A Kind of Grief (27 page)

There it was, out in the open, released into the stale air of the small room in the small town that felt as claustrophobic as the weather—cloud cover lowering the sky by miles, rain imprisoning all but the foolhardy.

“ ‘You know as Miss Alice Ramsay,' you said? So she went by another name?” McAllister asked.

“Naturally.”

“So if she went by a pseudonym, how did someone know the article was referring to the same person?” And why were they interested? he didn't ask.

“That is all highly confidential.” Stuart glared at McAllister, unhappy that the roles were being reversed and he was the one being interrogated.

From the sharp staccato reply, McAllister deduced Stuart didn't know the answer either.
So that's why you are here.

“What department do—did—you and your former colleague work for?” Dunne had on his formal policeman's voice, betraying nothing of his frustration. He had been seconded by his chief constable to facilitate this investigation but given no information.

“We are a branch of the Civil Service, in a department in Whitehall. Very boring, really.”

“Boring, maybe,” McAllister remarked. “Secretive, certainly. And, it seems, dangerous.”

“No, no. We are of no great importance.” The round head that seemed too small for his shoulders, the pale face with dark darting eyes, the mouth that barely moved as he spoke, were all the more memorable for being unmemorable.

McAllister fancied he could feel sorrow from the stranger, who would not, could not, say from where he came. “I'm sorry you lost a colleague,” he began. “She was a talented woman, and interesting. My wife certainly thought so.”

“Yes, she was a hugely talented artist.” Mr. Stuart—if that was his name—looked directly at McAllister, ignoring the inspector. “You are a signatory to the Official Secrets Act. DI Dunne is a professional police officer here as a witness.” Something in the set of his mouth and eyes indicated a change of attitude.

McAllister said nothing. Waiting.

“What I'm about to tell you concerns matters of national importance.” Stuart let that hang for some seconds.

McAllister smothered a smile; the theatricality of the man he found ridiculous.

“The woman you knew as Miss Ramsay worked for us during and after the war. Her role was to forge documents, passports, identity papers, letters from family, household bills, bus and train tickets—all the minutiae that make up a person's history, their backstory.”

“Is that why she collected old paper?” McAllister asked, his mind racing.

“Yes, we—she—collected paper of the correct ages and types for the documents. We employed a former forger for watermarks. After fifteen years in the department, she resigned, saying she'd had enough of the city and wanted to pursue her dream of living simply and painting. I—we—told her we would miss her and asked her to reconsider. But she was determined. Had enough, she said, wanted to discover if she was talented enough to earn a living as an artist, she told us.”

That “us” again, McAllister was thinking. And no doubt Miss Ramsay was also warned that the Official Secrets Act was a lifelong pledge. “Is it departmental policy to keep a watch on your colleagues even in retirement?” McAllister was thinking how their watchfulness hadn't protected the former forger.

“A distant watch, yes. There are emergency procedures, if required. Alice invoked one a week before her death.”

“Why?” He wasn't sure the man would answer truthfully.

“She felt she was being observed.”

“Did she report this to the local police? Or anyone else?” Dunne was asking from a police perspective. “Did she have proof of her suspicions?”

“No. And none.” With a flick of his left hand at the questions, it was clear Stuart did not welcome Dunne's intrusion into his performance.

“But still it had you worried enough to come north to meet with her.” Dunne was not deterred by the visitor's dismissal of him; this was his police station, his territory.

“In the past, documents of an extremely sensitive nature passed through her hands, so yes, we took her concerns seriously.” He would not share, not even with his colleagues—especially not with them—that after Alice's retirement, a departmental inventory had revealed the loss, or removal, of particularly sensitive material. And if she had not taken the material, the ramifications were even more worrying.

“The identity papers she worked on—were they used recently? Perhaps illegally, if you can call using forged documents illegal?” McAllister asked.

The man jerked in alarm. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Been reading one too many Ian Fleming spy thrillers, I suppose.” McAllister was enjoying the stranger's reaction.

“That traitor. Done more to harm the service than . . .”

McAllister wanted to tease him with the names: Burgess and Maclean. As a newspaperman and someone who avidly followed the news of the Cold War, he was fascinated by the revelations of spying. The defection to Moscow of the Cambridge spies had occurred in early 1951. Yet the story was not confirmed until 1954. He had been on the news desk of the
Herald
. The headlines were sensational. The statement from the prime minister confessing that the spies had escaped on the cross-channel ferry to France was splashed across front pages, occupying the nightly television and wireless news bulletins. It had almost brought the government down and jeopardized their relationship with the United States secret services.

He remembered how many “D” notices, which banned publication of stories of “national importance,” were issued at that time. Even more than in wartime, it had seemed. And according to journalists' and commentators' gossip, there was still much information that the government was suppressing or that hadn't yet been discovered. Rumors of a third traitor had circulated. Eventually, when none was discovered, they were no longer discussed in public. McAllister had heard from Sandy Marshall that it was still a topic of speculation and gossip and rumor in newsrooms and journalists' clubs from Washington to Hong Kong and all territories in between.

Perhaps Miss Ramsay knew more?
he wanted to ask, but didn't, deciding the risk of a note in his secret file, or worse, wasn't worth the fun of provoking a man who had been born lacking a sense of humor. That there was a file on him McAllister didn't doubt; his time in the Spanish Civil War, if nothing else, would warrant at least a security check.

