Authors: William Meikle
She looked down her nose at me. I'd suddenly acquired the status of hired-help, and was no longer worthy of her attention.
"Come with me," she said to Jim in a voice that brooked no argument, and turned away towards the house.
I left Jim in the driveway with his luggage. He looked suddenly sunken and forlorn.
"That drink is looking awfully inviting round about now," he said. "If you're still around, I'll be in one of the pubs in the center in less than half an hour."
"I'll ask for the foul-mouthed Glasgwegian," I said.
He laughed aloud
"That narrows the field to only a couple of hundred thousand then."
He was still laughing as I drove away.
2
The town center was half a mile further along the road. This early in the year, with spring barely sprung, there were few tourists around and the place had the air of expectancy...just waiting for the tourists...and their money...to bring some bustle. It did mean that I found a parking space with no problem, which was just as well, as I needed three car lengths maneuvering room to park inside the narrow bays provided.
I set off in search of the 'Auld Kelpie'.
It wasn't hard to find. It sat on a jetty down the south side of the old harbor, wedged in between a fish restaurant and a craft shop. Its frontage was that of an ancient black and white building that wouldn't have looked out of place in a traditional English village, but which seemed oddly incongruous in the Scottish Highlands. Its austerity was especially highlighted as it sat amongst a row of cottages painted in violent pinks, yellows and blues, as if a child had been let loose with a paint pot.
The pub had leaded windows, the glass so thick and warped it would have been impossible to see in, even if there hadn't been centuries of accumulated grime. I was surprised when I pushed the door and found it locked. I peered through the clearest pane of glass I could find, but the lights were off. I knocked, on the door, then on the window, which was usually enough to get someone's attention in a pub, but no one came, and the door stayed locked.
I checked my watch...it was just after three o'clock. By the side of the oak door I finally discovered a small glass panel with a piece of paper inside that told me 'winter' opening hours were 12:00 to 3:00 and 5:30 to 11:00. Even then, I was only a couple of minutes late. I would have expected some allowance for drinking up time...even out here in Jim Morton's 'fucking countryside'. I was beginning to share his sentiments.
Above the door, the old pub sign swung in the breeze, the creaking following me like laughter back along the harbor where I found a public phone box, and rang my cellular number. Doug answered on the second ring.
"You left it in your drawer," he said reproachfully.
In truth I was just glad it was Doug that answered...the phone could have been anywhere. I'd started carrying one not long after the Amulet case, mainly so that Doug could keep in touch with me when he needed to talk, but it had the same magic as elusive packets of cigarettes. It hid from me, at every available opportunity, and after a while I just gave up looking for it. Now that Doug was working in the office, I had even less need for it.
"Keep your eye on it," I told him. "And if it tries to escape, shoot it."
I told him what was going on, and he told me who I was looking for.
"The man you're after is John Mason. Thirty-six years old, and former accountant for Glasgow City Council," Doug said. "That was until this time last year."
"Let me guess," I said pre-empting him. "He went to Skye and never came back."
"Not much of a deduction, Sherlock, his mother told us that."
"Okay, I'll give you that one. But have you got anything else for me?"
"Do you need anything else?" he said.
I thought about that for a bit. I could get him to chase up on Jim Morton's story for me, but I couldn't see what good that would do me.
"Have you still got that check?" I asked
"Yep. It's sitting here."
Which told me all I needed to know. The old Doug would have had it in the bank by now, with an itemized spreadsheet set up to monitor its spending.
"You haven't been out all day," I said softly. It wasn't a question, and he didn't answer for a while.
"I've been busy," he said petulantly.
I let it lie. Once I got back to the office I was going to have to do something to get Doug out of himself. But for now, at least I knew he was safe.
"I'll try the "Auld Kelpie" again at five-thirty," I said. "I might even be back late tonight. But don't wait for me. And lock-up when you go...I've got my spare keys with me."
Again he was silent for a while, before finally giving me a quiet "Okay".
