A Kind of Grief (18 page)

McAllister knew that the “ours not to reason why” ethos pervaded the police force as much as it pervaded the army. “Why warn me?” he began. “If you want to keep something a secret, why raise the issue with a journalist? Red rag to a bull, that.”

“I considered that, and . . .” Dunne was fiddling with his hat. His hat had no answers either, so he stood. “I'm just the messenger, McAllister.” He held out his hand. “Thank you for your time.”

Seeing this as official police-speak for
Consider this a warning, but we will talk more when I'm off duty,
McAllister joked, “Message received, DI Dunne.” And in no way understood
,
he implied with a shake of his head.

He saw his visitor to the door.

“Miss Alice Ramsay, her trial, her death—it's all very interesting, don't you think?”

The inspector gave no hint that he'd heard. “Thank you for your time, Mr. McAllister.”

Once alone, with the photograph from the golf clubhouse propped up against the cigarette box, McAllister wondered why the fuss. He leaned back in his chair in his favorite thinking position.
Perhaps Joanne is right; perhaps the death was . . .

He was unwilling to consider that possibility—that someone had caused harm to Alice. And he was decidedly unhappy at Joanne involving herself in a story that might be even remotely dangerous. He decided not to tell her of the inspector's visit. If she was ignorant of the visit, she would have no reason to suspect that the fate of the late Alice Ramsay now also intrigued McAllister and DI Dunne. The man he'd seen in the car, and at the golf clubhouse, only added to the mystery. Who was he? Was he at the auction? McAllister couldn't remember seeing him, but as it was crowded, it was possible he had been there.

As for Dunne's invocation of the Official Secrets Act, that practically guaranteed that McAllister would look for answers.

Perhaps that was the intention.

On Tuesday morning, McAllister took a phone call.

“Mr. McAllister, it's Calum Mackenzie.”

“What can I do for you, Calum?” He leaned back in his chair, trying to avoid a fierce draft coming in the half-open door he'd been too lazy to get up and shut. It felt as though the North Sea gale was coming through every crack in the walls, every window, every skylight in the old stone building. “Calum? Are you there?” He was hearing weird snuffling noises down the crackly telephone line, voices fading in and out as though they were at sea.
Is he crying? Can't be.

“I've lost ma job.”

“What?”

“I've been fired.” There was a sound of someone blowing his nose. “Mr. McAllister, I can't work out what's happening. The editor . . . I told Elaine, and she said I should talk to you, you being a newspaper man. But I canny use the phone at home cos my mother—”

“How can I help?”

“I think it might be to do with me asking questions about Miss Ramsay.” Calum didn't say
at your wife's request
. “Can I talk to you? If I leave now, I can be down in three hours.”

“Come straight to the
Gazette
office.” McAllister was about to put down the receiver. Something stopped him. He listened. No dial tone. Not yet. A silence, thick and dense, seemed to be radiating out of the black Bakelite receiver. And in that void, he felt another person . . . persons? Spirits? Spooks? Witches? He shook his head.
Get a grip
, he told himself. And hung up.

“Don!” he bellowed.

“Give us a wee minute!” Don shouted back.

When his deputy came in, the first thing they did was light up. Then, cigarette smoke spiraling upwards, they talked.

After McAllister related the gist of DI Dunne's warning, the sacking of Calum Mackenzie, and his suspicion about the man seen in the company of the worthies of the county at the golf clubhouse—and after he told Don he'd been warned not to discuss it with anyone—he sat back, knowing Don was now as intrigued as he was. And as Joanne had been all along.

“Reminding a journalist of the Official Secrets Act, eh? I like it.” The news cheered Don up greatly. Over the last few weeks of rain and gloom and the depressing sight of demolition crews tearing down the historic buildings on Bridge Street, and along the river below the castle, he was in the mood for some mischief.

“One other thing,” McAllister said. “If he's interested, do we want to offer young Calum a job? Joanne says he's a hard worker. The advert for a junior reporter has run for weeks and no likely candidates.”

“I've read a wee bit o' young Mackenzie's work—pedestrian but nothing that can't be fixed. Will he want to leave home though, move to another county?”

“Does he have a choice? Newspaper jobs are rare. For us, the chance of having inside knowledge of a story that might involve a shady section of the establishment . . .”

“That's settled, then.” Don grinned. “The lad starts next week.”

McAllister was about to say,
What about his mother
? But he was sensible enough to stop himself.
He's a big boy now.

On the long drive down through Sutherland and Ross & Cromarty, over the pass, and all along the coast, Calum saw nothing of the towns and villages and scenery so spectacular it would lift any gloom. Indeed, his sense of grievance was so heavy it hurt his bones. One time, he had to stop the car, as he felt physically sick. His nose was blocked from crying, and even with the windows wound down letting in blasts of icy North Sea air, he felt claustrophobic.

