I can’t believe they didn’t foresee that I’d take insurance. I took nothing that wasn’t mine, no papers, no documents—that isn’t my way. They always underestimated me, never once looking at the women without whom the Service would not function.
When we were growing up, moving in the same social circles, meeting whenever our families decamped to Scotland for the opening of the grouse- shooting season on the twelfth of August, we were thrown together. They ignored me, me being a girl.
Later, at Cambridge, they ignored me except when they needed a female to accompany them to balls.
After I finished Art College, he heard of my talent for forgery when Daddy made a joke that I could probably forge a five-pound note if I set my mind to it. So he recruited me. “Good girl,” he once said when I produced a pleasing piece of work, that copy of that Cyrillic stamp complete with double-headed eagle. Good girl—how patronizing!
What they also ignored was my almost photographic memory. Can’t take that away from me. I only needed to memorize the details of four documents. That was more than enough to pin down the where, the when, and, of course, the who. The why was, is, a complete mystery to me. Despite the best education, their elite and ancient family, they betrayed our country, and dragged me into their duplicitous plot. Deluded fools.
Not that I care. They are gone now. Yet what kind of life do they now enjoy? One lived at the bottom of a vodka bottle, so I was told. And there is no shortage of vodka in Moscow.
“I’m about to publish an article on the triumph of that great art arbiter Dougie Forsythe. Is there anything I should know?” Sandy Marshall hadn’t said hello or how are you or any of the other opening conventions; he treated his best friend’s wife exactly as he treated his oldest friend.
Joanne appreciated it. “I wish him all the success he deserves. His profit from the sale of the drawing will pay for the lairy cravats and velvet wes’coats,” she joked.
“His dress sense will be forgiven when it comes out he purchased a genuine Leonardo da Vinci at a farm sale in Sutherland.”
“It’s only a wee drawing,” Joanne said, “but very lovely.” She was still disappointed that McAllister had been beaten at the auction.
“Museums in Italy and elsewhere have examples of the artist’s notebooks and sketches, so the drawing is not that rare. But finding it where he did, that’s a story in itself.”
“It was a very profitable purchase.”
“Aye, but it would fetch a lot more if it came in a complete notebook or with other drawings in the series.”
“All I know is what I read in the encyclopedia in the library.” Joanne had looked up as much as she could about Leonardo da Vinci, and there was a surprising amount.
“How about your writing? More stories coming out?”
“Sort of.” She wondered if she should tell him. “Sandy, this manuscript Alice Ramsay left, it’s lovely—watercolor illustrations of the flora of the glens, birds, their nests and eggs, and landscapes from the northeast. I’ve been working on it, and it’s almost finished, but who would be interested in publishing work like that?”
“You know who would know?”
They said in unison: “Dougald Forsythe.”
“He owes you. Have him look at it. But don’t let it out of your sight.”
“McAllister would rather drink arsenic than have to deal with that man again. I’ll finish the manuscript first; then we’ll see. Anyhow, I’m looking forward to reading how the great Dougald bested my husband at auction.”
“Aye, the subs had to cut his article drastically in case McAllister decided to sue.”
“I’m sure he will read it with great interest.” They knew McAllister didn’t care if he was shown as the loser in an auction; he was only annoyed at not winning the drawing for Joanne.
Returning to the manuscript, she decided it was time to ask for an outsider’s opinion. But who?
She went back into the hall to telephone. Although not yet eleven in the morning, the light was November dark. Only five weeks to the solstice, the short northern days were cold, but as yet, no snow. Seen from the kitchen window, the snow cloaking Ben Wyvis made washing up enjoyable, but from the front of the house, the light gave no pleasure. Nor did the prospect of letting go of Alice Ramsay’s manuscript.
She dialed the office. “Hector, who could we show the manuscript to? It’s ready.” Joanne found herself speaking to Hec in his own shorthand assuming he would know which manuscript.
“I’ll contact that woman who’s always asking me to publish a book o’ ma photos.”
“That’s really exciting. When are you going to do it?”
“I haven’t said yes. But she only wants the pretty ones—you know, castles and glens and such like, calendar stuff.”
“Highland cows?”
“I do not take pictures of Highland cows!”
“Sorry.” She remembered an almost stand-up fight when some advertiser wanted Hec to provide a picture of a Highland cow to advertise their milk.
“You don’t get milk from Highland cows,” he’d protested. But Don made him take the shot, telling Hec newspapers were a business, not an art form.
