Joanne dutifully came into the office, even though she had had only a few hours’ sleep. No one else was there. It being a Saturday morning, the girls were with their grandparents. She fiddled with some typing; she returned a couple of phone calls; she made tea; twice, she considered phoning Mhairi on the west coast to leave a message for Bill, ask how he was doing, but didn’t. He would assume she had a guilty conscience about something or other. She had; she could feel herself stretching, growing, singing inside herself, and not for one moment did she miss him. Her legs ached from dancing, her cheeks ached from laughing; the only thing she needed to know was that McAllister was safe.
When Don walked in looking as though his horse had come in at fifty to one on the nose, she blurted out, “Where’s McAllister?”
“Holed up in some hotel bar way out in the wilds, probably. The tracks are snowbound so no train is getting through. They’ve probably taken the passengers to Aviemore or Carrbridge.” He saw through her. “Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m not.”
“He’ll be fine. I do know though that he definitely caught the train.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“No, lass, but thanks for asking; I need a hair of the dog and we’ve to meet Jimmy McPhee.”
He looked out the dirty window to a whitescape of rooftops contrasted by a black pearl sky. He had sniffed the air to see if more snow was to come but could only catch last night’s whisky and decades of tobacco.
“Come on, we’ll shut up shop and adjourn to the meeting room. Jimmy wants a word.”
He printed CLOSED—SNOW in his red checking pencil and turned to Joanne. “Pin that up outside and we’ll be off.”
“I can’t keep going into public houses,” she started. “If my mother-in-law finds out …”
He winked. “But this is an order and Mrs. Ross senior dare not cross me. I mind the time—well before she married … no, I’ll keep that story for emergencies.”
Laughing, they stepped out into the hush of snow, he tucked her arm under his and they lurched down icy pavements to the alternative Gazette office.
They made an incongruous couple. He was shorter than her by a head. He had on the proverbial trilby that looked as though there should be a betting slip tucked into the band. Her Fair Isle tammy was set at an angle that was jaunty, just short of saucy. He had on the polished brogues that had lasted fifteen years and would last a good many more. Joanne’s zippered sheepskin boots stopped short of her skirt, revealing International Brigade Red socks. His tweed jacket had leather elbow patches—with a Masonic badge that he wore for all the wrong reasons. She had on an olive green belted raincoat that was ten years out of date and made her look like an extra in a louche French film where people made love to people they were not married to. Neither carried an umbrella. Umbrellas are not favored by Scottish people, despite the precipitous weather. And if you chanced to see these two walk by, and were asked to guess who they were, what they did, where they worked, you would guess newspapers.
They settled in, in Don’s corner table. Joanne looked around. Multiple customers, reflected in the multiple mirrors, gave quite the fairground atmosphere to the drinking haven. The swing doors opened and closed with a one-o’clock-Saturday, half-day-at-work frequency.
“Don’t look now,” Joanne murmured, “but those men that have just come in, that’s the Gordon brothers.”
Don looked. The eldest brother, spotting Joanne, waved.
He came over. “How’s it goin’, Joanne?”
“It’s Mrs. Ross to the likes o’ you.” Don, alert as a sheepdog when the wolves were on the prowl around the fold, fairly growled at Jimmy Gordon and his brothers.
“Get away, we’re old friends.”
“Not the way I heard it.”
Jimmy Gordon looked closely at Don, dismissed him as an old nobody and pulled out a chair. His brothers did likewise.
“And who invited you three wee nyaffs to the table?” Don demanded.
“Who’s gonny stop me?”
“I am.”
Jimmy McPhee appeared from nowhere and stood behind Joanne.
“Well well well. Jimmy McPhee.”
Jimmy looked them over. “The gormless Gordons.” No one took offence. They’d been called it often enough to make it a double-barreled surname.
“So what brings you up here?” Jimmy McPhee’s cheer radiated menace.
“Just a wee visit. Old friends, you know.”
“Old enemies an’ all.” Jimmy kept up the rigor mortis grin. “I never knew you had Highland connections. Remind me of yer family ties.”
The barman was polishing the glasses, pretending nothing untoward was happening but watching it all in the mirror above. The other drinkers, agog, watched the protagonists in the wall mirrors where they were half obscured by the advertisements etched into the glass for beers and whiskies. Joanne watched the two Jimmies face up to each other, trying not to make a move nor breathe too loudly.
