The Lost Boy and The Gardener's Daughter Page 8

  “This isn’t tittle-tattle. The Glasgow Echo has exposed widespread corruption within the police force and The Corporation’s councillors and senior officials. Questions have been asked in Parliament. The Secretary of State for Scotland has barely held on to his job. Our daily sales were up forty three percent at one time and The Sunday Echo by thirty three percent. One of Glasgow’s most senior police officers…a fellow by the name of Sean Smith…placed a gun in his mouth after locking himself in his office and blew his brains out. It would have been very messy having to clean that up off the carpet, I would imagine.”

  “So, it was your paper that exposed it?”

  “I received a delivery one Saturday morning via a chap on a motorcycle. His package contained a file that listed everyone involved…who was doing what and for how much. It involved half the management across the city.”

  “And the chap on the motorcycle?”

  “I never found out who he was. When he arrived at the door and handed over a thick envelope, he was wearing goggles and a scarf wrapped around his face and neck. He never uttered a word to my butler. I have an idea who it was sent by, but obviously I can’t prove it.”

  “A jealous politician or disgruntled policeman, perhaps?”

  “No, no, not at all, John. I believe it came from a chap called Pat Molloy. He’s a well-known gangster in Glasgow, who is known as ‘The Big Man.’ It’s said that nothing happens in Glasgow without his say-so. I heard that he fell out with the police over pigeons, would you believe.”

  “Doves?”

  “No, there’s a pastime in Glasgow where the local ruffians fly pigeons as a hobby instead of working. Seemingly one person launches his pigeon from a dovecot, or ‘dookit’, as they say locally. Once the pigeon is in the air, another chap releases one of his. Whoever’s pigeon manages to entice the other chap’s pigeon back to his dovecot is the winner and that person gets to keep the other chap’s bird. It’s all very basic.”

  “How extraordinary. And do they eat the captured bird?”

  “No, I think they sell it on where the process is repeated by some other ruffian from a different part of the city. Anyway, seemingly The Big Man had a run-in with a corrupt police cabal, a group of Irish inspectors known as ‘The Irish Brigade’ who have controlled the city and gave protection to underworld figures for payola.”

  “Payola?”

  “Protection for services rendered. One of my investigative journalists picked up that The Big Man ran the city’s pigeon breeding racket, or more specifically, had some sort of specialism in a particular breed that he sent overseas. As a result of the falling out, this Irish brigade of corrupt police inspectors organised a vicious gang from down south to come up and steal all The Big Man’s pigeons, which put him and his cronies out of the pigeon breeding business. For revenge, The Big Man then collected and collated a dossier of evidence, covering a number of years, which detailed all the corrupt practices of Glasgow’s finest. I was given the dossier and the rest is history. Practically every policeman above the rank of constable in the areas of the city that the inspectors operated in were investigated and where there was any hint of wrongdoing, the staff were either sacked or charged with corruption. I believe there’s still a backlog of suspended officers waiting for their turn to find out their fate. If I didn’t already have an hereditary knighthood, I’d be Sir Frank as we speak.”

  “So, Frank, are we talking about a peerage here?”

  “Well, not that I would be seeking any recognition. I feel I am only doing my duty by exposing and reporting corrupt and illegal practices in public life wherever I find it, but there have been whispers in certain quarters that I may get some sort of acknowledgement…if you know what I mean?” Sir Frank said, tapping the side ae his beak.

  “I fully admire your dedication, Frank. How you can stand to live in amongst all that corruption, and still remain dedicated to uphold the freedom we’ve all fought and died for is admirable. Of course there needs to be law and order. Where would we all be if people were allowed to do what they damned please? Anarchy, that’s what would happen. The core of any civilised society is respect for the law. Without it, we’re nothing.”

  “Hear, hear,” Sir Frank chimed, haudin oot his glass fur a refill.

  “Anyway, enough of all that. You and Susan are my guests for the weekend, so let’s enjoy it.”

  “And the plans for the Highland Games and Gala are going well?”

  “Everything’s on schedule. Once again, we have James Robertson Justice, of ‘Dr At Large’ fame, coming over from Spinningdale to officially open the gala on Friday evening and I’ll be cutting the ribbon for the start of Saturday’s programme. We’ve a busy weekend ahead of us.”

  “And I believe you have a little sparrow from New York in attendance?”