Next, she decided to finish emptying the last of Alice’s books and papers. Though her husband had put away all those he wanted to keep, there was still a box filled with bundles of paper of varying age, thickness, and quality.
Pulling out one bundle, she began to sneeze.
I’ll give it all to Hector, she decided. He’s the only person I know who might find a use for it.
She untied the brown twine around a sheaf of documents. Some were very old. “Last century,” she muttered, reading the dates on pages of accounts of parish finances in a village in northwest Sutherland. There was a bundle of lists—extracts from parish registers, she thought. Mostly births and deaths, mostly turn-of-the-century but some earlier, some later, Joanne felt a deep sadness as she read the details of the short lives of children in those times.
Before National Health Service was introduced, many families could not afford to pay a doctor, if they could ever get a doctor to come up to those remote glens and villages. One family up Strathfleet had lost three children in two years.
Knowing how fussy Hector was about dust around his cameras and equipment, she emptied the box, deciding to clean it before handing it over. A stout affair, it was a custom-made document box and still in good condition. And heavy. When she put it down on the kitchen table, she noticed the outside and inside base of the box were different heights, but so skillful was the construction she was reluctant to take it apart.
She jumped at the doorbell ringing loud and long, echoing through the hallway and up the stairs. An outline of a person could be seen through the stained-glass panels.
“Hector?” she shouted.
“Aye,” came the answer.
“The door’s open.”
“No, it’s no.”
“Sorry.” She unlocked the door, forgetting that, in a shiver of unease, she’d locked it.
Hec was at his most ridiculous. He was wearing a rust-colored tweed jacket that matched his hair, which in turn closely resembled the inside of a bird’s nest minus the eggs. A black and white Clachnacudden supporter’s scarf, lurid green bobble hat knitted by his granny and more appropriate on a teapot, a satchel he’d had since Miss Rose’s class in primary school was slung across one shoulder, and one small camera around his neck, the strap being his old Academy tie, completed his outfit.
As she’d worked with him for two years, Joanne took no notice.
“Why’s your door locked?” he asked.
“Oh, you know.” She gestured vaguely to the street, the town, the world.
Looking around at the rhododendron bushes, the lilacs, and the many suitable places for lurking, he said, “Don’t blame you. But if you took down yon gloomy old cypress, it’d make the place much lighter.”
We might be moving to a place of light, she thought to herself.
“I brought you a photograph of one of the pages.” Hec undid the folder, one of the stiff cardboard ones with string tied around a board circle he habitually used. “I’ve costed the color separations for printing.” He reached into his bag and brought out a tiny notebook full of tiny writing. “It’s not cheap to do it properly,” he said as he pushed the notebook at her.
“I need my reading glasses for this, Hector.”
“Times the page costs by—how many illustrations? Thirty?”
“So basic printing costs will be . . .” She named an outrageous sum.
He whistled. “Did you do that in your head?” Hec needed pencil and paper to work out basic arithmetic.
Staring at the amount, she calculated a similar sum should be factored in for manuscript setting, proofreading, binding, covers, all the processes leading to final publication. “We can’t afford to do this ourselves. We need a publisher.”
“Aye, but who’d be interested in a nice wee book o’ nice wee paintings?”
“And who’d be interested in a nice wee drawing of a bird skeleton?”
They were quiet for a moment, thinking of the two small drawings locked up in Hector’s studio-cum-washhouse.
“Joanne . . .”
From the way he drew out her name, quietly, hesitating, she knew this was not good news. Every time she’d been given unpleasant news, she’d heard this tone, a way of speaking, usually from a doctor or a priest or her mother-in-law, to impart tidings of doom. “The drawings are fake,” she said.
“Are they?” His green eyes flashed greener in surprise.
“Sorry, I just assumed . . .”
“I’ve no idea if they are genuine or not. But I came across this when I was looking at pages from your manuscript.” He opened another folder, this time with green ribbon holding it closed. “Here’s an original painting you gave me.” It was a drawing of a red admiral butterfly on a marsh marigold. “The writing down the left side describes the habitat an’ aa’ that.” He pointed without touching one of the butterfly’s wings. “No detail. Seems it’s no finished.”
“I have another on the same subject, and it’s much more detailed.”
“When I examined it under a light, the heat exposed some more writing.” He paused, before continuing in his lecturer’s voice. “It’s faint, and the writing is tiny, but you can make out a list of numbers and dates.”
“Do you know what they are?”
“No idea.”
“Do you think there is more?”