Gary Cooper, High Noon, popped into her head, except Jimmy McPhee was facing down three instead of four. She had trouble suppressing a nervous giggle.
“I think you’ll find it’s more a business visit.” Don knew what he was doing.
“And what kinda business would that be?” asked Jimmy McPhee, knowing exactly what the Gordons’ business entailed.
“I did hear they’ve been fishing,” Don offered.
“Poaching, more like,” Jimmy McPhee responded.
“Aye, that’s my drift.”
“We’re no too keen on that up this way.”
“Penalties are high, was what I heard.” Don again.
“Families don’t take kindly to other families camping on their grounds.” Jimmy.
“It’s not as though you or yours would go fishing down south.” Don.
“Heaven forfend.” A mock look of horror from Jimmy McPhee.
“Will ye look at the time, boys.” The eldest Gordon turned to his brothers. “Oor train leaves in ten minutes. Great to see ye again, Jimmy.” Handshakes all round.
“You too, Jimmy.”
“Say hello to yer ma and yer brothers. Nice to meet you again, Mrs. Ross. We’ll be away off the noo. Chilly in these parts.”
The doors swung shut. There was a momentary silence, then a buzz ran up and down the bar.
“But the trains aren’t running,” Joanne started.
“What on earth was that all about?” Joanne looked at Jimmy McPhee.
“I could ask you the same thing, Mrs. Ross.”
Jimmy sat down and looked her over. She looked away. He didn’t know how much Joanne knew. He himself knew almost everything of Bill’s affairs.
“That late-evening visit they paid to Joanne, when pretending to look for Bill Ross, they asked after the girls.” Don was back.
“That’s against the rules,” Jimmy stated flatly.
Joanne said nothing.
“Aye. Well.” Don knocked back the dram. “Much obliged, Jimmy.”
“Not at all. Good to know about the poachers.”
“Thanks for the party last night, Mr. McPhee. We all had a great time.”
“Aye, it was grand, wasn’t it? Not sure about some of the music, though. Any word on McAllister?”
“Not yet.”
Jimmy shook Don’s hand and left.
“Thanks again.” Joanne waved cheerio as he pushed through the doors.
Walking back up the narrow lane, back through to the High Street and the office so Joanne could collect her bike, she put the question.
“Don, what on earth was that all about?”
“Went well, didn’t it, my wee scheme?” He grinned and kept walking. Exasperated, she poked him in the ribs.
“You set all that up, didn’t you? For your own delight?”
If he weren’t a man nearing sixty, Joanne would have sworn he was sniggering like a schoolboy.
“Aye, magic wasn’t it? And for your information only, that was the biggest bunch of heavies you’re ever likely to meet, getting their comeuppance.”
Joanne was none the wiser.
“You will explain, Don McLeod, all of it, or I will never cover the Highlands and Islands Women’s Institute AGM for you, ever ever again.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. She listened in astonishment. Bill’s involvement with the Gordons was one thing, but to find out that her encounter had been with one of the most feared bosses in Scottish crime was something else again. How dare that husband of mine endanger their girls, how dare he? But she kept this thought to herself.
“So that’s that?”
Don thought for a moment. “There’s still the matter of one thousand pounds.”
“And we still don’t know what has happened to McAllister,” she added.
McAllister woke. Everything was white. He tried sitting up and roared like a wounded bear. That really hurt. His face and head and ribs and knee hurt like hell but not as much as his face. Out of the window, snow, calm and deep, covered everything, every tree and shrub and distant mountain. The horizon blurred as sky merged with snow and the whole scene was framed by the glittering magical patterns made by frost on windowpanes. A row of humped shapes not far from the windows made him think, Cars? Car park? Then he remembered.
He wanted to shout for the nurse but knew he couldn’t. He found a bell.
“My clothes?” A low-pitched moan was all he could manage.
She gave him a pencil and paper clipped to a board.
Clothes. The coat. Where are they? he wrote.
“You’ll not be needing those today.”
Envelope. Inside a railway coat. Ask guard. He scribbled frantically, then handed back the clipboard and attempted to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The waves of nausea were worse than the worst hangover he could remember.
