A Kind of Grief (19 page)

“I've heard nothing.”

McAllister hadn't moved. His eyes were fixed on the junior reporter. Calum felt it and began to perspire.
Not sweat, Calum—horses sweat, gentlemen perspire.
He could hear his mother's voice, and his hands were now clammy, his tie too tight. How she would react when she heard his news terrified him. Plus he couldn't fathom out what the older men wanted to know. He looked at Don, hoping for a cue.

Don saw and nodded.

“Thon stranger in the golf clubhouse, the man in the picture Hector took,” Calum began.

McAllister still didn't move. But his eyes were boring into the slight figure of a journalist, drowning in the visitor's chair.

“I was wanting to find out about that man—no for a story, just interested—an' I'd noted the car numberplate like I always do . . .”

Don was shifting in his chair.
Get on with it, laddie.

Calum took the hint. “So I asked a pal at the police station to check it out, and the registration number is English. From London.”

McAllister realized he'd forgotten to check the numberplate himself.

“That's all my friend could find out before his sergeant—his boss—stopped him.” He saw the look between the two journalists. “There's another thing. On my way out, I asked the deputy editor why I was being fired. He was really surprised, said he knew nothing about it.”

Don knew that if an editor, without his knowledge, fired one of his journalists, he would be more than unhappy. He tucked away this information, and would call his colleague in Sutherland to check.

The Church Street clock chimed four.

“Anything else?” Don asked.

Calum was fooled by Don's soft Skye accent, and the deputy editor's eyes reminded him of his granddad, and he found himself saying, “When I spoke to my friend in the solicitor's office about—” He stopped. “Sorry, I promised I'd no tell.” Promised who what, he didn't elaborate.

“Quite right. A good reporter always protects his sources.” Don looked at McAllister. They knew each other so well; McAllister recognized it was his turn.

It took Calum less than two seconds to say yes to the job offer. He did not consider his fiancée, his mother, where he would live—there was nothing else he wanted to do with his life except work in a newspaper and play golf. “One thing, is it easy to get into the golf club here?”

McAllister was startled. “I don't know.”

“Don't you worry, Calum, I can fix that,” Don told him. “So now you're one of us, you need to put us in the picture. The information from the solicitor?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. McLeod, I don't know names, so it's not really helpful.”

Don had run out of patience. “I'll be the judge of that.”

“Oh. Right.” Calum heard the reprimand. “Someone put in a claim on Miss Ramsay's estate. It's being checked—at least, I'm assuming it is.”

Don was thinking,
When he hands in his copy, I'm sure to need ma wee red pencil through at least half of his words.
“McAllister? Any more questions?”

“Welcome to the
Gazette
, Calum. And get me that car numberplate, will you?” McAllister asked.

Don stood. “So, laddie, let's you an' me meet the others and tell them the good news.”

As they walked the few steps to the reporters' room, McAllister could hear his deputy saying, “When can you start? Next Monday?” He knew this was Don's way of keeping their source close and agreed it was a good tactic.

They needed Calum Mackenzie as a contact in that community. News of the goings-on in a county in the far northeast was usually of no interest to neighboring counties, yet this story had potential. Threats to him, and to Calum, were suspicious; visions of front-page headlines and a coup worthy of a national newspaper filled his mind.

McAllister was in the hall hanging up his overcoat and hat when Joanne appeared. “Calum called. He's been fired from his newspaper.”

That Calum had called her before phoning her husband she didn't share.

“We've offered him a job.” McAllister wished he'd made it clear to Calum that Joanne was not to be involved. Too late now, he thought. He told her all he knew from Calum. Told her about a claim on the estate.

“I know about that,” Joanne said. “Sorry I didn't tell you, but Calum told me about the claim a few days ago. I asked him to try to find out the name. I was worried I'd lose the manuscript.” When she said it, it sounded like an excuse. Even to her.

“Did you ask anyone else to help?”

“I phoned Mrs. Galloway at the hotel. I phoned the nursing home and asked Elaine, Calum's fiancée. No one knew anything, and they promised to keep it quiet.”

Was that why Calum was fired? Asking about the estate? No, that would be normal for a local reporter. It had to be something else. “I had a visit from DI Dunne yesterday.” Again, it was information he'd had no intention of sharing with her. But if somehow she found out on her own, he knew what her reaction would be. There should be no secrets in a marriage, she'd say. And he couldn't tell her not to keep information to herself if he was guilty of the same.

When he'd finished, she said, “The Official Secrets Act?” It came out as a whisper, as though she might be overheard. “That's . . . that's very important.” And terrifying. There was no word she could think of to convey her alarm.