“Invisible writing? Hope so.” He pulled a face, and, looking like a contestant in a gurning competition, he made her laugh, which pleased him, as he liked her laugh.
“What on earth is this all about?” She was speaking to herself, but Hector heard, and he too had no guesses.
When she later showed McAllister, he knew instantly. During their precious evening talking time, she handed him a copy of the list. He said, “Passport numbers.”
As Joanne had never had a passport, Hector neither, they were unfamiliar with the numbering system. “Is it always similar sets of numbers?”
“Yes. Unless it’s a diplomatic passport. Where did you find this?”
She handed him the pages with Alice’s illustrations, with numbers and names inserted between the lines now visible. “Thanks to Hec,” she explained.
“This is dynamite.” He went to the bureau drawer where he kept his important papers. Deeds of the house, birth certificate, passport, were in a locked metal cashbox in a locked drawer.
Using his battered but still current passport, he compared his numbers with the list. “Four of these look likely. The others might be foreign passports.” He considered the implications. “Alice Ramsay’s role was creating forged identities. Multiple identities are essential in that business.”
Joanne did not need to ask what business; the stories of spies and of defections had been front-page news. Then came the Suez Canal crisis, the Hungarian crisis, the Cold War crisis, and the nightmare of nuclear oblivion, all of which she had tried to shut out. To Joanne Ross, the challenges of postwar life were hard enough without reading, and hearing, of the doom and gloom in the world outside of the Highlands. The Gazette and stories of two-headed sheep were what she preferred.
McAllister was a news addict, fascinated by both national and international concerns. As editor of a local newspaper, he tried to show interest, but his eyes would glaze over when others discussed town and county politics—unless they involved a scandal.
“Hector said there might be more invisible writing on other pages of the manuscript, but I couldn’t let them out of my sight.”
“Not afraid of burglars, then?”
“Don’t say that, McAllister.” She went over to the folder. She opened it to the illustrations. “There can’t be anything hidden in these.” She went to the kitchen and came back with another folder, this time in a brown paper bag.
He went to take it out and felt a faint tinge of flour on his hands. He smelled it. “Bread.”
“The bread bin was all I could think of. Hector said he can expose hidden writing under studio lights, then photograph the results.”
“Let’s go.” He stood, patting his pockets for the car keys.
“It’s past nine o’clock, far too late for visiting.” She could see how excited he was. “We don’t have a babysitter, and I want to be there with you.”
“Annie will still be reading. Tell her we will be gone for one hour. No more.” He looked at her. “She’s twelve.”
“It’s not that. If we go out now, she will insist on knowing why we’re rushing out. I don’t want to explain. Or lie.”
He smiled. “But I’m desperate to know.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes, mum.” He grinned. “Tomorrow.”
McAllister’s patience was sorely tested but as it was deadline day, a visit to Hec’s studio had to wait. As did sharing the information with the photographer. Joanne knew that if Hec was told the plan beforehand, he would pester the editor all day with Can we go now?
Now, Thursday morning, a slack day with only a postmortem on the previous edition, tidying up, and filling in the football pools scheduled, it was the ideal time to check the manuscript. Joanne walked to the Gazette office. She introduced herself to the new receptionist, whose name she promptly forgot, and congratulated Lorna, whom she brushed past on the stairs.
Lorna replied, “Thanks, Mrs. M, must be off, I’ve a meeting wi’ . . .” The rest of the sentence was lost in the clatter of a delivery from the stationery agent.
“How’s young Lorna coming along?” Joanne asked as she went into her husband’s lair.
“A lot brighter than Calum,” he replied.
“Wheesht,” she said. But she was grinning. “Told you you should have hired a lassie.”
“Did you?”
“Maybe. But nonetheless, I’m right.”
“Always.”
Already the shorthand of a married couple was developing. And she loved it. Loved how she could tease him. Make him laugh. Make him meals he appreciated. Talk about the children, the weather, discuss books, music, her work, the manuscript.
“The manuscript,” she began.
“Hector!”
Joanne jumped. McAllister bellowing like a vexed Aberdeen Angus bull she had not previously experienced at such close range.
Don came in and winked at Joanne. “He’s gone home to file negatives, so he said. You’ll have to make do with me.” He sat and lit up a Capstan Full Strength. “So how are you, ma bonnie lass? Time to go out for a drink with an auld man? Warm the cockles o’ ma heart?”
“No, she hasn’t,” the editor replied. “We need to find Hector.”
“Another time.” Don was not offended, as McAllister had meant no offense.