  “Saba? How did you know that?”

  “Oh, I came across her in the courtyard when we arrived. She’s a fine-looking specimen. Looks just like her mother.”

  “Well, she’s been here for a few weeks now. I can’t say it’s been easy as her return to the Kyle wasn’t entirely voluntary. However, I think she’s settling in. She’ll be joining us for dinner, so you’ll get a proper chance to speak to her then. Please don’t ask her if she’s enjoying herself. I made that mistake the other day there when I saw her laughing with one of the castle wenches and she snarled at me. We’re slowly reconnecting. She’s had a hard time, these past few years, not having me around to give her a balanced perspective on life. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “I wouldn’t worry, John, she seems a sensible gel to me. She’ll fall for your charms, just like her mother did. Talking of which, how is Bea?”

  “Neurotic as ever, getting married to some Spanish count, who’s penniless and adrift in America, looking for a rich divorcee to suck dry.”

  “Well, at least you managed to keep your bloodline going through Saba. Okay, she isn’t a son, but from what I saw of her downstairs, it won’t be long before those fine childbearing hips of hers are spitting out small Dukes like barley from a pea-shooter.”

  “I had a welcome home party for her recently. All the local families and their eligible sons were there. Some of them were clearly useless and inadequate, but there were a few possible candidates. She spent the whole evening verbally destroying them and tearing them apart. I was affronted by her performance. Lord Radcliffe’s eldest boy left the room in tears and insisted on going home early.”

  “She’s young, John. I understand that she’s only fourteen…just a young filly. Give her a year or two and you’ll be strapping a bridle on her to slow her down. You’ll see.”

  “So, what’s happening with you, Frank? Are you still a socialist then?”

  “You know me, John. Someone has to stick up for the working man. I know everyone can’t be equal, but at least they’re entitled to a champion fighting on their behalf.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  There wis a strong breeze coming in fae the west that wid help them heid alang the Kyle towards the River Shin, Innes hid telt him, as they pulled aff the canvas that covered the rowing boat, which sat camouflaged under a birch tree, surrounded by broom.

  “Right, Paul, after three, laddie. Three,” Innes grunted, lifting his end, hauf running towards the water line.

  When Innes telt him that they were aff tae catch a salmon, he’d assumed that it wid be wae a fishing rod or line.

  “Now, why would I do a stupid thing like that for?”

  “Er, Ah don’t know…noo, let me think. Aye, Ah know…because maist people catch fish wae a fishing rod or line?” he’d replied, sarcastically.

  “The trouble with you town folk is that you’ve no style or respect. Anyone can catch a fish with a rod or line. Me? I like to get more involved, be less passive and more engaged with the art of hunting. More hands on, is how you would describe it. It gives you a sense of being the hunter-gatherer, rather than sitting on your soft townie arse with a cigar in one hand and a book on
fishing in the other. Aye, hunter-gatherer, that’s what I’m talking about, laddie,” Innes hid chimed, as Whitey rolled her eyes tae the ceiling fur the seventh time in as many minutes.

  Innes hid showed him the route that they’d be taking oan an auld map that he’d taken doon fae behind some ae Whitey’s jars. He’d found the map years earlier, blowing aboot in the wind when he wis oot poaching.

  “Chased it for about two miles over hill and burn, I did, before it got stuck up a tree. I had just got my mitts on it and the branch I was standing on gave way and I plunged twenty feet to the ground.”

  “Six feet,” Whitey corrected him.

  “Anyhow, once I got the bloody thing down and spread it on the ground, I never learned anything that I didn’t already know, would you believe?” he mused.

  Paul followed Innes’s dirt-ingrained finger as he traced their route. The River Shin came doon fae Loch Shin up at Lairg. Fae Lairg it heided doon intae the Kyle ae Sutherland and oan tae Bonar Bridge. It hit the Kyle jist efter Shin Bridge, before Invershin. That’s where they wur heiding. Innes planned tae leave the boat covered up at Shin Bridge and walk up Achany Glen. Hauf a mile or so up the glen, a mate ae his, Bob, wid be waiting tae haun o’er the fishing tackle. Fae Bob’s, they’d heid further up the glen tae a place called the Falls ae Shin where there wis a waterfall.

  “That’s where they’ll be waiting fur us,” Innes hid said, folding the map shut.

  “Who?”