“The coat was taken off to dry along with your clothes. I’ll find it. But only if you promise to stay put.”
McAllister waited. He kept feeling he was going to be sick from the pain, or the drugs, or the fear that a stranger would pick up those photos. Maybe they were lost; the thought made his stomach turn. Footsteps squeaked up the polished floor, the person invisible to McAllister, cocooned as he was behind a hospital screen.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” DCI Westland held up a thick brown envelope as though it were an unexploded bomb or a lump of shite, distaste showing on every pore of his snow-ruddy face.
The policeman sat on the bedside chair, speaking quickly and quietly.
“The doctors say you’ll be fine but you need rest. You’ve done a great job, Mr. McAllister. Now leave the rest to me.” He looked at the gaunt man, at the white bandage around head and jaw that seemed to meld into the white skin and the pillow, emphasizing the eyes, dark and dead as the coals on a snowman’s face.
“I hope these photos will help to put this man away.” The chief inspector was unsure that this would happen but now was not the time to say so.
“Hoodie crow.” The words came out as a groan.
“I give you my word, as a father of two fine lads, I’ll do all in my power to catch this man. I promise the pictures will be kept locked away, authorized persons only to see them. Does that help you rest more easy?”
Hoodie crow, McAllister scribbled, held up the paper.
“He’ll be found. Rest assured, I’ll track him down. If he had anything to do with the boy’s fate, I’ll make sure he’s locked away for life.”
McAllister closed his eyes. If, the chief inspector said. If. And if the priest escaped, he would continue to desecrate young boys’ lives; of that he was sure. But a vivid scene flashed before him; photographs of his brother and others, all being shown, passed around, in a crowded court. He felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. He needed reassurance. He struggled to reach out for the policeman’s arm but was exhausted, drifting in and out of consciousness.
“I’ll be back, McAllister. You sleep, then you can tell me all that happened.”
He had no choice in the matter; there was nothing McAllister could tell him in the state he was in, not being able to speak. Westland, policeman, father and realist, knew there was no evidence linking Morrison to Jamie. As for the photos, they only proved that the man had an unhealthy liking for young boys, nothing else. A complaint would have to be made for an investigation into the matter. And who ever would come forward to complain, never mind stand up to a court appearance? Who could prove that they were anything more than unsavory pictures? Who would believe that the experience might hurt a boy? Embarrass? Maybe. But harm? And the improbability of anyone’s listening to a child, taking their word against the word of a priest; he was back to the same old conundrum. The next leap, from priest with an obsession to priest as a killer, of that there was absolutely no proof. The chief inspector walked out of the white world of the hospital into the white world of the mountains at a loss as to where to turn next.
Willie Grant waved to him from across the cleared entranceway, gesturing to the Land Rover.
“Sir, the snowplough has been through but the roads are still bad and there’s more weather on the way.”
The chief inspector kicked the wheel of the vehicle. He knew nothing could be done.
“Sir, I’ve booked you into the Carrbridge Hotel. It’s famous for—” Willie stopped. Me an’ ma big mouth, he thought.
“For what, Willie?”
“Well, they do say, or so they tell me, that it’s got the best selection of single-malts in the Highlands.”
“In that case, lay on, Macduff.” Westland gave Willie a grin, reaching up to pat the lad on his broad shoulders. “Well done, Constable Grant. Well done on everything.”
McAllister slept five hours or so, then started to drift in and out of half dreams and images of the previous night. He still felt chilled to the bone despite the warm hospital bed. What had happened? He must remember. Where was he? The station square. Falling off Rob’s bike. Running for the train, frozen through. A hand pulling him up. Another pushing from behind. Aye, that was it.
“In the nick o’ time, eh? Och, it’s yourself, Mr. McAllister. Soaked through, too. Here, give me yer jacket an’ have a loan o’ this.”
His rescuer took off his heavy railway-issue overcoat, putting it over McAllister’s shoulders. “We’ll get these dried out on the engine’s boiler. Won’t take long.”