She reached into her shopping bag, took out the folder, and handed Don a page. “Hector found invisible writing in Alice Ramsay’s manuscript. We want to check if there’s more.”
“Like a spy story, this,” Don said as he stared at the almost invisible list of numbers.
“What makes you think that?” McAllister asked. He was staring up at the portrait of a previous editor painted in Victorian times. The heavy dark oils were gloomy, thick, and of no artistic merit. But he liked it, liked the way it connected him to the high times of newspapers and the founding of the Highland Gazette in the 1860s.
Don was taking his time answering. Puffing away at his cigarette, squinting through the smoke at the faded lists, he began, “I was joking. But now I come to think on it, there is this, then the visit from the man from London and all his threats of a D notice, then the encounters with a mysterious black car or cars, not forgetting thon matchstick.”
“Ah. Right.”
Don could see from McAllister’s frown that he hadn’t told Joanne about the matchstick. None o’ my business. He continued, “There was also a mystery man, or is it men, hanging around. And for why? There’s the fake artworks. Miss Ramsay’s past profession and the—”
“Hang on,” Joanne said. “What did you say? Matchstick?”
McAllister told her.
She was not happy.
“I forgot,” he fibbed.
Don intervened. “The man from London, is he gone?”
“He said he was going last week.” McAllister paused. “The only way of contacting him is through DI Dunne.”
“Don’t know if this is important enough to pass on,” Don said, “but I wouldney mind a wee poke around to see what else we can discover.”
“These are definitely passport numbers?” Joanne asked.
“Looks like,” Don replied. “So you young things get Hector to do his magic, and if there is more invisible writing, let’s us talk it out before we contact your mysterious contact.”
“I was threatened with the Official Secrets Act if I discussed it,” McAllister reminded them.
“Aye, but I wasn’t.” Don grinned, and they both knew threats from officialdom, particularly English officialdom, were like petrol on a bonfire to Don McLeod of the Skye McLeods.
In the car, driving along Tomnahurich Street, Joanne said little, until she couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Matchsticks?”
“A burnt-out match. One. Single. Solitary. Small. Not from the big box in the log basket. I found it the night we came back from Elaine’s farewell party.”
“When I thought someone had been in the house, you let me believe I was going crazy imagining things.” She said this calmly, as though pointing out the weather or a road sign or an announcement of the coming apocalypse in the classified advertisements.
“I didn’t think.”
“I don’t want to fall out with you. So next time, share.”
“I’m really sorry.” He bit back a comment about her not sharing the drawings.
“Serves me right for marrying a confirmed bachelor.” Joanne poked him in the arm and opened the car door before he could say more.
She walked quickly up the front path, past the rockery now denuded of all but heather. She walked around the side to the back garden. The house felt empty, but a notice on the door of the concrete washhouse said “RING BELL” with (if you must) written in red pen underneath. She rang the bell. McAllister came up behind, and she squeezed his hand.
He put an arm around her shoulders.
“What do you want?” Hec shouted.
“Your money or your life!” she shouted back.
“Have you brought more pages?” Hec opened the door a fraction.
“Hello, Hec. Yes, I’m very well, thank you for asking.”
“Wipe your feet,” Hec told McAllister.
McAllister looked down. Seeing Hec in slippers, he did as he was told.
Door shut and locked, his granny’s blackout curtains left over from the war pulled to, Hector was working in the dim. Pools of brightness from overhead retractable lamps shone down over a table bench, and what looked like a microscope, cobbled together from a spare lens, was sitting in the middle. Under the lens was an enlarged print of a list of numbers.
Hec said, “Let’s try another page.”
Joanne handed him a page of practice handwriting.
“More numbers.” With the small Leica, he took two shots. “That’s enough. Next?”
Joanne and McAllister, mostly silent except for the odd “hmm” or “I see” or “interesting,” watched as Hec did his magic with eight sheets, all of which had some form of numbers in lists, groups, or paragraphs.
When he’d finished, Hec asked, “That’s the lot?”
McAllister answered, “Yes.”
Joanne added, “Maybe.” Answering the unsaid question, she continued, “If I wanted to really hide invisible writing, I’d put it in the middle of a picture—you know, in the gaps of color.” She was imagining one of Alice’s illustrations. “There’s space between the lines of her writing and between paragraphs and drawings. I thought it was all artistic, done that way.”
“For the composition.” Hec felt his knees shoogle with excitement. “Brilliant, Joanne, brilliant. Maybe you could go home and fetch them?” He was less asking, more commanding his boss to run the errand. McAllister surprised himself by agreeing.
