Requiem (40 page)

‘They’re lookin’ for an aero company,’ Jock explained. ‘Based on Auldhame Farm some time back.’

She slid Daisy a look of open suspicion. So much for the freemasonry of women.

Daisy tried to look friendly. ‘They used to go spraying,’ she said. ‘Forests and that sort of thing. Over to the west. There must have been a mechanic. And a pilot. We thought they might have come in here from time to time.’

A sulky shrug and a hand pushed into the spiky mane.

‘You’ve never heard anything about them then?’

Morag picked up a glass and polished it desultorily.

‘I thought you’d know everything that went on around here.’

Morage flung her a look of mortal insult. ‘I’m no tattler!’

‘No, of course not,’ Daisy said hastily. ‘I just thought you’d have more idea. Than most people, I mean.’ She flicked a glance in the direction of the male drinkers.

Morage rolled her eyes and said with feeling: ‘Nothin’ gets
their
noses oot of their beer, no’ the roof fallin’ in, no’ nothin’.’ She stalked up to the far end of the bar and slid a glass onto a shelf. Wandering back, she stopped some way away and looked sulky again, as if to show that she wasn’t entirely won over, not by a long chalk. Then, taking her time, she sidled over again and, her back half-turned to Daisy, leant an elbow on the counter.

‘There’s a person might know,’ she said in a bored voice, examining the far side of the room.

‘Oh?’

‘A friend a’ mine. Doon Balinteith way.’

‘Oh. This friend knew them then?’

Morag fixed Daisy with a wrathful soot-encrusted stare for daring to interrupt. ‘Tha’s no’ what ’a said.’

Daisy looked suitably penitent, but Morag was not one to be hurried, not when every ounce of satisfaction could be squeezed from a waiting game, and it was another ten minutes and a third round of drinks before she deigned to drop a name and an approximate address.

Even then it was almost nine by the time Daisy managed to prise Campbell off his stool and escape into the cool of the night. After the stench and smoke of the bar, the air tasted sweet and fresh. There was a mist; auras of damp hung around the streetlamps.

Daisy led the way to the car. If they hurried to Balinteith and were sharpish with the interview there was still an outside chance of her catching the overnight sleeper.

Balinteith was ten minutes away along the Stirling road. The home of Morag’s friend Jeannie Buchanan was easy enough to find. It lay at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, a bungalow with pebbledash rendering and square windows adorned with arched frilly curtains in peek-a-boo style.

Jeannie Buchanan’s father, a polite but monosyllabic man, informed them that his daughter was out for the evening and wouldn’t be returning until after eleven.

Daisy hesitated, thinking of the train and all the work still to be done on the presentation charts. But she couldn’t leave this now. Jeannie’s father was reluctant to let them come back at eleven until Daisy explained that she was a lawyer and had come all the way from London just to interview Jeannie about the flying company operating out of Auldhame Farm.

As they left, Campbell scoffed under his breath: ‘Lawyer!’ There was a touch of admiration in his tone, and she realized he was congratulating her on being such an accomplished liar.

‘True. Sorry.’

His step faltered, and he moved two paces away, as if she had a contagious disease. ‘You didna’ tell me that,’ he said accusingly.

‘And you didn’t tell me you went in for breaking and entering.’

‘That I do not!’

They got into the car. ‘Just a hobby then?’ she asked.

He seemed quite upset at the idea.

The Balinteith Hotel provided the sort of dinner that is known as substantial in the North, and solid elsewhere.

At first Campbell was uncommunicative, but by the end of the main course he was becoming almost garrulous, a result very possibly of his fifth double Scotch.

They discussed Peasedale and Roper’s visit to Adrian and the progress of his new treatment, which mainly consisted of coming off the numerous tranquillizers, antibiotics and anti-depressants that he’d been on for months. It was too soon to know if there was any improvement. Daisy reached in her shoulder bag, a voluminous carpetbag that expanded to take documents, makeup and overnight things, and pulled out a footballing magazine. ‘I thought Adrian might like it.’

‘You’ll not be passing through on Thursday then?’ Thursday was two days away.

‘No,’ she said, surprised. ‘Why?’

‘For the inquiry.’

‘What inquiry’s that?’

‘Why, into Mrs Mackenzie’s death.’

She lowered her cup carefully into its saucer. ‘But why an inquiry?’

‘He requested it, so they say.’