“So why are you here?” The deadline for two articles by two o'clock was pressing down on the editor.

“The paintings you bought at auction. I was distracted by the drama of the bidding for that one drawing and the antics of that art expert, so I missed the bidding for the job lot of pictures.”

McAllister bit back a quip, didn't say,
Careless. You also missed the boxes of books and papers the auctioneer threw in when we won the bid.
He was desperate to ask if Stuart knew of the manuscript Alice had been working on, but he didn't dare alert him if he wasn't already aware.

Stuart's face resumed the oily-feathers-bird's-back look. “I'm afraid I have to insist you turn those paintings over to the Ministry.”

“Do you now?”

Stuart possibly understood and chose to ignore the threat in McAllister's low, slow, drawn-out drawl, but Dunne heard it. “And by what authority can you do this?” the inspector asked. “I would need a good explanation should you seize those pictures.” He added, “Mr. McAllister's solicitor would also, I'm certain, want to see the appropriate paperwork.”

Stuart looked ready to reprimand the policeman, but his training overrode his arrogance. “I'm sure Mr. McAllister and his good wife will cooperate.”

McAllister shrugged. “If, and when, you present the appropriate legal documents, I will give them to my solicitor. If he says we have a chance of fighting said documents in a court of law, I will. And remember, here we are under Scottish law, not some opaque, made up on a whim regulation.”

“It's not the paintings as such,” the stranger began. Then stopped. “Official Secrets Act, remember?”

Silence.

“Miss Ramsay had information that could severely compromise other . . . officers. You needn't know the details.” McAllister was certain he had been about to say
operatives.
“She may have concealed some material for safekeeping.”

“For God's sakes, man, why didn't you just ask?” McAllister was fed up with the game of amateur spies. The window was too high to see out of. And the grille in the door made him feel he was a prisoner. He wanted out of this place and away from this man. “All this palaver—warnings, threats—why not come straight out and say,
May I examine the paintings you bought fair and square at that auction where I was so busy lurking, trying so hard not to be noticed that I made myself all the more noticeable
? As for forcing Dunne here to deliver a threat over that photograph at the golf club, that was a total embarrassment.” He was shaking his head at the ham-fisted fiasco, asking himself how a secret service could be so inept.

Stuart, if he was a Stuart, smiled with his lips only. “You are right. We should have sent an experienced operator. I'm only an office wallah myself.” The smile meant to reassure did not work, and he could see that. “I apologize, Mr. McAllister, Inspector Dunne. And I accept the offer to examine the pictures.”

McAllister suspected Stuart seldom apologized. He also knew he had little choice but to let the man, or his minions, inspect the pictures. So he relented. “You can do that, but in my home.”

“I will need to request expert help.”

“Fine. Let me know when you'll be coming round. In the meantime, I have a newspaper to put to bed.”

They all shook hands. McAllister left first.

Dunne remarked to the visitor, “You and your colleagues would do well to remember that we Scots don't take kindly to threats.”

“I promise to remember.”

The inspector did not believe him. They left the room, both glad of fresh air. The London man invited the inspector to lunch. Dunne refused. Holding the man's umbrella, watching him as he put on an overcoat the inspector knew would cost a month's salary, he asked, “So does the attack on Mrs. Mackenzie have any connection with your inquiries?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don't know?” Dunne saw confusion, the first and only sign of emotion, in the blank canvas of a face.
Doesn't want to admit he's missed something else
. The policeman sighed. “You'd better sit down again.”

McAllister was usually late home on Wednesday evenings. There was no need for him to stay in the office, but when the presses started to roll, he and Don had a little ritual. The first proof pages would be printed off and checked. Barring last-minute adjustments to be corrected on the stone, Don would give the Father of the Chapel the nod. Then the presses would roll.

Against all union regulations, McAllister was allowed onto the print-room floor. He was wise enough to keep out of the men's way as they went about the controlled panic of the countdown to the printing run. The hammering and clattering of the printing press, the race of the machine that layered and folded, shooting out the warm, ink-damp newspapers onto the conveyer, always entranced him.

Watching the men and apprentices parceling, labeling, and loading the awaiting delivery vans gave him a satisfaction that could never be bettered. His words, his newspapers, were now on the journey to the people of the towns, the islands, the villages, to be sold in large news agents' or wee general stores where everything necessary for the rural communities was available, except on Sundays, when even the petrol pumps were locked.

Then the two men, a Highland Stan and Ollie, would trudge up the stairs into the editor's office and share a dram of a good whisky, a single-malt from whatever small distillery in the area they were of a mind to sample.

This time, McAllister brought out a favorite, a twenty-five-year-old Talisker. He felt he deserved it after the morning's interview with the “Man from the Ministry,” as the deputy editor had baptized him.

Don lifted his glass. “Slàinte.” He took a sip. “A fine drop from the shores of my homeland,” he pronounced, then settled back to listen to what he expected to be a fascinating account of the morning's interview. He was not disappointed. “The Cambridge spies?” He whistled. “Not what I expected to hear of in the Highlands of Scotland.”

“Me neither,” McAllister agreed.

“Aye. Fits, though. Some o' them lords and lairds that come up here for the fishing and shooting, they were, and are, the regimental chiefs who used our young men as cannon fodder.”

McAllister knew the truth of Don's statement. “Aye, but the spy scandals center around London, Berlin, Moscow, Washington, even Istanbul. It's quite a leap from there to a glen in Sutherland.”