An hour and eleven minutes later, they found what Joanne decided was “the treasure.” “That the writing is in Russian is fascinating. But what’s really interesting is how carefully it’s hidden, the writing interwoven into drawing of the curlews and their nests. See how these tiny letters are placed between the twigs and feathers of the nest?”
“We could ask Peter Kowalski to translate,” McAllister suggested.
“And put him and Chiara and the baby in danger?” Joanne was shaking her head. “No, please don’t.”
Peter, married to Joanne’s best friend, was Polish, and he spoke and read Russian fluently. McAllister had once joked about him speaking five languages, and Peter had contradicted him, saying he spoke seven but only read and wrote five.
“Hector, when will the prints be ready?” McAllister asked.
“As soon as you get out ma road, I’ll start. Say late this afternoon?”
“No. Tonight. Come to our place after supper,” McAllister did not tell him that in sharing, he would be breaking the Official Secrets Act.
The gathering was like old times, except Elaine joined them. She’d called to say she and Calum were going out but couldn’t agree on a film. “What’s that one you saw last week?” she’d asked Joanne.
“Don’t. I thought I liked Doris Day, but she was so perfect it was nauseating.”
“I wanted to see the Hitchcock, but Calum gets nightmares after scary films.”
“Come round here,” Joanne had said. “Is nine o’clock fine for you?”
“For me, yes. For Calum, no. His landlady locks up at nine on the dot. And no passkey.” She’d giggled. “Worse than being at home—almost.”
The others had walked in without ringing the doorbell, so when it did ring, McAllister answered. It was Elaine. She’d put lipstick on and her hair up, needing to be herself after days and weeks and years of being Nurse Fraser—except with the old people where she was always Nurse Elaine—and McAllister almost didn’t recognize her, as she’d gained a decade of sophistication.
Seeing the others, Elaine said, “Hope I’m not intruding.” She grinned at Hec and Rob, who were sitting together on the sofa. “Budge up, lovebirds.”
They moved without comment, Rob happy to have her so close, even if she was Calum’s fiancée.
“So, what do we think?” Don asked again.
“We’re trying to make sense o’ these numbers,” Hec explained, handing Elaine copies of the photographs.
“Right, Miss Ramsay’s drawings. I’d recognize them anywhere.” She was staring at the lines interspersed between Alice’s handwritten notes on the curlew, its nesting habits and territory. “This is some kind of number system.”
“One column is passport numbers,” McAllister said.
“Right.” Elaine was holding the print of the drawing at arm’s length, as though she needed reading glasses. “In this list here”—she was looking at another photograph of a page with a long sequence of numbers—“the numbers of the passport identify the person, so the next set is the date of birth, and then date of death. The rest of the set is possibly a number-letter code.” She looked up at Joanne. “I don’t have a passport, but it’s my dream one day to go abroad and— What? What have I said?”
“No, no, lass, you’re doing grand.” Don did his kind old granddad grin.
Elaine smiled back.
“What about these?” Joanne passed another photograph to the nurse.
“Same first code, then . . .” She stared.
“I get it.” Rob was sharing the page with her and followed her finger as it rested on part of the set of numbers. “It’s dates of birth of bairns. Babies.” He added the obvious. “It’s rare that a baby would have a passport.”
“Explain again, lass,” Don asked.
Only then did Elaine realize that almost everyone from the Gazette was there, barring Lorna, as neither Don nor McAllister was ready for an eighteen-year-old to join the crew, and they were all staring at her.
“Right, photo four,” Elaine began. “See the dates of birth. Now, look at the list of passport numbers. They start with the three identifying numbers, then the date of birth, then a six-number code.”
“No death dates,” McAllister muttered, knowing that obviously that would not be checked when applying for a passport.
“How did you work it out?” Frankie Urquhart asked Elaine. He’d come to the meeting because he was curious, not because he had much to contribute to the proceedings.
She explained, “I’m trained in patient identification numbers, dates of birth, operation procedure numbers, medication codes, all the paperwork that goes with a hospital admission.” She left out that the date of death was a number she’d had to enter more and more regularly in the Old People’s Home, especially as winter set in. “What’s this all about?” Elaine addressed her question to Joanne.
“Not sure” was the answer.
“Long story,” McAllister added.
“Well, you can’t show me these,” Elaine lifted the two photos up, “then leave me hanging.”
“It can’t leave this room. And above all, don’t tell Calum,” the editor warned.
