A Winter Grave

Chapter Sixteen

A muffled thud from somewhere deep in the hotel startled him.

The fire he had lit earlier was a faint glow as the last of its embers turned to ash. The snow outside was still blowing hard against the window, even wetter now, and running down it in sleety rivulets. A few moments before, he had forced himself to drain his glass. There was no real escape in the drink, he knew that. There never had been. He had learned long ago that no matter how much you drank, everything that made you seek refuge in it was still there in the morning, when you woke with a splitting head and a mouth so dry it was an effort to peel your tongue off the roof of it. But as his old history teacher had been fond of saying, the only thing we learn from history is that we never learn from history.

Now he sat up, heart pounding, blinking hard to try and clear the fog of grief and alcohol from his brain. There was someone else in the hotel.

Brodie got to his feet and crossed to the fireplace. From the selection of fire irons, he picked out a wrought-iron poker with a viciously curling log hook. He hefted it in his hand to feel the weight of it. It would do some damage to anyone on the receiving end. Then he turned to face the door.

He had been in and out of that door to the bar several times over the last twenty-four hours, and never noticed the noise of its hinges. Now they screamed in the dark, like poor Sita’s lost ghost. He was sure he had left the lights on in the hall. But it was pitch-dark beyond the bar now. He stepped cautiously on to the tartan carpet and waited for his eyes to accustom themselves to the lack of light, his breath coming in short, sharp rasps.

Another noise set him on edge. A clatter this time. And it seemed much closer. Beneath the door leading towards the rear of the hotel, he now saw the faintest line of light. He stood listening intently, but could hear nothing above the rush of blood in his ears. As he advanced towards the door, there was more clattering beyond it. He pushed it open, and saw a hard line of bright, clear light beneath the kitchen door. A shadow moved about behind it, breaking the line of light. Brodie braced himself and ran at the door. It flung itself open with the force of his shoulder and he was momentarily blinded by the kitchen lights.

Brannan turned, startled, from the stove. Steam rose from a pot on the rings. His eyes were wide and frightened as he took in the figure of Brodie brandishing a poker. He raised a hand, as if that might protect him from the blow if Brodie were to attack. ‘Jesus Christ, Mr Brodie! What are you doing? You just about gave me a heart attack.’

Brodie stood staring at him, half in relief, half in anger. ‘Where the fuck have you been, Brannan?’

If anything, Brannan was even more startled by his tone. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You have guests in your hotel and you haven’t been here all day. And there’s been murder committed under your roof. Where the fuck have you been?’ It was in danger of becoming a refrain.

Whatever was in the pan on Brannan’s stove began to boil over and he turned quickly to remove it from the ring. He was pink-faced and flustered. ‘I had to go to a funeral this morning. Other side of Ballachulish. There was a meal. And then, you know, things carried on into the afternoon. The wake and everything.’ He paused, as if Brodie’s words had only now fully sunk in. ‘Murder?’

He cowered as Brodie strode across the kitchen and grabbed him by the arm, propelling him towards the anteroom door and kicking it open. Brannan staggered as Brodie pushed him inside. He waved his poker towards the cold cabinet. ‘Open it!’

There was something very close to panic in Brannan’s eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Fucking open it!’ Brodie’s voice resounded around the enclosed space as he pushed Brannan towards the cabinet.

Brannan steadied himself, breathing rapidly, and lifted the lid, almost afraid to look inside. When he did, he emitted a strange half-strangled cry, and staggered backwards, as if pushed, crashing into the shelves on the wall behind him, sending cans of peas and asparagus and jars of preserve clattering away across the floor in the semi-dark. He glanced towards Brodie, naked fear replacing panic. He was so breathless his voice came in a whisper. ‘It’s Dr Roy!’

Brodie took a step towards him and pushed the point of his poker into Brannan’s throat, the log hook curling around the line of his neck. ‘There was no funeral on the other side of Ballachulish this morning,’ he said. ‘The road was closed because of snow.’

Brannan recoiled from Brodie’s breath in his face. ‘You... you’ve been drinking,’ he said.

‘Your finest Glenlivet. And even if I’d put away a whole bottle of it, Sita would still be dead. So now you’re going to tell me where the fuck you were, or so help me, I’ll rip your fucking throat out.’

And Brannan had no doubt that he meant it. ‘Okay, okay.’ And very gingerly, with thumb and forefinger, he took the end of the poker and drew it away from his neck. ‘Can we go back to the kitchen, please?’

Brodie glared at him a moment longer, then stepped away to allow Brannan to pass before following him into the kitchen. Brannan stood under the glare of the lights, trying to catch his breath and his composure before turning to face Brodie.

