudolph.

“We'll be needing to talk to your mother to back up your story that you were at home that evening.” This was Willkie's last stab at threatening the editor. “So where can we find her so she can give a statement?”

“She's visiting relatives,” McAllister said. “I'll let you know when she is home and she can go round to the local police station, make a statement there.” He had no intension of letting DI Willkie anywhere near his mother. Or letting his mother anywhere near a police station.

Inspector Willkie was sitting back in his chair, arms folded. “Oh, really?” He smirked. “It'd be better for you if she does that sooner than later.”

McAllister knew this was the policeman's trump card, and he had no choice but to ask, “Why is that?”

For the first time, the second policeman spoke—McAllister had forgotten his name but knew he was a detective constable. He could see the decency in the man, and the embarrassment; wouldn't last long as a Glasgow detective, had been McAllister's initial impression, he'll be posted to Auchtermuchty or some other tiny place if he doesn't harden up.

“Unfortunately there's been a break-in at your mother's house. It would be a good idea if she came back and listed what was stolen.”

“Not much stolen, but the whole place was trashed.” DI Willkie was enjoying himself. “So when your mother gets home to clear up, she can give us a statement as to your whereabouts Sunday night.”

McAllister was gripping the edge of the table. He saw his knuckles white, felt his jaw tight, and saw DI Willkie willing him
on. It was the malevolence in the man's eyes, the unsaid,
Come on, hit me,
that stopped him.

“Thank you, Inspector, for coming all this way to let me know, but a phone call would have sufficed.” McAllister's' voice was deliberately conciliatory and the satisfaction of the fury on the detective's face was the only good moment of the three-and-a-half-hour interview.

“I think that covers everything, don't you, Inspector?” DI Dunne had had enough. He stood. “If the Glasgow police visit my jurisdiction again, I will need the professional courtesy of a phone warning.” “My chief constable should be notified as well,” he added.

“Oh, I don't think there will be any problem with your chief constable. Not when we come back to charge McAllister wi' murder.”

“Murder?” McAllister stood, catching the chair before it fell over. “What murder?”

“Can't say anything that might prejudice our investigation.” The inspector was not about to explain. Seeing McAllister's shock, he smiled, satisfied. “We'll see ourselves out, Dunne.”

DI Dunne ignored the deliberate lack of courtesy to a fellow officer. He was too busy making sure McAllister stayed silent. And didn't move within striking distance of the inspector.

“Not at all, Willkie, I'll see you out.”

When DI Dunne came back he took the seat opposite McAllister, offering him an ashtray as an invitation to smoke, something denied by the visiting officers. He was examining the man he had known for two and something years. “We've seen a lot together, Mr. McAllister. I respect you and your judgment. So what's this about murder?”

“I have no idea. Well, maybe an inkling, but nothing I can share. Not yet.”

DI Dunne nodded. “I don't like this. Not one bit.”

“Neither do I.”

“Mrs. Ross doesn't deserve any more trouble.”

“My mother neither,” McAllister replied. His hand was shaking as he tried to strike a match. And failed. DI Dunne took the matchbox and did it for him.

McAllister thought of the man he'd encountered in the close.
Could he be dead? How? Why?

Then he thought of his mother's home. Her possessions that meant so much to her: the shrine to his brother, photographs, the cabinet with his brother's boxing trophies, the album he didn't know existed until recently, with articles where McAllister had a byline, cut out and pasted in over the years, the only physical record of his career. He thought of her everyday teapot and hoped it had been spared. He remembered her best china tea service—collected cup by cup, plate by plate, since she never had enough money to buy a complete set and always refused his offer to purchase one for her, telling him it gave her pleasure to collect the items this way—and he feared for it.

“I trust you'll sort this out.” The way the inspector spoke—calm, mild, serious, certain—reminded McAllister that the policeman was destined for the church before the war changed everything.

“I'll do my best.”

The inspector accepted McAllister's assurance. But the slight shake of his head and the grim set of his mouth were saying to McAllister,
Good intentions are not always enough.

I
t was nearing two o'clock when McAllister arrived back at the office.

Don was waiting. “Margaret McLean wants to talk to you.”

“I haven't time—”

“She had a conversation with the consultant at the hospital.” He saw McAllister's cigarette shake. “Nothing bad, so she said. And your mother called, she's in a right state, something about a burglary.” Don didn't mention that he knew the Glasgow police had come all this way to question him, he was waiting for McAllister to tell him.

“I know. That's why the police were here.”

“Oh, aye?” Don knew this was not all, but continued, “Mary Ballantyne phoned, says you have to call back. Urgently.” He was looking at McAllister as though measuring him for his coffin. “This can't go on—”

“I know.”

“You'd better tell me what's what. Someone has to mind your back.”

“Later. I have to go home.”

“Mary—”

“You talk to her.” McAllister said this as he grabbed his hat. “And find Jimmy McPhee. Urgently.” He hurried down the stairs.

Fiona was about to say something, but seeing his face, she
hesitated. “Mr. McAllister,” she called out to the retreating figure. “An urgent message from a Mr. Dochery. He said—”

Too late, he was out the door and didn't hear.