A fellow passenger poured a generous tot into the cap of his flask. McAllister knocked it back. The heat went all the way down his gullet and lit up his vital organs, melting the ice block that had settled in his innards. The ticket inspector appeared with a large white mug embossed with the royal coat of arms of the train. It contained tea with yet more whisky. His eyes watering, he cupped his hands around the mug. His knees started to shake. The railwayman reached up to the overhead rack. He placed a blanket over McAllister’s legs. … In his hospital bed his knees started to tremble at the memory; now it was all coming back to him. … Stripped off his wet jacket as he was bidden, handed them over to the guard, hands and feet and face hurting as the circulation came back … yes.
The train labored up the long hard haul, up the Drumochter Pass. McAllister was desperate to find the priest before the train stopped on the high plateau, where the sleeping and dining cars would be attached for the journey south. It took him a good half hour before he could stand and when he did, he realized that what little strength he had was whisky strength. He buttoned the overcoat, set off, checking every carriage, until he reached the first-class section. There, seated in splendid comfort, sat Father Morrison, hands clasped around his belly, feet stretched out, dozing, comfortable as a cat on a hearthside rug.
He started when the door slid open. A shadow crossed his face as McAllister came in, sat opposite him, and nodded, too tense to talk.
“Mr. McAllister, what a surprise.” The man recovered quickly. “Are you off south on business too?”
“I’ll not call you Father, you’ve disgraced that title.”
“Oh really?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I’m afraid you’ve lost me. Are you cold? Let me get you a rug,” the priest offered.
“I want nothing from you!” McAllister sounded petty even to himself.
“I don’t think that’s so, otherwise, why are you here?”
Outside, in the pitch-black dark, swirling snow danced in the spill of the carriage lights. McAllister sat silent for a moment longer, taking time to control his anger and disgust. He studied his nemesis. He saw a big man, middle-aged, a pale face and pale skin with fading freckles. The eyes, washed-out blue, were so pale that in certain lights, the sockets could seem empty. The sandy hair, thin on the head, thick on the wrists and hands, made McAllister realize he would never again be able to face a pork-knuckle dinner. The man’s heavy body, and forever to McAllister he would be a man, not a priest, was shaped by years of rugby and boxing but was long past its glory days. The man’s projection of calm innocence, his smile, his air of reassurance, incensed McAllister even more, making it hard for him to control his shakes. The quest for an answer to his brother’s death had been with him for almost a decade and now, with the man he sought sitting opposite, a lassitude descended over him, deep as a bank of sea fog. His ability to think, to reason, to judge, faded. The unexpected air of kindness and concern had cast a spell.
“Let’s drop the charade. You take an unhealthy interest in young boys.”
“Not so. I’m a father to them.”
“It’s much more than a fatherly interest!”
The priest raised his open palms to protest but McAllister persisted.
“I believe, no, I know, you have damaged, sometimes beyond repair, the lives and souls of those young children in your care.”
“That’s a monstrous lie.”
“Tell me your version, then.”
“I have no version. Only the truth.”
He linked his hands together on his lap before starting. He told his history, and as he spoke, it slowly dawned on McAllister that the priest sincerely believed his own truth—that he was helping to save the souls of the young boys in his care.
“I have devoted my whole life to the care of young people. I’ve run youth camps, sports clubs, cared for orphans and unwanted babies. I have an unblemished record. Check for yourself. If there are those who don’t understand my mission, that’s not my fault.”
He was starting to get worked up. “And you, an experienced journalist, you would take the word of little boys as gospel, you would take their word against mine?”
He leant back, wriggling his shoulders, calming himself.
“Why would they make stories up, these boys?”
“I had to point out their sins. They don’t know what their dirty filthy habits will lead them to. They don’t have the discipline it takes to be pure. One minute they’re innocent wee souls, next, when their bodies start to change, they become impure, with no control. They have to learn. Their unfortunate backgrounds and lack of a good Christian upbringing makes them little liars. We cannot always overcome our blood. But some do.”
He sighed theatrically. “I was a good priest and a good friend to them.” He spoke passionately, explaining, justifying. “I tried to instill discipline, cleanliness, pure hearts and minds and bodies, into their corrupted little lives. I tried to give them a chance to make good.” He paused for a moment and looked out the window into the storm. “There was a time, some years ago, when I erred.” He said this quietly, before turning back to McAllister. “But God is my only judge and I promise you, I do all in my power to look after those in my care.”
“And the photos?”
