A Kind of Grief (47 page)

No maps, no camera, and no mementos, travel as lightly as possible. No identifying objects, unless they are part of one's cover. Remember your tradecraft—Moscow Rules, we called them.

If I ever have to leave in a hurry, I will not be parted from my walking boots. Someone who knows their job would be able to identify me from them. It's a risk I will have to take. If I have to leave, I will abandon the manuscript. That would hurt.

The walk out of the glen, over the hills, and crossing the hours and hours of peat bogs and heather and bracken in the high country, is one I've walked twice—but only in early and late summer. Then it's down to the opposite coast and the railway line—or a boat. For part of the way, I can use the old drover's road. Overnight campsites where the men would rest the sheep or the cattle are still there—if you know how to look. A cluster of trees—birch, willow, hawthorn, running water, shelter amongst rocks or a fold in the earth, that's where the drovers and traveling people would rest on the long trek to the livestock auctions in Tain or Dingwall.

But in winter, it's a much harder and riskier hike. I'm not as fit as I once was. Hence the boots.

She opens the tin of dubbin, wipes off the dust, and begins applying a fresh coat of the waterproof emulsion. Finished, she stands the boots on a sheet of newspaper to dry thoroughly.

“Be prepared,” she says to the dog.

Boy Scouts motto.
She remembers telling them, more than once, that the service reminded her of the Boy Scouts. Spies, secret agents, plotting, and planning, they are boys masquerading as men, reliving their childhood fantasies of daring or dastardly deeds, believing themselves invincible. And untouchable. Until someone is killed. Or turns traitor.

With the house to herself, Joanne stood at the kitchen window, seeing nothing, no hills, no mountains, no distant smudge of forest, no sky, no discernible clouds, only a dome of thick, smooth grey, much the color of an army blanket unwashed for years. She went into the hallway to telephone; she still saw nothing, only the hook where the still life with red onions had hung. The mirror she ignored. She went to pick up the receiver. Stopped.

“I'm with Superintendent Westland. I'll be back in about an hour,” he'd said—an hour ago.

She knew then that their plan had worked. If the superintendent was back again, someone somewhere wanted that drawing. It had begun. And she desperately wanted it ended.

The doorbell rang at half past eight. Late enough for Jean to be in bed, early enough for Annie to be up.

Joanne wanted to ignore it, but when it rang a second time, she knew she must answer, or her daughter would worry.

“Mum,” Annie called out, “I'll go.”

“Stay in the dining room,” Joanne snapped. “Shut the door, and don't come out until I tell you.”

The girl was terrified. This was the voice and these were the words her mother used when her father was drunk, with his fists ready to lash out at his wife. Annie said nothing but pressed herself against the dining-room door, listening for whoever had frightened her mum.

“Oh, it's you. McAllister will be here any minute.”

“Can I come in?”

Annie sensed her mother's hesitation.

“Your husband said to meet here.”

The girl knew it must be safe when her mother said, “Sorry. Yes. Of course. Come into the sitting room.”

Joanne came into the dining room, where Annie was pretending to do her French homework, and said, “It's best you go to your room now.”

Annie looked up, was about to protest, saw her mother's forced smile and decided not to argue. “All right.”

“Thanks. We will explain in the morning.”

A scant five minutes later, Annie was in her room when McAllister's car arrived. She watched him and the big man in a police uniform walk down the path.

When I'm a writer, I'm going to have adventures like McAllister, she decided.

Annie waited, watching. An hour and ten minutes later, she awoke, in a folded-up position against her bedroom windowsill, her neck stiff and feet frozen. A car door slammed. The car drove off. She heard the front door being locked. She heard her mother come upstairs. Then McAllister's heavier tread. Now she could sleep in her bed.

Next morning, still dark and only half past six, Annie heard the toilet flush, then footsteps going downstairs. She put on her dressing gown and slippers. As she yawned, she saw a cloud form and noticed ice on the inside of the window. Soon be Christmas, she thought.

McAllister was alone in the kitchen. “Want some coffee?” he asked when she came in.

“Mum says I'm too young.”

He poured her a cup anyhow but added milk.

She sipped it and pretended she liked it. “What's going on?”

“An expert wants to discuss the manuscript your mum has been working on.”

“This is about Miss Ramsay, the artist.”

Annie Ross was observant and relentless and needed to know what was happening to feel safe. Through eavesdropping in doorways, listening for pauses, for the breaking off of a conversation, staying quiet, watching whilst buried in a book, she would review conversations and situations and judge if her mother was in harm's way.

“Yes, Miss Alice Ramsay, the artist.”
And who knows what else besides?
McAllister did not lie, nor did he dismiss her concerns. Occasionally, like now, he would silently curse her father for having caused his children and his wife perpetual anxiety.

“Will mum be back tonight?”

