A Kind of Grief (40 page)

D
once proposed to me. Ridiculous. Who would marry such a womanizer? The American woman, that's who. Daddy thought the marriage absurd. “Not one of us,” he'd said. But she stayed with him, even joining him in Russia.

It was good Daddy didn't live to learn of the betrayal—he would have been deeply embarrassed. Now what does our family have? Our name. That is enough, Grandmamma would have said. “Our name is ancient and noble, our titles go back centuries, our reputation is for selfless service for king and country.”

Those old values and that way of life are gone. Yet many of the aristocracy can't face the truth. “We can't even afford a full complement of staff,” Mummy had said.

“You have a housekeeper, a maid, and a cook,” Alice reminded her. That didn't appease her. With no lady's maid, she'd had to learn how to fasten her own buttons. Without a butler, she could no longer entertain, or so she believed.

I doubt there are butlers in Moscow.

“What do you mean, you can't contact him?” McAllister could barely hold the telephone steady. His face a shade of puce beyond angry, he yelled, “I'm coming over!”

He marched up the staircase, ignoring the call of “You can't go there,” from the constable at the front desk, and into the detectives' room. No one stopped him. Not because they knew him, more that they recognized there was more chance of turning around the
Queen Mary
in the Forth & Clyde Canal.

DI Dunne beckoned him into the interview room. He too was looking like he wanted to throttle someone. Only the hair on his regimental short-back-and-sides was unmoved, every other part of him hurting from the humiliation. Speaking in his quiet minister-of-the-church-comforting-the-bereaved voice, this time the bereaved being himself, he said, “The person calling himself Stuart cannot be traced.”

A local policeman in a small Highland town would have no influence in Westminster, McAllister knew. “Well, we guessed that was not his real name.” McAllister felt cold and clammy in the small of his back.
This is not good.
“There must be another way of finding him. Wasn't he introduced to you by your chief constable?”

“Yes, and he was asked to give Stuart assistance by the chief constable of Sutherland-shire.”

“I bet your boss was also told to put the fear of the Almighty into that meddlesome editor.”

The editor was right, but Dunne only nodded. As he didn't smoke, he concentrated on the grimy wall with water stains blooming under a window that leaked imperceptibly into the tiny room. “We move to new headquarters soon,” he said, “then all this history will be demolished.”

“The
Gazette
building too,” McAllister said.

“I'm sure the security forces in London will never be moved out miles from the town center to an industrial estate where the wind can cut a man in half.”

“They deserve to be sent to Siberia. There they would find out what the Cold War is really about.”

“Agreed. But what do we do now?”

McAllister acknowledged the “we.” “Correct me if I'm wrong. First, the
Gazette
publishes that photograph. Next, the chief constable of Sutherland contacts your boss. Your boss orders you to cooperate with the man. I think you need to remind him of that so—”

“So he can shift the blame to Sutherland.” The inspector felt lighter. “I like that suggestion.” He looked at McAllister and, seeing the smug grin, was about to say,
Don't quote me
.

The editor preempted him with hands held up in submission, saying, “Not that I'd ever publish that. But too good not to pass on to Don McLeod.” His deputy and keeper of the town's secrets would add it to his treasure chest of information, to be used cautiously, with immaculate timing, and to the advantage of the
Gazette.

“Do you have contacts in London in, you know, secret circles?” Dunne sounded as though he still read the
Eagle
.

“No, but I have a friend who might. Can I use this phone?” McAllister didn't say, but he felt safer using a police phone than the one at the newspaper. Or home. He dialed Sandy. “I need your help.”

“It better be good. I've a front page just fallen foul of the legal department and nothing newsworthy to replace the story,” Sandy growled.

“That man I told you about, from the mysterious branch of government, we're trying to reach him, and it seems he doesn't exist.”

“Hold on.” McAllister could hear Sandy, although with a hand over the receiver, shouting down some junior reporter, saying, “I want it verified, and I don't care how. You have precisely thirty minutes.” There were background mumbles. Sandy shouting “Out!” before turning back to his caller and in a totally normal voice saying, “Right, where were we?”

McAllister didn't bother with the long version—he'd talk to his colleague later—only a request that they track down Stuart.

“You say you have a photo of him?”

“Yes, but hard to identify anyone from the shot.”

“Get it down to me,” Sandy said. “I'll make some calls and get back to you.”

“I owe you.”

“Make sure there's a front page in it for me, then we're square,” he said, and hung up.

Like Don's treasure chest, on a much larger scale, or Mrs. Mackenzie on a village level, Sandy Marshall's vault of information was vast, making him one of the most powerful men in Scotland.

Dunne stood. “I need to make calls.”