I promised to phone him if anything happened, then I wandered across the Town Square to the bar of 'The Portree Hotel'. I passed the Land Rover, which looked conspicuous, sitting in a large empty area of tarmac. Back in the city I'd have been nervous about leaving it out in such a public spot, but somehow this place felt 'safe'. For all I knew there were drug dens and brothels behind every window of the square, but it felt like a bygone world. It was like a costume drama, one where people left their doors unlocked, where neighbors looked out for each other, and where policeman were still allowed to administer their own punishment on recalcitrant youth.
The bar of the Portree Hotel reinforced my sense of 'elsewhere'.
In cities you have young persons bars, business men's' bars, working men's' bars, gay bars, each with their own clientele, each nicely segregated. But in a small town there wasn't room for that. In bars on the islands the rich and poor, laborer and landowner, elderly and youthful, all rubbed shoulders together.
Even at three-thirty on a spring afternoon the place was more than half-full. A huddle of old men surrounded an open fire, although they produced more smoke than it did. Nearer the bar five youths, scarcely old enough to be out of school, were laying attack to a fruit machine, excited that it had given them a payout that was in all likelihood a tenth of what they'd put in. Three middle-aged women sat at a table surrounded by plastic shopping bags, smoking menthol cigarettes and throwing vodka down their throats as if they were in a rush. A very old man sat at a corner table, a half-pint of beer and a whisky in front of him. He was fast asleep, and at his feet his equally old dog lifted its head, looked at me, and went back to rooting for fleas.
Jim Morton was in the far corner, working a table of what looked to be fishermen if their ruddy, weather-beaten skin and waterproof clothes were anything to go by. He gave me a wave as I went to the bar, and I waved back, trying to indicate that he was a passing acquaintance, that I recognized him, and that I wasn't interested in talking to him.
The barman noticed though.
"Do you know him?" he asked as he poured me a beer. "The fella from the papers?"
"No. I never met him before today. I gave him a lift this morning," I said. "His motor broke down."
"Might have been better if you left him by the side of the road," he said. "His language even shocked the fishing crews."
I grunted, and took the beer. If Jim started making a scene it would be better for me to fade into the background and not draw any undue attention. I took myself off to a quiet corner, disengaged my brain, and watched the world go by.
If you ever want to observe human behavior, you can do worse than choose a busy bar as your vantage point. Over the next hour I sipped of my beer while the room filled, emptied and filled again as the bar did its job; relieved some people of their money; made some people happy, made some people sad.
One of the three middle-aged women got weepy, and the other two consoled her by pouring yet more vodka into her. Then the weepy one went to retouch her makeup, and the other two started helping themselves to the contents of one of her shopping bags.
The old men turned out to be studying racing form in a variety of newspapers. Every twenty minutes they'd leave the bar then return ten minutes later, some happy, some downcast. I guessed the bookmaker's was nearby.
The youths at the fruit machine won the jackpot, then spent ten minutes reloading it all back into the money eater.
The old sleeping man shook himself awake, downed the beer and whisky quickly and left, but the dog stayed.
After an hour or so a group of businessmen come in, obviously having already had a hearty lunch, and their loud irritating, conversation drove me out of my corner and back to the bar.
"Another?" the barman asked. And I declined, feeling childishly proud of myself. I might be driving again soon...a long chance I knew, but one I needed to be prepared for.
"No, thanks," I said. "I'm meeting somebody in the Auld Kelpie."
He gave me a strange look, and was about to say something, then thought better of it. The special little buzz I got when I was onto something swung into action, and I changed my mind about that other beer.
"So what's the Kelpie like? This is my first time in town."
The barman leaned over to give me the beer.
"Let's just say it's a local's bar," he said. "Not like this place. The tourists come here. The Portree originals go there."
"And never the twain shall meet, eh?" I said.
"Something like that. I hope you've got a thick skin...for you'll not be made welcome."
"Is it because I'm a tourist? I heard they had a Glasgow man working there. John Mason? You must know him."
The barman's face went white, and he suddenly had an urge to polish the beer taps...a job that slowly took him away from me. He was terrified...and so was I. When someone takes on that look, I know a case has just gone somewhere I don't want to follow.
"Best just to have a few more beers here, sir," he said, "You'll have a better time all round." He moved off, obviously grateful that one of the young lads needed serving down the other end of the bar.