‘I could do with a drink.’

‘So could I.’

Brannan canted his head quizzically and said, ‘Do you not think you’ve had enough?’

‘There’s never enough,’ Brodie growled.

Brannan said, ‘When did you last eat?’

‘What do you care?’

‘I’m hungry. I’ll make us both some supper.’

There had been a residual warmth in the bar from Brodie’s fire before Brannan took the poker carefully from Brodie’s grasp and stoked the embers. The couple of logs he’d thrown in were crackling now. They sat at a table together, forking mouthfuls of spaghetti carbonara into their faces. Brannan’s panic had subsided, but his face was sheet-white, and his hand trembled as he wielded his fork. He was reluctant to meet Brodie’s hostile eye.

‘I went to the 3D houses to talk to Charles Younger’s source at Ballachulish A,’ he said.

Brodie’s eyes crinkled in confusion. ‘Source?’

‘He wasn’t there. He was on night shift at the plant. And his wife said he’d be back early afternoon, once the road was cleared. She told me I could wait, and she offered me lunch.’

Brodie shook his head. ‘What do you mean, source?’

‘Joe Jackson. He’s a reactor operator at the nuclear power plant. He’d not long started at the plant and was living at the hotel when I bought it. Then they allocated him one of the 3D houses this autumn, and he was able to bring his family up to join him. I got to know him quite well. Nice guy.’

Brodie banged his fist on the table and Brannan jumped. ‘You’re not making any sense to me, Brannan.’

Brannan swallowed over a mouthful of carbonara. ‘When Charles Younger was staying here, I saw the two of them in the bar one night. Huddled together in a corner just over there.’ He waved vaguely towards a dark corner beyond the pool table. ‘It was busy. I didn’t think anything of it. But then they were there again the next night. And the next. It was all tourists here in August, so no one knew who they were. But I just happened to mention one day when Joe was leaving for work that he seemed pretty friendly with the journalist. It was like I’d stuck a firework up his arse. He physically jumped. Told me he didn’t know him at all. They’d had a few drinks together, nothing more.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I thought it was a pretty strange sort of reaction. I mean, a couple of guys having a drink together in the bar. What’s to get jumpy about?’ He drained his glass and refilled it as he spoke. ‘Anyway, when Younger went missing, Joe was all in a panic. Pulled me aside and pleaded with me not to mention to Robbie that he and Younger had been drinking together. He was really spooked.’

‘And it never occurred to you that Joe might have been responsible for Younger’s disappearance?’

‘Hell, no! He’s not that kind of guy. He’s more... cerebral, if you know what I mean. No way would he have been involved in whatever happened to Younger.’

‘Well, let me tell you what happened to Younger. He was murdered, Brannan. Someone attacked and assaulted him at the summit of Binnein Mòr and pushed him into the Corrie of the Two Lochans, where he broke his neck in the fall. And something Sita found during the post-mortem made her a target, too.’

‘Well, whoever killed Dr Roy, it couldn’t have been Joe. He didn’t get back from the plant till after two, and I’ve been with him all afternoon and half the night.’

‘Why?’

Brannan sighed deeply. ‘Trying to persuade him to talk to you.’

‘Why?’ Brodie was insistent.

‘Because he’s probably got a good idea why Younger disappeared.’ He paused and rephrased. ‘Why Younger was murdered. But we didn’t know that this afternoon.’

‘Why would he know anything about Younger’s disappearance? And why would you think he did?’

‘Well, like I said, it was obvious that Joe was some kind of source.’

‘Source of what?’

‘Information.’

Brodie was losing patience. ‘Information about what, for God’s sake?’ His raised voice echoed around the bar.

Brannan shrugged hopelessly. ‘I don’t know. About the plant, I suppose.’

‘Ballachulish A?’

‘Well, what else would he know about?’

‘So he was some kind of whistle-blower?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I really wouldn’t.’

‘So what did he say during all those hours you were with him today?’

‘Just that he didn’t want to get involved. He was scared. Rabbiting on about the safety of his family. His future. I just about got his whole life story.’ He took a mouthful of spaghetti and chewed on it for a few moments. ‘Look, Mr Brodie, I went out on a limb here. I don’t want my hotel dragged into this. But ever since they found Younger’s body, I knew there had to be more to it. That Joe must know something. And I’m sure he does. But he’s just so... so scared.’

Brodie finished the last of his carbonara, then leaned across the table towards Brannan. His voice was low and dangerous. ‘Well, you tell your friend that if he doesn’t talk to me and come clean, I’ll be going after him. Hard. Okay?’

‘Okay, okay. I’ll talk to him again. First thing tomorrow. I promise.’