  “The salmon…remember them? Big North Atlantic beauties that have travelled thousands of miles, just to spawn at the top of the Shin. And to reach the spawning pools, they have to get up over the waterfall at the Falls. It’s amazing to watch them. The torrent is raging down and the salmon are heading into that, struggling to reach the top. The Falls are the hard bit. There’s very few of them can get up and over in the one go. Sometimes it’ll take a salmon a day, maybe even two, to manage it. That’s where you and I come in. We’ll nab a few while they’re catching their second wind for another go in the pools at the bottom.”

  Innes telt him that every year in the summer the salmon came fae aw o’er the world tae lay their eggs where they themselves hid been born. The salmon swam up the Dornoch Firth and then intae the Kyle ae Sutherland and then intae the River Shin and hame.

  “What we have to do is be careful we’re not seen after we launch into the Kyle. We’re heading down river towards Culrain Castle. There’s a big veranda on the Kyle side of the castle and that’s where the keepers will be keeping a watch out for any movement in or out of the Shin. That’s why we’re doing this at night. We can’t hang about, laddie. We need to be back here before the sun comes up.”

  “Whit happens if we get caught?”

  “Well, there’s no harm in going out for a wee sail down the Kyle of Sutherland, is there? It’s coming back that’s the problem. If they see us going in, they’ll either jump us at the Falls or they’ll lie in wait for us on the way back. I don’t want to lose the fish. If they catch us with the salmon, we’ll get a severe arse-kicking and we’ll end up in McTavish’s cells down in Bonar Bridge.”

  The boat wis launched oot intae the Kyle. Innes did the rowing and heided straight across towards Linsidemore oan the far side, keeping in close tae the bank. Before they set sail, he’d left Paul sitting in the boat and returned wae a big branch full ae leaves that he’d chopped aff the side ae a tree.

  “Right, Paul, you keep hold of that. It’ll take the edges off the outline of the boat,” he said, as they rowed east.

  Oan the far side ae the bank, straight in front ae them, Paul could see the castle perched high up oan the side ae a crag, surrounded by trees. As they drew closer, they could see a few lights twinkling fae the many windaes, bit nothing moved that he could see.

  “We’re nearly there, laddie,” Innes puffed.

  Paul looked aheid. Although it wis dark, he could still make oot the shapes and ootlines ae the hills and the crofts oan either side ae the Kyle. He saw the opening oan their left coming closer tae them. In the distance, the lights ae Invershin twinkled and played tricks wae his eyes. Whit he took fur torches and estate keepers wis the lights ae the hooses, shining through the trees that wur shifting in the wind. He could jist make oot the ruins ae Invershin Castle.

  “Right, Paul, put that branch behind ye, laddie,” Innes said, as they turned intae the River Shin.

  Jist before the bridge, Innes swung the boat under a canopy ae overhinging trees that wur practically touching the water. Paul felt the bottom ae the boat slide intae shingle as Innes jumped oot. The baith ae them dragged the boat up oot ae the water. They sat in silence fur aboot twenty minutes tae make sure there wis nae keepers oan the go. Every noo and again, Innes wid disappear and return and sit doon oan the incline ae the embankment.

  “Right, follow me, Paul, and keep quiet.”

  Wance they crossed the road beside the bridge, they heided up the glen through the trees. Every noo and again, Paul managed tae get a glimpse ae the river before they heided aff tae their left. While the roar ae the river hid been constant efter the bridge, they soon left it behind as they climbed up through the trees, heiding further intae Shin Forest. The sound ae the river hid almost faded when it wis replaced by the sound ae bagpipes.

  “Fuck’s sake, whit’s that?” Paul exclaimed, turning tae look at Innes.

  “That’s Bob. He’s not like everyone else. He keeps funny hours.”

  Innes and Whitey hid explained tae him that Bob could come across as being a wee bit strange oan first meeting him. When Bob wis a snapper, he’d caught polio. He’d hid a brother and a sister who hid baith died ae it, bit he hid survived, although he’d been left wae a hunchback. When he wis in his teens, he’d taken tae the drink, big style. Wan night, when he wis walking hame fae the bar in the Invershin Hotel, he’d come across a herd ae pink elephants. The next day, he’d disappeared and went walking aw o’er Scotland, fae John O’Groats aw the way doon tae the borders. He’d ended up in a monastery in Fife oan the way back and hid stayed there fur a couple ae years. When he’d eventually arrived back hame, he wis a reformed character…very religious and aff the demon drink. He wis in constant pain though, hid become an insomniac and wid spend his nights marching up and doon, playing the bagpipes in the wee croft that he’d taken o’er efter his maw and da died in the early fifties. He wis obsessed wae moles and whenever he clocked a molehill appearing, he wid dash oot ae the croft and start digging the trespasser oot wae his bare hauns. When he wisnae digging up moles and playing the bagpipes, he kept his hauns covered up by wearing a pair ae black rubber gloves.