“Because Mrs. Mackenzie can read her son’s mind.” Elaine smiled. They all smiled back.
It took half an hour to tell her and another half to discuss the possibilities thrown up by Elaine’s insight. When the clock struck ten thirty, she said, “I have to go, I’ve a curfew.”
“I’ll drive you back,” McAllister offered.
“Sorry I can’t give you a lift,” Rob added. “The bane o’ my life is with me.”
Hector chortled at the old joke.
Frankie said, “I’ll take you. I need to get back anyhow, make sure my wee sister is no reading in bed till midnight.”
They said good night, and Joanne saw them to the door.
“Night, Frankie. Night, Elaine. Come and visit on your next day off.”
“I’d like that.” Elaine was hovering on the doorstep.
Joanne fancied she could see Elaine’s brain working, trying to decide whether to ask.
“Do you think there’s any connection between Miss Ramsay’s death and Mrs. Mackenzie’s accident?”
“I don’t know.” Joanne had thought about it often and could see how there might be a link. A car, in the dark and the rain, had hit her. Had Mrs. Mackenzie seen something? Was the intention to kill her? Was it a sheer accident? Or had she invented a story that ended up putting her in danger? Joanne had no answers. Nor did the local police. “We may never know.”
“She has enough enemies,” Elaine said, “but enemies who would want to kill her? I can’t see it.”
When it was only the three of them, and after Joanne had yawned once too many times and gone to bed, McAllister poured a nightcap for himself and his deputy.
“A grand bunch,” Don said, toasting their young friends and colleagues.
“They are that.” McAllister raised his glass. An Islay malt this time, the clear oily burnt peat and seaweed flavored liquid rolled over his tongue. He remembered his one trip to the island, when the mist was so dense, the rain so heavy, there was nothing to do but hole up in the hotel and sample the bottles of malt, starting at the top left, working down to the bottom right of three shelves, ending up with a horrific bar bill.
“So,” Don asked, after he’d had his private moment of reminiscence, involving his late wife, a wondrous few days in Skye, and an Islay malt, “what do we think?”
“I think this is what whoever they are has been looking for.”
“Aye, but who are they? And what would Miss Alice Ramsay be wanting with those numbers?”
McAllister appreciated Don’s Highland way of putting words together and smiled. “Insurance?”
“Blackmail?”
“Maybe she was continuing her trade up the glen and—”
He said, “ ‘Maybe,’ and, ‘If,’ and, ‘But,’ and ‘Perhaps’—I’m hearing too many doubts to be comfortable.”
“We do know Miss Ramsay was known to some or all of the traitors who escaped to Moscow.”
“Guy Burgess, Kim Philby, Donald Maclean.” Don and every other journalist in the Kingdom knew the names by heart.
“There were, are, rumors that not all the traitors were revealed.”
“And Alice Ramsay’s information might lead to them?”
“Or her.”
“Her? She might be the traitor? That’s too deep for us.” Don was deeply suspicious of government agencies, official or otherwise. As a newspaperman, he always assumed there were stories beneath the stories. He believed he was honor bound to expose those who tried to keep everything and anything from the public. He loathed how those self-same self-serving officials believed they knew best.
“Aye, and they still believe in the divine right of the aristocracy to rule over us peasants,” he’d told McAllister—more than once.
“Those birth certificates used to create a new identity, the chances of them being discovered are as remote as the parishes they come from.” Don was metaphorically tipping his hat to Miss Ramsay.
“The method used to hide the information, hiding it in plain sight, that’s clever.”
“Aye, yet so simple thon clever chappies from Intelligence couldney see it.”
“Because we have the manuscript.”
“You will have to inform them.”
McAllister agreed with Don. He went to bed unhappy that they would have to share the manuscript. Although fearful of Joanne’s reaction to the news, he was pleased at the thought of showing Stuart what the professionals had missed and what a group of Highland amateurs had found.
Until twenty past three in the morning.
What woke him he didn’t know—wind in the trees, an owl shriek, too many cigarettes. He went quietly downstairs, checked that the manuscript was locked tight in the box, then went to make tea.
Handing the manuscript over to a man who had yet to return one of Joanne’s favorite paintings would be more than hard for her. It was her link to a woman she’d admired from afar. It was a project in which she was learning how an author organized a manuscript. It gave her an understanding of how competent she was. And it gave her pleasure.
So how do I tell them what we’ve discovered and make sure Joanne keeps the manuscript?
He still had no answers.