“So Rob McLean did go poking about in my private affairs. Yes, I take pictures of innocent pure boys. I capture the essential good in them before their fall from grace.”
He really believes all this shite, McAllister realized. “What about wee Jamie?”
“The boy who drowned? I had nothing to do with his death.”
“Are you trying to tell me you know nothing about what happened to him?”
The priest turned his face back to the swirling snow. “Anything that happened to that wee boy was purely an accident.”
“You killed him.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” His indignation made him turn red, starting at the nose.
“And years ago, my brother, Kenneth McAllister?”
“Well, well. The great John McAllister; it took you long enough to realize I knew Kenneth.” He smirked. “And you the star journalist, you the famous war correspondent too busy going places to bother with your own wee brother.” He was enjoying stirring the guilt. “Aye, he told me all about you. Worshipped you, you the big shot. And look at you now. On a miserable wee publication that doesn’t mean anything to anybody.” He smiled. “Besides, it was all a long time ago.”
“Not for my mother it isn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” His Dr. Jekyll persona returned. “You’re right, your poor mother. I’m really sorry for her.” His hands were up in an apologetic benediction.
He’s good at this, McAllister thought, he’s convincing, and he believes himself.
“John, your brother’s death was unfortunate. It’s always unfortunate when someone dies by his own hand. And so young. But there it is.”
“Jimmy McPhee, you remember him?”
“McPhee? I remember him well. I was always glad that our paths didn’t cross in the Highlands—quite a temper has Jimmy McPhee.” He leaned toward McAllister. “But he is a liar and a rascal. Him and all his family.”
“The photographs.” McAllister persisted. “Can’t you see that they could be construed as disturbing? Can’t you imagine how some boys might feel abused to be photographed naked?”
A momentary flicker crossed Morrison’s confident features.
“Healthy minds, healthy bodies—you’re no doubt a man who knows his classics, it has been part of many cultures from the Greeks onward.”
He sat back, smug and satisfied, his hands again clasped over his belly, as though he had delivered a final unarguable case for his perversion. But McAllister caught a tiny flicker of an eye toward the suitcases on the luggage rack before Morrison settled back in the seat.
“I’ve always taken photographs. I could have been a professional, so I’m told. As a matter of fact your old paper has published a few over the years. Some of the photographs in my private collection may not be understood by the ignorant. But they are beautiful portraits with nothing untoward about them. Nothing wrong at all.”
“Fine, then, we’ll be stopping shortly so you won’t mind checking with the police to see if it’s all right for you to be off to the city without a word to anyone—just in case you’re wanted to help with inquiries, as they say. You won’t mind that, will you, Mr. Morrison, or is it Bain?”
McAllister was near the end of his strength when the thought flashed before him.
“Hang on. You said the death of the boy Jamie was an accident. But the police think it was the Polish man, only they have no proof. So if you had nothing to do with it, you must know something, you must be protecting—”
The blow was sudden and fierce. McAllister was completely unprepared. The big man brought his clasped hands, a double fist, swiftly upward. McAllister instinctively jerked backward, but not quickly enough. The left side of his jaw caught the full force. The right side of his face hit the window and he slid down, leaving a streak of blood and snot, before crumpling onto the carpet. Distantly, he heard the compartment door open and close.
“The communication cord.” He couldn’t move, couldn’t reach up. But he dragged himself along the floor and half-upright, clutching onto the seat, the compartment door handle, he lurched into the corridor. Morrison was by the carriage door. He had opened the window. He was leaning out with his hand on the handle waiting for the train to slow. Like a wounded beast, McAllister found the adrenaline he needed and threw himself at the priest, gripping him around the legs. The big man had endured many a tackle in rugby. He shook McAllister off easily and with an added kick to the ribs sent McAllister tumbling backward into the man’s suitcase. The door opened; the train slowed to walking pace. The priest was poised to take flight. Then a tremendous lurch, as the engines pulled hard, sent a shock wave through the couplings. The carriages concertinaed into each other. John Morrison Bain went flying. In a flash, into the whirl of wind and snow, arms windmilling, he tried to grab anything but found nothing. He tumbled into the deep soft drifts, careering down the embankment. The hoodie crow had taken flight. It would be in a series of black-and-white images that McAllister would always remember the last sight of his nemesis.
