A Kind of Grief (49 page)

“Miss Ramsay made the cake,” he said. “And Hennessey sent a gift for McAllister.” The bag clinked. Joanne knew that whatever it was, it was alcoholic. “There is also this for you.” He handed over an envelope of stiff card, just the size of the drawing she had delivered to Alice.

“I'm not sure I want it, whatever it is,” she said.

He shrugged and tackled another sandwich.

The flight was short. The drive from the aerodrome to town was not much shorter. Westland walked Joanne to her front door.

“I leave tomorrow,” he said, “but I'll call by McAllister's office before I go.”

“You'd better,” she said. “Else McAllister will come looking.”

“Good night, Joanne.” He was about to say,
Well done
, but didn't. She has been underestimated and patronized enough, he thought.

Next morning, Joanne met McAllister at the
Gazette
office. She'd slept through the girls leaving for school, even though both of them had tiptoed to her bed to make certain she was there.

“Told ya,” McAllister had joked, throwing back at them another of Annie's catchphrases.

Inside his private lair, Joanne sat with a cup of tea, while McAllister leafed through the messages the receptionist had delivered on his arrival, tossing most into the wastepaper bin.

Don was looking at the bottle McAllister had given him, saying, “It's only as different from whisky as the spelling.”

“W-H-I-S-K-E-Y,” she read out. “I never knew that spelling.”

“May I come in?” Superintendent Westland was in civvies—checked Vyella shirt, knitted tie, thick brown corduroy trousers, and the ubiquitous tweed jacket. His hat, however, was not a deerstalker, just a plain flecked-brown-trout-colored workaday tweed flat cap. “Thanks for waiting,” he said as he took a chair.

“Hennessey threatened to haul me in under the Official Secrets Act if I tell anyone,” McAllister growled. “Don said he'd resign if I don't.”

“So I told him,” Joanne said.

“Right,” Westland said. “Well, I'm off duty. And I didn't hear any of that.”

“So who was Mr. Stuart?” Don asked.

“That would definitely be breaking the Official Secrets Act,” Westland warned.

“That means he doesn't know.” Joanne laughed.

Don shook his head. “Heavens above—spies and traitors and treachery in a wee Highland community.”

“Aye,” Joanne said, “and that's only Mrs. Mackenzie.”

It came out lighter than intended.
That woman caused her husband's death.
She was grateful for the laughter nonetheless.

Westland began. “Joanne is right. I don't know who he is or which department he works in. I do know he is a bona fide government employee. Hennessey too, but in some branch of the Foreign Office. When the spies were discovered, there were huge repercussions, and I did hear that a veritable war broke out among the various intelligence services. Lots of finger pointing over who knew what and who should have been able to intercept them.”

McAllister had spoken with Sandy. “A wee bird in Glasgow via other wee birds on Fleet Street says the relationship with the American agencies is still precarious.”

“No doubt,” Don said.

“I was in London at that time, working on the Fleet Street desk of the
Herald
,” McAllister added. “The scandal was catastrophic. Two of their best men disappeared. No one knew where. Prime ministers, politicians denying everything. The Americans going ballistic. D notices as thick as a manuscript delivered to us at the
Herald
and to every newspaper, wireless station, and television. Nothing could be reported. But we knew. Or guessed. ‘Diplomats Missing' was all the information we were allowed to print.”

“Then they turned up in Moscow,” Don remembered. “Three years later that the truth came out.”

“Some of the truth came out,” McAllister corrected him.

“I couldn't say,” Westland said. “As you know, the death and the disposal of Miss Ramsay were . . .”

“Unusual.” Don supplied the word.

“So my investigation is concluded,” the policeman said. “Naturally, my findings will not be made public. And the matter is over.”

“For us, but not for Calum,” McAllister said.

“And poor Mrs. Galloway,” said Joanne.

Don couldn't let it go. “Who was spying on McAllister and Joanne?”

“I didn't ask,” Westland said. As they wouldn't tell me, he didn't say.

“I've had enough of it all,” Joanne declared. “The subject is now closed.”

“Aye, lass, but what about—”

“Don McLeod, when I say the subject is closed . . .”

“It's closed.” He sighed and looked towards the bottle of Jameson. “Is it too early for a wee drop of the Irish?”

“Never,” McAllister said, and fetched the glasses.