‘Nick Mackenzie?’

‘Aye. Wasna’ content with the findin’s.’

‘You mean there’s been an inquiry already?’

‘An investigation,’ he corrected her. ‘By the proc— proc – ’ He pursed his lips and took another shot. ‘Pro
cur
ator fiscal. An investigation, aye. Just that. No more.’

Daisy remembered that not only were there no such things as inquests in Scotland but that investigations into deaths were held informally and in private, and that their findings were not generally made public.

‘I went before him, the proc’ator fiscal,’ Campbell said. ‘I went an’ told him … About findin’ her. About breathin’ into her mouth. About trying to revive her. He asked if she felt cold …’ His voice had got maudlin, his eyes glistened with sudden moisture. ‘I told him … I said there was nothin’ that could have been done.’

‘And Nick Mackenzie asked for a public inquiry?’

‘Aye.’

‘He must be here then? In Scotland.’

‘He wasna’ just two days back. But by now – mebbe so.’

While Campbell ploughed through a large steamed pudding she thought about Nick Mackenzie being back at Glen Ashard, and wondered how she could manage to get away on Thursday, when that was the day of the presentation to the Catch executive committee. She also thought about Simon, and wondered why he hadn’t told her about the inquiry when he must surely have known about it.

Jeannie Buchanan finally got home shortly before eleven thirty. She was a plump pale-faced girl with short cropped hair and large anxious eyes which grew even more circular at the sight of the waiting delegation. But if Jeannie was nervous, it didn’t obstruct her memory.

‘Aye, I worked there at the airfield,’ she said immediately in a soft unobtrusive voice.

‘And the name of the flying company, what was it?’ Daisy asked.

‘Acorn Flying Systems.’

Daisy felt a small chime of satisfaction. ‘And where are they based now?’

‘Och, nowhere,’ came the mouselike voice. ‘They … stopped.’

‘Stopped?’

Jeannie glanced at her father, as if for corroboration. ‘Closed down. I think they had some trouble with the bank. In fact …’ She looked apologetic for mentioning it. ‘They still owe me three weeks’ wages.’

‘When was this? That they ceased trading?’

‘Och, it must be September last.’

So much for the easy run. ‘What about the owners?’ Daisy asked gently. ‘The directors and so on – do you have any names?’

‘There was a Mr Keen. He was the managing director. I only saw him twice – once when he took me on, and another time when he came out to the airfield and helped us out when we were busy. Then there was Davie, the mechanic. He came from Glasgow. And Reggie, he helped with the navigation system. And then of course there was Mr Duggan.’

‘Mr Duggan?’

‘The pilot.’

Daisy absorbed this for a moment. ‘The director, Mr Keen, where did he come from, do you know?’

‘The company had an address somewhere in Glasgow, but it wasn’t his personal address, at least I don’t think so. I tried writing to Mr Keen when the problem with the bank came up but the post office returned my letter. There was a phone number, a Glasgow number. I’d use it to phone Mr Keen when there were any problems. That was maybe two or three times a week. But when I last tried, the telephone people said the line had been disconnected.’

‘Have you still got the number?’

Her face, which reflected her emotions like a mirror, immediately fell. ‘I’m not sure I still have it. I’d have to look and see.’

‘What about wages, paperwork, how was that arranged?’

‘With the local branch of the bank. Or through the post from Glasgow.’

‘What about other things – supplies – I don’t know, whatever planes need?’

‘The fuel, that arrived by tanker. It was arranged from Glasgow.’

‘And the spray – the chemicals?’

‘Sometimes Davie went off to the wholesalers. But most times it was delivered.’

‘Who delivered it?’

‘That would be Willis Bain,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Most of our work came from them. They’re forest managers.’

‘And the chemical used, what was it?’

She wet her lips and cast another glance at her father. ‘Och, I’m not sure. There were two … They had such names. Long … I can’t recall.’

‘You don’t remember a bit of a name?’ There must have been a hint of reproach in her tone because Jeannie withdrew slightly. ‘I only signed the receipts,’ she said defensively. ‘I didn’t order the chemicals. That was done from Glasgow.’

‘Of course,’ Daisy said placatingly. ‘Was there one that sounded like fenitrothion?’

‘Mebbe … But …’ Looking unhappy, she finished in a rush. ‘I really couldn’t say for sure.’