I took my new beer off to the corner again.
Jim Morton was still working the fishermen, but from the stony expressions of their faces I didn't think he was getting anywhere. I had a feeling that my hopes of an early resolution to the case were fading fast and it looked increasingly like I had a long night ahead of me.
I finished the beer too quickly...I knew the signs. If I had any more I'd be unlikely to stop before I passed out, or someone hit me. I needed food...something to soak up the beer. Luckily most towns in Scotland have the perfect answer for that...a fish and chip shop.
Portree was no different. Just off the main square it was easy to find, I just had to head for the crowd of kids milling around outside. Once inside I had to queue behind a group of the kids who were intent on outdoing each other on fat levels.
"I'll have a burger and chips," one said.
"Battered haggis and chips for me...with curry sauce," another said, and I felt the beer turn over in my stomach. Suddenly I wasn't feeling quite so hungry.
When I heard an order for 'deep-fried' pizza and chips I thanked God such delights weren't available when I was a lad...I'd be thirty stone by now.
"I suppose you still sell fish suppers?" I asked the girl behind the counter. She moved her gum slowly to the other side of her mouth before she replied.
"Aye. But you'll have to wait for the fish. We make it fresh."
"Straight out of the harbor eh?" I said. "Did you catch it yourself?"
She looked straight through me. She served thousands of tourists a day and they all said the same things, told the same jokes and she went home stinking of fish and grease. There was nothing I could say that would improve the life she saw stretched out ahead of her. In thirty years time she would be the weepy woman in the pub...and the worst thing about it was, she could see it coming. She went back to moving her gum and staring past me while a squat, fat, hairy man coated a fish in batter and dropped it with a hiss into the fryer.
While I waited I studied the flyers and posters that studded the wall of the take-away. There was the usual advertisements for local craft fairs, school concerts and farmer's markets...but there also seemed to be lot of lost pets...with people offering large rewards. I was half tempted to give up the case and move on the 'pet-search' duties. Only half tempted though.
When the fish supper was finally ready to go, and the young lass had shown her contempt for me one-last time, I took the wrapped package out to the harbor, and had one of those ten-minute periods that stays with you for a lifetime. The fish was cooked to perfection, the sea was calm, the sky was blue and all was quiet except for the gulls overhead and the soft chugging of a fishing boat as it came in to dock. I finished the fish and chips and licked the greasy salt layer off my fingers with relish.
The place was working its magic on me. As always, when I visited places like this, I flirted with ideas and schemes that would let me pull up sticks and move here. But even as I made them, I knew that the office in Byres Road would always drag me back, back to the bustle of the city, to the streets where I understood how to get by, where I knew how things worked. Out here life was different. Oh, it was seductive, especially on a day like this, but there weren't enough people...not enough variation. I could also imagine winter nights where I would be screaming in boredom.
Plus, I liked my pubs to be lively and cosmopolitan. The reception I got when I walked down the jetty and into the 'Auld Kelpie' soon told me that this wasn't one of those pubs.
There were only four people in the bar...and that included the barmaid. They had obviously been in conversation just before I walked in, but now they all stopped and looked at me as I walked across the wooden floor. The place was so quiet it seemed almost sacrilegious to talk.
"A pint of heavy," I said.
"Sorry. We don't do 'heavy' as such," the barmaid said. "But we've got some locally brewed beer if you're interested?"
"Let me guess...Auld Kelpie Ale?" I said. "Or is it Portree Porter?"
At least she showed she was capable of smiling. The three men in the corner were staring at me in undisguised contempt. I was about to ask her about John Mason, when I caught a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
I raised an eyebrow in response, and got the slight shake of the head again. I stood in silence as she poured the beer. She had to work hard at a hand pump, and the beer came through thick and dark. It looked like I had some chewing to do.
She took my money, and rang it up at the till. When she turned back she handed me my beer, and passed me a small folded piece of paper between her fingers and the glass.
"I think you'll find this more interesting than anything you got in the Portree Hotel," she said, which told me that I wasn't the only one playing detective.