“This stuff any good?” She took a mouthful from McAllister's glass, swallowed, coughed, coughed some more, and said, “Jings, this'll put hair on yer chest.”

I
t should have been her. Still, if I can't have him, neither can she.

Who does she think she is? All that carry-on at the funeral. Me, I'm his wife, it says so on the gravestone I had done for him.

I told her she was no welcome in the church or the graveside, but Calum insisted she come. Got quite shirty when I said she was nothing but a whore.

At the graveside she wasn't crying, but she was shaking worse than a sparrow in a storm. Calum was holding her arm. I soon put a stop to that.

Mind you, I narrowly missed falling into the grave wi' ma pretend fainting fit. I was moaning an' crying an' that, and Elaine comes over an' slaps me. Much harder than necessary, I might add. Then she's telling Calum that's what you do for hysteria, and he does nothing. Just like his dad, that son o' mine. I'll deal wi' Nurse Elaine soon enough. Can't have history repeating itself.

Then, after the graveside bit, Calum tells me the funeral tea is to be at the hotel. I refused to go, saying everyone was coming to ours, as I was his wife and I had everything prepared.

But they all went back to her place like it was her that was the widow, no me.

Even Calum went. But he did say he was coming back to his old job. And he's promised he'll always look after me. He's a good boy, is my son.

Four weeks later and three weeks short of Christmas, Joanne was staring into Simpson's shoe-shop when the woman next to her said, “I'd love those fur-lined boots, but they're much too dear on a nurse's salary.”

“Elaine!”

“Hiya, Joanne.” They grinned at each other.

“Do you have time for coffee?”

Elaine turned to look at the clock on the Church Street spire. “I'm meeting a friend at the Ness Café in half an hour, so let's go there.”

Elaine told Joanne about the funeral. “It seemed like the whole county was there.” Then she told Joanne about the will. “He left
her
the house. But Muriel, Mrs. Galloway, gets the business—the garage, the shop, the lot.”

“Good.”

“Aye. Everyone's relieved they'll no have
her
poking into their affairs when all they want is a gallon of petrol.”

Joanne could sense there was more. “How's Calum?”

“He's back at the local paper. I broke off our engagement.”

Joanne wasn't surprised.

“I feel really bad about it, but . . .” Elaine looked out the window. Remembering the last talk with Calum still upset her. It had been worse than painful for him; he'd been completely shocked. All she had felt was relief that a decision was finally made. He was convinced she would come back to him.
Give it time
, he'd told her.
When you come back, when everything's settled down . . .

“Calum said he has to live with his mum because she's got no one and no money coming in. He said when we're married, we could share her house, because there was plenty of room for us and her. I said, ‘No, I'm never going to live with your mother.' ”

She'd said worse than that. She could still feel the words that had escaped, the sentences there was no turning back from.

“It was awful, Joanne. I told Calum his mother's gossiping and lies as good as killed Miss Ramsay.” She would never confess that she'd added,
And killed your dad.
“He said she's had to put up with years and years of people laughing at her, gossiping how her husband was living with another woman.”

“I know how that feels.” Joanne didn't mean to say it, but it popped out.

“Aye, a divorce is still a huge disgrace,” Elaine agreed. “What Calum finally said, and what makes me feel guilty every time I think about it, was ‘Elaine, I know what she's like, but she's my mother.' ” She sighed. “Calum's a saint. He is a good, kind man, and his mum's hysterics pass him by, like words lost in a wind. I feel dreadful about breaking off the engagement. But I can't. I just can't.” She felt the heat in her cheeks and changed the subject. “I've signed up to be here for a year, so I moved into Calum's lodgings. It'll do fine until me and some nurse friends find a house to share.”

“I'm glad for you, Elaine.” Joanne was about to say,
Don't carry the corrosive burden of guilt, it is too destructive.
But a belief in Elaine's good sense stopped her. She wanted to tell Elaine that Alice was well, except she knew that after the last time, she would never betray Alice Ramsay.

A car drew up and beeped the horn.

Elaine jumped up. “Sorry, my friend is here. I have to run.” She opened a purse to leave money for the coffee.

Joanne refused. “My treat.”

Elaine hugged her and ran to the car. Frankie Urquhart got out and opened the passenger door for her.

Joanne smiled. “Good luck, Elaine, you deserve it.”