A Kind of Grief (38 page)

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.