Never once did he dream that that morning he would lose his job. And that same afternoon, he'd be offered another that would be, to him, a huge promotion.

Don asked Calum the questions. McAllister observed.

“So, what's this I hear about the
Sutherland Courier
kicking you out?” Don began.

“I don't understand. I had a meeting with my boss just last week. He was telling me how well I was doing.”

“How long are you into your cadetship?”

“That's why we were chatting. I've been there since I left school, five years, and I finished my training a few months back. The editor promised me a wee pay rise. Now he says he has to let me go.”

The red around Calum's eyes was threatening. McAllister could barely cope with a crying woman, much less a crying man. “Probably why he fired you. Doesn't want to pay more, so he gets rid of you and hires a junior.”

“Aye, I've heard all you Northerners are tightfisted.” Don was grinning, trying to make a joke of it.

“Really?” Calum doubted that, but to save face and have an explanation for his mother, he would grab any excuse.

“Let's go over it once more. And try to remember word for word what your editor said,” Don told him.

“And try to think about what was
not
said,” McAllister added.

“Like what?” Calum was lost.

We'll need Rob or Joanne to train him in observing between the lines, McAllister was thinking. “Like was the editor nervous? Did you believe his story?”

“Come to think o' it, he wasn't himself. I thought it was because . . . because he doesn't like my . . .” He was about to say
mother
, remembering how Mrs. Mackenzie had once implied the editor was “fond o' the lassies,” even though he was a married man. “It could be because he doesn't like firing anyone. I've been there since I left school, and nobody's lost their job.”

“Tell us what happened.” Don was trying not to show his impatience. As he barely knew Calum, he didn't snap as he would if it were Rob, or more likely Hector, meandering around the heart of a story.

“It was first thing this morning. I came in, on time,” he added to impress the editors. “The receptionist told me to go to the editor's office. He's a nice man, ma boss, and I knew right away something was wrong, cos he never even asked me to sit down. He just said, ‘Calum, I'm sorry, I have to let you go.' ”

Calum didn't say that his instinctive reaction was to ask,
Go where?
He continued, “Next, he said, ‘Your work is fine, but it's just, we have no room for you at the moment. Maybe in another year or so, you can come back. So I've asked the pay office to make up a month's wages in lieu of notice. I'm sorry.' ”

Again, Calum didn't relate how he'd almost fallen into the visitor's chair, his knees were so shaky. He didn't say how he was almost crying, asking, “You're firing me? But why?”

“Cutbacks,” he'd answered. The man Calum had worked with, respected, and admired couldn't—wouldn't—look at him directly. But Calum could see that he too was feeling wretched. “It's best you go now, lad. I've written excellent references for you. I'll put them in the mail. Good luck.” And he'd left his office, leaving Calum too shocked to move.

“That's all?” Don asked.

“Aye, that was all.” Calum folded into himself, making himself smaller than his already fourteen-year-old size.

McAllister was stumped as to what to ask next. Then he remembered the game he played with Annie when helping her with her essay writing. “Your editor . . .”

“Mr. Watt.”

“You think he was upset when he spoke to you?”

“He seemed to be.”

“Unhappy?”

Calum nodded.

“Uncomfortable?”

Calum seemed to catch on and thought for a moment. “Shifty,” he said finally. “He couldn't look me in the eye, and his explanation was . . .” He searched for a word. “Stupid.”

Oh, dearie me, Don was thinking. There's a lot we need to teach him.

Almost as though he had read the deputy editor's mind, Calum began thinking aloud. “We had all the excitement of Alice Ramsay's trial. The editor was happy with my work. Then it went quiet. Then we had her—her death. Then the auction. Then there was the Fatal Accident Inquiry.”

“Wait. Already? We never heard about that.”

“It was held at five o'clock in the afternoon with no notice given to the newspaper. We were sent a statement. Suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed. The hearing only took fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

“I wrote up the FAI verdict,” Calum continued, “but it didn't run. Not a good subject for a family newspaper, I was told. ”

“What about the police?” Don asked. “Surely they were there as witnesses? And whoever found the body? They would have to appear.”

“I was told the police found the body,” Calum said. Though which policeman he didn't know, as it wasn't one of his friends or contacts. He couldn't admit this to his potential new bosses; who found the body and in what circumstances were the first questions any half-decent reporter should ask.

McAllister nodded, thinking that was something that definitely needed investigation. Why would the police have just shown up at Alice's farm without any notification? He knew from his own experience how far it was off the main road, and no neighbors nearby. “And the funeral?”