Daisy sat back. It had perhaps been too much to hope for. Fastening a smile over her disappointment, she asked: ‘Duggan, the pilot – what was his full name?’

‘Peter. Peter Duggan.’

‘And where did he come from?’

‘Och, he was from England.’ She made it sound like Mars.

‘Do you have his address?’

‘Och no.’ From the way she said it she wouldn’t have wanted it even if he’d given it to her.

‘You don’t even remember the town?’

She was adamant: no.

‘And Davie, the mechanic. Was he local?’

‘No. He came from up Inverness way.’

‘Have you an address?’

She shook her head. ‘He said he was going to work abroad. The Middle East, I believe.’

‘What was his second name?’

‘Robertson.’

It might be possible to trace him, though God only knew how many Robertsons there were in and around Inverness. Daisy tried another tack. ‘Acorn Flying Systems – what other work did it do?’

She shook her head. ‘None that I know of. Just the spraying – we never did anything but the spraying. The trees, they had a bad disease, the beauty moth it was. We had plenty of work last summer, more than we could handle.’

‘Do you remember any jobs up by Loch Fyne?’

She thought hard. ‘There were a few. Around and about. But I’m not sure that I remember exactly …’

‘Up by Inveraray way.’

She shrugged. ‘I used to type the schedule and the job sheets and the notifications – but there were so many …’

‘The notifications?’

‘Notices to tell the police, the health and safety office, and the people on the adjoining land.’

‘These were letters? Sent out by post?’

‘Aye.’ She dropped her eyes and started picking at the arm of her chair.

‘And they were sent out for every job, Jeannie? To every neighbour?’

She didn’t answer at first. When she finally spoke her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Aye.’ She had a thread out of the fabric now, and was pulling at it.

Daisy wasn’t sure what she’d touched on but it was something Jeannie wasn’t inclined to talk about.

Jeannie’s father stood up and made a remark about how late it was.

Daisy looked questioningly at Jeannie, hoping she’d elaborate, but she went on staring intently at the thread, weaving it back and forth between her fingers.

Campbell asked: ‘This pilot fella, where did he board round here?’

Jeannie looked up; this was an easier one. ‘Och, at Mrs Donald’s,’ she said as if everyone must know Mrs Donald. ‘For a while, that is. Then he moved on to Mrs McKay’s. Better breakfasts, he said.’

‘These places, they’re here in Balinteith?’ Daisy asked.

‘Aye,’ she said.

Daisy tried some more questions about the flying schedules, but at the first mention of job sheets, Jeannie was fiddling at the chair arm again, and Daisy retreated.

As they got up to leave, Jeannie disappeared and returned a minute later with the address and defunct phone number of Acorn Flying Systems. ‘There,’ she said, handing it to Daisy with the formality of an offering.

It was quarter past midnight by the time Daisy drove Campbell’s car out of Balinteith, heading west. Having seen the effect Campbell’s last whisky had had on him and overcome by a strong desire to live, she had insisted on driving. The Ford was not the easiest car she’d ever tackled. The driver’s seat was so low, battered into concavity by Campbell’s bulk, that before she could see over the bonnet she had to prop herself up on top of her much-folded jacket and a smelly old fishing bag that Campbell dug out of the boot. The steering seemed only remotely connected to the front wheels, so there was a small but heart-stopping delay before the car responded to the turns.

‘I was thinking,’ Daisy said when she’d finally got the hang of it. ‘That plane must have got serviced somewhere. At an airport, with proper mechanics. If we asked around we might find someone who knows this Keen person.’

There was no reply. She glanced across. Campbell had fallen asleep, his head back, his mouth open wide as if awaiting major tooth extraction. Daisy fiddled with the heating controls and was rewarded with a small but satisfying whisper of hot air.

The road wasn’t bad by rural standards: not straight, but not too bendy either, and with almost no traffic she was able to keep up a good speed all the way to Loch Lomond. Here the road divided: south to Glasgow and the transport network, or west and north to Loch Fyne and Campbell’s home. Glasgow was only half an hour away, while Loch Fyne was a good hour over the mountains. South was the obvious choice. If she stayed the night in Glasgow, she could take the early shuttle and still get to the office by morning. There’d still be difficulties, of course. Quite apart from having to justify the wild expenditure on hotels and planes – Catch personnel were meant to stay with friends and travel on cut-price rail tickets – she’d be landing Campbell with a long night-drive in an illegal state of inebriation.