McAllister understood how tricky the next few hours would be for the policeman. “Aye. And if it looks like the blame will be dumped on you, remind your chief constable, and the sheriff in Sutherland and his chief constable, that you were ordered to help this Stuart character. Also ask why they were so keen to jump to his commands. Remind them that I met him, as did you, and both my deputy and I know everything.”

He knew Dunne would never threaten his superiors. Not even nicely. That was why he would never rise to a higher rank. Good man, no ambition was the verdict on Detective Inspector Dunne.

McAllister went back to the office and sent Hector home to print copies of the photo to mail to the
Herald
. He then thought over who he knew in London who might help. Unsuccessfully.

Hector returned close to tears. “No, I've no idea what happened to it.” Sniff. Sniff. “No, I haven't lost it. Or misplaced it. I'm meticulous about my work.”

For once, Rob made no joke about Hec using a big word, agreeing with the photographer's insistence he would never mislay a negative. “What was it filed under?” he asked instead.

“Negatives.
Gazette
. Date of publication.”

“So if you knew what you were looking for, you could find it?”

“Easy-peasy.”

“Don't you lock up?” Lorna asked.

“Ma cameras and lenses, they go in a safe. But no the filing cabinets. I lock the outside door wi' a padlock, but . . .”

“Simple to open if you know what you're doing,” Rob finished.

“Was that all that was missing?” McAllister asked.

“I think so.”

The reporters' room was crowded with Calum, Lorna, Rob, Frankie, Don, and McAllister squeezed together, watching Hector behaving as though he were about to pull a rabbit from the hand-crocheted string bag.

“This is all the photos and negatives and film relating to Miss Alice Ramsay.” He dumped the files onto the table. “You have them.” He thrust them towards McAllister. “I'm no having anyone break into my place and mess wi' ma files.”

Lorna looked bewildered. Calum also.

“Thanks, Hec,” the editor said. “Sorry you were . . . alarmed.”

“Alarmed? I'm no alarmed, I'm fair scunnered.”

“Rightly so.” Rob mock-thumped him on the back. “And no one has the right to upset my friend.”

McAllister took the files into his office.

Don joined him. “A fine mess an' aa' that.” He lit up.

For once, McAllister didn't join him; Joanne had asked him to cut down, meaning stop. He didn't think it possible but would try. For her. “So what do you think?”

“Until we track down your missing man, there's not a lot to say.”

“And if we don't—can't?”

“It's because he's not there to be found. Then it gets very interesting indeed.”

“I hoped we'd had enough of interesting,” McAllister said. But he said it with a Grim Reaper grin.

Which his deputy returned. “Interesting is what makes great front pages.”

Sandy called back late that afternoon. “I've spoken to the most senior person I know. He passed me on to some anonymous person in London, who passed me on to a police officer from Special Branch. Apparently someone you know, Superintendent Westland.”

“We've met.” McAllister said nothing more. Seconding a senior police officer was a major development, but he would not speculate on the why of it until he and the superintendent had spoken.

“I was warned not to interfere. Ordered not to publish. Or to investigate,” Sandy added.

“You make your own decisions.”

“That's right—except when the lawyers poke their noses in.”

McAllister could hear the interest in his friend's voice.

“I love a good spy story,” Sandy said. “A female traitor would be an even better headline.”

“Hold on. Who said anything about Alice Ramsay being a traitor? This is all sheer speculation; we know nothing about her except—”

“Just kidding. But she was a key employee in a covert branch of the secret service establishment. She is from one of the premier aristocratic families in Britain. So if it turns out she is also a traitor, who wouldn't want the story?”

“You'll be slapped with a D notice.”

Sandy knew as well as McAllister that it was impossible to publish when the crown solicitors issued the order on grounds of national security. “Keep in touch,” Sandy said.

They left it at that.

McAllister was about to leave for home when DI Dunne called.

“Glad I caught you,” the inspector said. “Tomorrow morning, two gentlemen will be here to interview you and Mrs. McAllister.”

As he still thought of Joanne as Joanne Ross, McAllister had a moment of panic.
Now my mother is involved?

“Will nine o'clock suit you? They will come straight to my office from the train.”

“Nine is fine. But here in our office.”

“The
Gazette
is not suitable.”

Instantly, McAllister was mindful that his phone, here and at home, might be tapped. “I am not having Joanne questioned in your wee interview room. If they want to meet us, they can pay for a room in the Station Hotel.” McAllister was adamant. He would not have his wife interviewed in the police station. She'd had enough of police and interviews and being a witness after she was attacked and imprisoned not even six months since.

“I'll arrange it.” Dunne was also aware that Joanne Ross was fragile.
But not as fragile as her husband thinks.