His face hurt, his ribs hurt, he was lying in a puddle of melted snow and his senses were rapidly shutting down. A stop was coming up soon. They’d find a doctor, or at least a dram. They’d find the man. Had to. Then he saw it. Or rather, felt it. On the undamaged side of his rib cage, the metal corner poked into him. The suitcase. The photos. They must be there inside. Were there any of Kenneth? Or Jimmy? Or of wee Jamie? This was the evidence. It took all his willpower to stay conscious. But he had to know.
Get a grip, McAllister, he thought, moaning. He shifted over and leaned against the wall. The carriage door had slammed shut but the snow blew in through the open window, creating a miniature snowdrift on and around him. The suitcase catches flicked open—not locked. He scrabbled through the contents, tossing clothes, boots, robes to the floor—no photos.
The pain was coming at him in waves. A purple light filled his head when he shut his eyes—the doorway to oblivion, that he knew. Inside pockets; empty. Zipped pocket on the lid—spare socks. Another lurch of the train sent a shockwave of pain from head to toe. The suitcase was lying on its side, empty. Along the bottom, the metal strips were held together by black electrical tape. He clawed a corner, pulled at an end. Then another. And another. He ripped a fingernail and the flesh on his thumb. His hands were so cold he didn’t notice. He reached inside. He eased out the cardboard envelope and shook it open. Photographs spilled around him, slithering and sliding onto his lap, the floor and into the melting snow. One look was enough. He scrabbled frantically for the pictures, stuffed some back into the envelope, others into the greatcoat pocket, his hands barely able to obey his brain. Lying there, eyes shut, amid the strewn wreckage of suitcase and clothing and papers and rolled-up socks, he struggled to keep himself in this world but failed. As he descended, the thought of all this shame being exposed in police stations, in the procurator’s office, before a jury in a court of law, sickened him; the thought of unknown eyes poring over images of defeated boys decided him. And, decision made, he hid all the photos as best he could, then he let go.
The train drew alongside a platform lined with storm lanterns, sending out wavering pools of light into the fast-falling snow. There was much more than the usual activity outside. Railway officials and policemen, muffled against the storm, moved like marauding bears through the carriages. The carriage door opened.
“Mr. McAllister sir, what have we here now?”
Constable Willie Grant came to the rescue like the proverbial St. Bernard. And like the dog, he too had a flask of alcohol. He spoke to the comatose figure as he would to a lost boy, not bothered that there was no reply.
“You’ll be a’ right, sir. The doctor’ll be along soon.” Willie Grant had his arm around McAllister, easing him up to a sitting position, tenderly brushing the snow from his hair. He put the flask to McAllister’s lips and though most of it trickled down the side of his mouth, the fumes were enough to bring him back to semiconsciousness. McAllister’s first thought was, What kind of nasty cheap blend is this stuff?
“Best go easy on the whisky, sir.” The policeman put the flask away. “Mr. McAllister, have you seen yon priest fellow? I’ve had word that I have tae hold on tae him.”
McAllister tried to speak, tried to nod his head, but everything hurt.
“Mmm-mm, gone.” It came out as a groan but Willie Grant got the message.
“You just hold on, sir. I’ll be back in a tick.”
But he had passed out.
An ambulance arrived. McAllister was taken to hospital, patched up and put to bed. Just as the shot of morphine was taking effect, Willie appeared again.
“I’m right sorry about this, Mr. McAllister sir, but I need to get the search party going and there’s a fair bit of snow the night. Can you tell us anything?”
Big galoot that Willie Grant sometimes seemed, this initial impression hid a kindness and a courtesy. He handed McAllister a pencil and his spiral notebook. Drugged and speechless, the journalist’s instinct kicked in. He scribbled down the gist of what had happened, finishing with “Find the bastard!”
Willie stopped at the nurse’s station as he left. “Can you figure this out?” He handed her his notebook. “I canny make head or tail o’ it.”
The sister squinted at the spidery scrawl.
“After the doctors’ handwriting I’ve had to put up with, this is easy.”
In the dark, they tramped along both sides of the tracks where the priest was thought to have flown the carriage. The snow was now horizontal, driven by a fierce whistling wind. An arctic hour and a half later, PC Grant called off the search, concerned for the safety of his helpers.
