A Small Death in the Great Glen Read Online Free

Joanne volunteered.
    â€œAnything else you haven’t told us, Mrs. Ross?”
    Joanne blushed, furious with herself.
    McAllister gave a theatrical sigh. “Rob, what have you got?”
    â€œEh, well . . .” He thought frantically. “I’ve heard a seaman jumped ship. He was crew on a freighter out of one of the Baltic ports. I’m just away to ask at the police station.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œWhat? Well, they’re the ones who’re looking for him—an illegal alien, I think they call him.”
    McAllister shook his head, reminding himself that there was not a real newspaper person amongst them except Don, who, McAllister privately thought, had been around since the printing press had been invented.
    â€œWhere, who, when, how and why,” he counted out on his elegant long fingers. “The polis may help you with the first three, but the rest? That’s for real newspapers. Get off down to the harbor, laddie, and don’t come back till you have a real story. Right?” He turned to Joanne. She sank lower in her chair. In this mood, the dark hair and dark eyes and equally dark expression on McAllister’s gaunt face made her feel as though she was about to front the Spanish Inquisition.
    â€œI’m on the usual.”
    He stared.
    She mumbled.
    â€œWomen’s Institute, Girl Guide and Scouts news, school stuff . . . oh, and there’s advance notices on Halloween parties I need to sort. You know,” she finished lamely, not knowing what was wanted of her.
    â€œRight. But maybe in amongst all that, you could find a story.”
    Her blank look annoyed him.
    â€œI know, I know, you’re only the typist as you keep telling me, but
try.
Something with a beginning, a middle and an end—preferably with the middle bit being of interest to our readers.” He saw that he had lost them. “Right, here beginneth the lesson.”
    The chuckles from Rob and Joanne were somewhat forced. Don kept ignoring the proceedings, but the atmosphere did lighten slightly.
    â€œLet’s all try something new. Let’s try to imagine that we are in the middle of the twentieth century, not the nineteenth, and that life as we know it is changing. Or is about to change. And if it’s not, at least we can nudge it in the direction of change.” He stared out of the window, watching the racing rain clouds as they scudded west to catch the mountains. “God knows we haven’t made a great fist of the first half.” He caught himself, shook his head and continued. “All I want is stories with some meat on the bones. Let’s try anyhow. Now away with you both. Bring me some excitement.”
    â€œWhat on earth did you do that for?” Don glared at him when they were alone again. “You know we can never print anything that’s different.”
    McAllister gave his skull-like smile and lit another cigarette. “We’ll see.”

T WO
  
    McAllister stood on the gleaming red doorstep of the terraced fisherman’s cottage. The curtains were drawn, as were those of its neighbors. He took a deep breath, then knocked. The door opened reluctantly. Peering out from behind it was a woman with a blotchy red face and haunted eyes.
    â€œI’m sorry to intrude. John McAllister,
Highland Gazette.
”
    â€œYou’d better come in.” She turned, and he followed her into the dim front parlor. The mirror above the unlit fire was shrouded with a shawl; a crowded china cabinet squeezed into one corner; a sideboard covered with pictures of their son stood by the window. Jamie’s father sat hunched at a heavy dining table that filled the remaining space. The room smelled of beeswax polish and damp. McAllister shook hands and murmured condolences to a man lost in grief and guilt.
    â€œOne of us should have been home.”
    McAllister could not answer that.
    â€œMr. Fraser, could you tell me