  “He’s a lovely soul. Strange, but lovely,” Whitey hid said.

  They’d jist come oot ae the trees intae a clearing when the pipes stoapped. The silence efter the eerie sounds ae the pipes wis deafening.

  “That’s no him aff tae his bed, is it, Innes?”

  “I would doubt it,” Innes replied, as Paul followed him across the croft land, being watched by hauf a dozen black cattle sitting in a row.

  Paul felt the beasts were acting as spectators, waiting tae see whit wis gonnae happen next, chewing the cud, massive big horns sticking oot ae their heids like antennae.

  “Are ye in, Bob?” Innes shouted at the same time as the grating sound ae a bolt being slid back behind the flaking red-painted door ae the croft hoose echoed in the yard.

  “Och, it’s yourself, Innes. And you’ve even brought a visitor with you as well?” Bob said, looking beyond Innes at Paul, as he pulled aff wan ae his black rubber gloves tae extend a haun.

  “Hello, Ah’m Paul,” Paul said, shaking the clammy, hot, damp haun, that felt as if it hid been soaking in a basin ae hot water fur the past two hours.

  Bob quickly replaced the haun back intae the glove.

  “Sit down, sit down, I’ll chust put the kettle back on the range,” Bob said, as Innes looked o’er at Paul tae make sure he wisnae laughing.

  “Y’know how we said Bob wis a wee bit strange, P
aul?” Innes hid said when the straw-roofed croft hoose hid come intae view, smoke simmering oot ae the chimney stack.

  “Aye.”

  “Well, he does funny things with his hands when he’s talking. Just ignore it, and whatever you do, don’t laugh.”

  “Right,” Paul hid said, intrigued.

  Paul looked aboot. There wis a couple ae candles burning, wan at each end ae the room. The place wis like an oven and the heavy pungent smell ae peat grabbed ye by the throat and made yer eyes water. Aw the windaes wur clamped shut and the room wis full ae the biggest blue bottles that Paul hid ever come across, buzzing aboot lazily, as if they wur drunk.

  “So, are ye coming or going, Innes?” Bob asked, playing an imaginary chanter in front ae himsel.

  “Och, just a wee spot of fishing, Bob. I’m showing my apprentice here the ropes.”

  “Oh, aye? And how is he faring?” Bob asked, black rubber-clad fingers gaun like the clappers, as if he wis playing McPherson’s Lament.

  “He’s not there yet, but he’s moving in the right direction…I think.”

  “Good, very good. Ye need to pass on the skills before they’re lost forever.”

  “Wis that the bagpipes Ah heard ye playing, Bob?” Paul asked him, feeling the need tae join in.

  “Och aye, I’m still learning. Getting there…not as fast as I would like, but there’s no hurry,” the black rubber-covered fingers and Bob answered.

  Wance they’d goat their tea, Paul wis glad tae get oot intae the fresh air before he fainted wae the heat. As well as his eyes nipping wae the peat smoke, he could hardly keep them open. They followed Bob intae the barn, where he pulled an auld sideboard across intae the middle ae the flair and climbed up oan tap ae it. Although he walked wae a definite stoop, due tae that humph ae his, Paul wis surprised at how nimble he wis when he swung himsel up oan tae the rafters and passed doon a canvas roll tae Innes, before drapping back doon oan tae the sideboard again. Innes placed the canvas oan the stane flair and unrolled it while Bob stood haudin a storm lamp. When Paul looked doon, he saw four big barbed hooks, aboot five or six inches long that looked hollow, judging by the ropes that wur attached tae each ae them. Each rope wis neatly curled up and held thegither wae a bit ae green-covered copper wire tae keep it bunched. Beside the hooks lay four shiny pole lengths that wur aboot two inches thick and five or six feet long.