“Daylight the morrow, lads. Meet at the car park of the Carr-bridge Hotel.”
Willie Grant went back to the police station to discover one more problem; the phones were down. So he did the only thing possible. He went to bed.
It was only a few weeks to the solstice. Dawn came about eight o’clock. Willie Grant had been up for some time preparing a huge breakfast, his recipe for a successful day’s work. And today was looking to be very hard work. Not the least of it would be shoveling snow. Then there was the matter of no phones. Added to that was the sole responsibility of finding this man. But Willie still made time for breakfast.
Snow chains on, he backed the old Land Rover out onto the main road. Crews spreading salt followed the snowplow and with a vehicle like his, PC Grant had no problem getting to the hotel. The early sun laid a pink glow over the snow, the mountains, the lochs and the tarns. Along the horizon, the pink quickly turned deeper and deeper to a pure blood red, shot through with shimmering, shifting pink, orange and violet. The high sky was deep cerulean blue, the air still and calm and crisp and cold. And dangerous.
“Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning,” Willie muttered.
Other Land Rovers, some locals on foot and two men with ponies met up in the hotel car park. One volunteer, a shepherd, had brought his dogs. The black-and-white collies were more used to digging for lost sheep but had shown a talent for finding other lost creatures. Maps were consulted, opinions solicited, options agreed on, then off set the raggedy band, each with a section of track to scour with a rail crew on a push-and-pull track-maintenance bogie at the ready to relay information up and down the tracks. Willie Grant and his team, including the dogs, were to cover the downward run toward the pass of Drumochter. They searched for signs of disturbance in the snow, but the storm had continued most of the night, masking everything. A scant hour later the men began to look upward as often as downward. The sky was closing in.
“Keep at it, lads. As long as possible.” Willie passed a flask of tea among the crew as they continued their search. He squinted his eyes against the brightness of the snow. Coming down the tracks toward them was the bogie.
“Constable Grant,” came the shout. “We’ve found him.”
The vehicle came to a halt on a long screech of brakes. The men crowded around, eager for news.
“The receptionist at a guesthouse in Kingussie says a big man, soaking wet and covered in snow, came looking for a taxi. Said it was important he got to Glasgow and the train was no moving. No one local would risk the journey, but another guest, in a hurry to be away before the storm set in for good, he offered the fellow a lift. They went off thegither on the main road south.”
“When was that road closed?” Willie was anxious.
“Not till a whiley later. The weather was nor’easterly.”
“Was the road further south snowed up?”
“No knowing, Willie.” One of the men thought about it. “Sometimes it’s all this side o’ the hills. Sometimes it’s worse o’er yonder.”
“So he could have got through, you’re saying.”
“Aye, mebby.”
A few big soft flakes began a gentle dance. It was time to give up. The rail crew offered everyone a lift back to the station on the bogie. Most of the searchers clambered aboard. The shepherd, deciding to walk back along the tracks, whistled for his dogs. One came immediately. One didn’t. The big collie bitch started to sniff at the snow farther along the search area, toward the main road. Then she sniffed in tight circles, running around a clump of gorse. She started to dig with happy snuffling grunts, slowly at first, then faster, certain, her companion circling her, making small encouraging yelps.
“Leave her be,” said her master to the watching team. “Stand back and let her do her work.”
They were well trained, these collies, barking only in an emergency. A small piece of black cloth was uncovered. The dog sat back, satisfied. Now it was her master’s turn. Willie and the shepherd crouched down and continued to widen and deepen the hole with their bare hands. He pulled. A bundle of cloth came out of the snowdrift. A neatly rolled cassock.
“He’d have taken that off—all the better to move in the snow. Keep digging, lads, make sure there’s nothing else. I’ll put markers around the area so’s we can find it later.”
“Well, no much later,” the shepherd told him. “Fifteen minutes or thereabouts and it’ll be another day before we can come back. If that.”
“Oh aye?” Willie asked.
The older man stared at the constable with steel gray eyes.
“Aye,” apologized Willie. “You’re the local.”
No more was discovered. The men left, glad that their efforts had yielded something, if not the man himself. Willie set back out to check the progress of the snowplows and to catch any more news from the surrounding villages. There was still no telephone, no messages. He didn’t hold out much hope for finding this priest fellow.