He drove home. He went into the kitchen and found Mrs. Ross but no Joanne.
If looks could kill . . .
he remembered his mother's expression as he asked where Joanne was.

“Resting,” Granny Ross replied.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ross, you can go home. We'll see you tomorrow.”

She took off her pinny, muttering,
I know when I'm not wanted
, and as she left, she slammed the door behind her, shaking the glass in the kitchen windows.

He was tempted to pour a whisky but put on the kettle instead. When the whistle rose to a piercing shriek, he poured the bubbling water first to warm the pot, then a second time to make the tea—even in a crisis he never cut the steps in making a good pot of tea. He didn't hear Joanne come in but felt an arm sneak around his waist, her head nestle on his shoulder.

“Granny Ross gone home?” she asked.

“I told her to,” he said.

“How's the flooding?”

“Flooding?” The morning's summer storm had vanished as quickly as it arrived. Coming home, a blue summer's day with the wind balmy, clouds nonexistent, and the smell of roses around the front porch overpowering had returned.

“Coward. I knew it was an excuse to get out of coming to the hospital.” She was smiling. “But it was great to have Margaret McLean's company. She insisted on seeing the doctor with me. And she badgered the consultant to explain all thon gobbledy-gook he spouts. The Big Panjandrum, Margaret called him.” She giggled.

“What did he say?”

“Oh you know—making progress, that kind of thing . . . That tea, it's ready.” She poured the milk and he poured the tea.

“My mother . . .”

“She's in her room. She's tired, not used to change, she said, so let's leave her for now.” Joanne had two mugs of tea and was leading the way out the kitchen door to the bench McAllister had had made by a local carpenter and placed next to the one apple tree that still produced fruit.

“I heard about the burglary. You need to go to Glasgow to sort it out. Your mother is really upset, so I think she should stay here. Take a few days—but no more.” She said this as a statement. Then looked up into his eyes, making sure he understood.

He looked back. He saw the old Joanne in there. Part of him was relieved, part of him disconcerted; this Joanne saw much, forgave much, but was seldom deceived.

“Jimmy McPhee . . . I know you feel obliged, but it's not your business.” She was taking her time. Choosing her sentences carefully. “You need to make a choice. If you've changed your mind about us, you need to tell me.”

She shook her head when he attempted a protest, “I'd never—”

“One week. Agreed?”

It was the longest speech, and the most coherent, since the attack had left her with a possibility she would never recover from the damage to her brain. Not completely.

All he could say was, “The consultant is right, you are recovering.”

“Slowly. But I still have a problem with . . .” She didn't finish the sentence. Mrs. McAllister was standing in the kitchen doorway, a hand to her brow, peering into the light. Her voice, distant, weak, calling, “John? Is that you?”

He went to her, offering to make fresh tea.

She said, “That'd be nice,” then handed him a letter. “This came this morning from Mrs. Crawford.”

He read it while Joanne made a fresh pot of tea. “I'm so sorry, Mother.”

“Aye, well, it's never been a safe place, the East End.”

He could not express his anger, could not tell her that her stoicism made it worse. She was the same when his father had been killed in the Clydeside Blitz, accepting that as he was a fireman, and it was wartime, death was to be accepted. When his brother died she had retreated into a private hell of emptiness. But looking at her as she looked away, he saw that she was protecting him, not wanting to lay the blame, which was surely his, on his already burdened shoulders.

Although she didn't know the how or the why of what had happened in Glasgow, Joanne wanted it all to end. “Don't worry,” she told the older woman, all the while looking at McAllister. “John's leaving for Glasgow first thing tomorrow, and he'll have it all sorted out in no time.” She looked at him, challenging him, “Won't you?”

• • •

Don called around mid-afternoon.

He and McAllister were in the sitting room, the women in the garden, the girls out riding their bicycles.

“I've never been so proud of my mother as now,” he was telling his deputy. “All she said was,
Go back, Son, and sort it all out, I'll stay here wi' ma new daughter.
“Two good women, Joanne and my mother.”

“Glad to hear you appreciate them,” Don said. He was a great believer in the nothing-is-perfect philosophy. “It takes a whiley before we recognize the grass is always greener an' all that, so enjoy what you have is my advice.”

McAllister didn't have time to respond.

The front doorbell rang, the door opened, a voice called out, “McAllister, I know you're here. No use avoiding me.” It was Margaret McLean.

“I'll come straight to the point, then I must dash.” She did not sit down or remove her hat, only took off the sunglasses. “Did Joanne tell you what the consultant said?” She didn't wait for an answer. Joanne had asked her to explain it. For a reason that was beyond Margaret's comprehension, Joanne was ashamed of her condition. “No? Well. The optic nerve is damaged. Joanne has difficulty seeing properly, and she has a problem reading.”

“So that's why—”

“Yes, McAllister. That's why she hasn't read any of the books you so kindly bought her. That's why she won't look at you directly, in case the damage is visible, which it isn't. But the good news is that an operation can probably fix it. It can't be done up here, an eye specialist is needed, but he is reasonably optimistic . . .” She'd made that bit up; the man was unreasonably gloomy, in her estimation. When she pressed him, in private, on the chances of success, the specialist had said “fifty-fifty.” “In the meantime Joanne will have to wear glasses with one lens covered over and—”