“One very big mystery, I agree,” he said. “But until we find out more, it's best you do absolutely nothing. No more questions. No more phone calls about Miss Alice Ramsay.”

“And you? What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

From the way she looked up through a stray strand of hair, her eyes holding his, questioning his decision, he could see she was disappointed.

“I'm not ordering you to do or not do anything, Joanne. But this is way beyond a small-town newspaper affair.”

“I know. The Official Secrets Act is the realm of spy stories and national newspaper headlines.”

“So for once in my life, I must listen to the advice of the police.” He was shaking his head, grinning as he said this.

She smiled back. “Not at all like you.”

“Next week, we should be back to normal, and young Calum joining the staff should make life easier. I have a feeling he'll need some training. He's selective in the information he shares and doesn't always realize the importance of what he knows.”

“Back to the beginning for Calum, then.” Joanne knew that feeling. There was no need to add that without his mother as his main source of information, the newly hired reporter would have to cultivate his own contacts in unfamiliar territory. “Look out for him, will you?”

“I will.” Her thinking of others before herself was yet another reason he loved her. And respected her. “As well as a job, Don has promised Calum a membership at the golf club.”

“In that case, Calum Mackenzie will be at the
Gazette
for life.”

T
he color of autumn is magnificent up here, especially in the woodland at the beginning of the glen, she is thinking. Winter is creeping in, seemingly overnight; that wind this morning, even the hens felt it.

“Let's hope we don't become snowed in,” she says to the wee dog.

She sighs at the idea of encountering Mrs. Mackenzie but knows she has no alternative. “I'll take the Land Rover to Mr. Mackenzie and have him put on heavy-duty tires. And I'll dig out the snow chains just in case.”

Then the thought of North Africa intruded, remembrance of warm star-studded nights, of cocktail parties and New Year embassy balls. And winters in Italy. And Turkey. It can snow there, she remembers, but it's definitely warmer than up here in the glens.

She looks at the dog. “Don't worry, boy, I won't abandon you.”

Don watched McAllister staring out the high window. Looking like he'd found a sixpence and lost a pound, Don decided. He glanced up and could see nothing of interest. A lack of pigeons, maybe, he thought, as not even they were out in rain that had started days ago and seemed set to continue for the biblical forty.

The view was even more dreich when seen through the ever-present cloud of cigarette smoke, as thick and as threatening as the weather outside. The half light in homes and offices and schools, too dim to be comfortable, too bright to turn on the lights, was depressing. “Dreich,” that good Scottish weather word, rolled off the tongue and was descriptive of the feel, the sound, the shiver of weather not quite dramatic enough to call a storm. Dreich—miserable enough to require liberal amounts of whisky. Or start arguments. Or cause road accidents. All three combined could end up a large-font front-page splash.

When the editor slid off his stool and went out without a word, Don didn't question him.
I'll find out soon enough.

He turned to the others. “Rob, when you get back from covering that court case, will you give Calum here an hour or so of your time? Frankie, two o'clock for that update on the dummy. Calum, phone your mother—but only this once. Keep your private life out of the office.” At the sight of two bright spots of red blooming on Calum's cheeks, Don stopped himself from saying,
You're twenty-two, not twelve
.

“Use the phone in my office downstairs,” Frankie offered. “It might be important.”

And Calum stopped himself from saying,
It's not important; it's my mother
. He'd been forced to take a job away from home, and he saw it as a chance to start again, only better, a chance to lose his reputation as a mammy's boy. “Thanks, Frankie.”

In his private office, McAllister shut the door in a do-not-disturb-on-pain-of-the-sack notice to all. Knowing the number as well as his birthday, he dialed an outside line and rang the Glasgow number.

“
Herald
.”

“Sandy. I got your message.”

“You, now
we
, have a problem.”

“Tell me.”

“That numberplate you asked about, it rang all kinds of bells. My contact in the police is furious, says he might lose his job over it.”

McAllister said nothing.

“Do you want to share?” Sandy Marshall could smell a story. But if it was going to bring some shady arm of government down on himself, he wasn't certain he needed the bother.

“Considering I have no idea what's going on, no. Besides, I've been warned off.”

“Since when did that stop you?” When his friend said nothing to the teasing, Sandy changed the subject. “I'm hearing our Mr. Forsythe is up to something.”

“Him of the velvet jackets.”

“Aye, and purple at that. No one knows what bother he's up to now, but . . .”

“I don't want to think about him.” Talk of the man irked McAllister. “In resurrecting the witch accusations in his article, some might say he harried a woman to her death.”