“They've said she will
probably
be back tonight. But no promises.”

Annie hated open-ended sentences ending in “soon” or “it's nothing” or “we'll see” and words like “probably” and “promise.” Her first nine years of life in a household scarred by alcohol and violence, both physical and mental, had programmed her to disbelieve adults. When told everything would be “fine,” she was ready for the worst.

“I'm going back to bed to read,” Annie said when Joanne came in. “See you tonight, Mum.” She left quickly, but not before Joanne could see her eyes.

“Annie looks as scared as me.” Joanne tried to smile. But failed. She was furious with herself for starting the whole debacle. And more furious still with these mysterious men and their secret scandals concerning distant strangers, how they came to the Highlands, tainting the glen with death.

“I'll look after her. You ready?” He nodded at her carpetbag, where he knew that, along with a change of clothes and a book or three, his wife would have packed her knitting.

Reading his mind, she joked, “I've put in my Shetland steel knitting needles. A brilliant weapon against spies and traitors, don't you think?”

She passed the hall mirror to fetch her coat. There stood a stranger, a faded, anxious, middle-aged woman in a none-too-smart blouse, with hair looking like she'd stepped in from a force ten hurricane. She went upstairs to change, to brush her hair, before giving up and putting on a Fair Isle beret—anything to waste time until Hennessey and Superintendent Westland came to fetch her. And to avoid talking to her husband lest he change his mind. She had agreed to go with them, no questions asked.

So had McAllister. “But only because of Superintendent Westland's assurances,” he'd told Hennessey the previous night. “And only if the superintendent accompanies you.”

“Joanne?” Hennessey had looked at her for confirmation, and she liked him better for it. He understood she was a woman who made her own decisions.

“I'm coming with you because you have given your word this will be the end of it.”
Make sure it is
went unsaid. “And yes, I insist that Superintendent Westland comes too.” She could see it wasn't in Hennessey's original plan and was pleased they had won one small victory.

She put on red lipstick for courage. She dabbed on McAllister's cologne for consolation, but her best blouse was in the ironing pile. “Drat and blast and . . .” She set up the ironing board and ironed the bits that would show. “Hennessey—if that's your name—I hope you appreciate the effort,” she murmured, knowing the effort was for her alone.

Joanne came home near midnight. She hugged her husband, then went upstairs to kiss the girls. McAllister opened some wine. When she returned, they settled by a fire of spitting spruce logs to talk.

She sipped the wine and didn't shudder. “I'm beginning to like this.” She smiled, holding up the glass and staring at the fire through the ruby liquid.

“Salut.” He raised a glass to her. “Since we aren't buying a new house just yet, let's go to Paris and drink wine in Montmartre.”

“We flew to Ireland today.”

“Did you now?” He was not expecting that.

“Not that anyone said we were in Ireland, but the weather was so clear I recognized the geography and the sea crossing over the Mull of Kintyre. I've never flown before. Scotland is really beautiful.” She nodded at the memory.

He watched her, saw her trying to unravel a story so big she was unsure how to begin.

“I'm surprised they didn't make me wear a blindfold.”

With that joke, he knew she was fine.

“I was given a present.” She passed him an envelope. “Open it.”

Between the hard outer cover and the frontispiece, on paper torn from a sketchbook with the perforations uneven, was a pencil portrait of Joanne. In her wool jacket with her Celtic cross brooch, her hair escaping from the Fair Isle beret, in the half-smile, the searching eyes, it was more than a good likeness; it captured the passion and compassion of his wife.

“It's wonderful.”

“Turn it over.”

The line of overly familiar writing said, “We should have been friends, but alas.” The signature said, “Alice Ramsay.”

“Did you know?”

“It was why I agreed to your going.”

“You should have told me.”

“I know. But that was also part of the agreement. Alice Ramsay wasn't sure if, given a choice, you'd want to meet her again.”

Their voices had been low. Their thoughts racing. “Perhaps,” she acknowledged. She sipped the wine. That and the fire began to thaw her insides. She settled back in the chair, ready to tell a tale that she was yet to fully understand.

“We landed on a small airstrip outside a town in what I imagine was Northern Ireland. The men, in RAF uniforms, were expecting us. Hennessey showed some papers. Superintendent Westland and I were ignored. Then a big black car arrived, and we were driven through lovely countryside—a bit like here but less wild—for just under an hour.” She didn't tell him that on the journey, there and back, barely five words were spoken between the three of them.

“We drove through high gates set in a high stone wall. There was a lodge house and a security barrier, and the papers were checked again.” She said nothing about how trapped she'd felt. In the small aeroplane, in the car, she'd scared herself thinking, I know no one here. I don't have change for the phone. If there are phones. I am completely alone. Even Westland was no longer a supportive Scottish policeman.
He is one of them.