‘Peachy’s April’s father,’ said Alec. ‘And he’s a terrible Wee Free, so we never see him in here.’
‘How about his number?’ I asked, wondering what the hell a Wee Free was. ‘Would he be in the book?’
‘There’s only one book Peachy cares about,’ Alec said, ‘and it’s no’ the Yellow Pages.’
‘Are we talking the Bible?’ I asked.
‘We are,’ he confirmed.
‘Have you got his address, at least?’
‘Twenty-eight Hill Road,’ said Alec, who I bet could have told me the address of virtually everyone in town. ‘Although I wouldnae waste your time writing to him, son. Not if you’re expecting a reply.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Peachy doesnae talk to people unless he’s no other option. He’s no’ much of a letter-writer either.’
‘He’s a recluse?’
‘That’d be one way of putting it. Anything else I can help you with? Only I’ve a bit of a queue at the bar . . .’
‘Just one thing; is Peachy his real name?’
‘He was christened Alistair,’ said Alec, and then the line went dead. Either he had hung up on me, or this time we really had been abruptly disconnected.
I knew which my money was on.
After calling the Bannock Hotel, I’d spent an hour navigating the web in ever-decreasing circles. No sign of April Thomson – at least not the one I was looking for. Usually I pitch up at the local pub in person. As Saltrossan was over five hundred miles away, a phone call had been my only option. If it had yielded no results, I’d have given up the search. Following my chat with Alec, I wasn’t sure which course to take.
I tried Alistair Thomson with directory enquiries. No listing, but I confirmed his address online easily enough. It looked as though the only way to make contact would be to visit Saltrossan and knock on the old boy’s door.
A thousand-mile round trip to be told to piss off, or that April had taken a course in nail technology and emigrated to Canada, wasn’t appealing. But what else was I going to do? It was four days before I was due to leave for Manchester. It would take no longer than half an hour to pack and, other than bidding Soho a long goodbye, there wasn’t much else to occupy my time. In the end I flipped a fifty-pence piece.
It came down heads.
THIRTY-TWO
The Caledonian Sleeper chugged out of Euston just before midnight. The bed in my berth wasn’t much larger than a coffin. Had I been stretched out on a king-size mattress, it would have made little difference. My mind hummed with unanswerable questions, ranging from whether Odeerie had been right about my not being able to hack it in Manchester, to whether I would ever forget the sight of Harry Parr’s body.
The last time I looked at my Timex it was 2.15 a.m. Five minutes later a steward knocked on my door to announce that we were approaching Glasgow Central. The hands on my watch had unaccountably advanced four hours. I ordered a black coffee, cleaned my teeth, and had a wash at the basin. It was fair to say that I wasn’t feeling too sensational when the train pulled to a gentle halt.
The Saltrossan train left from Glasgow Queen Street. I threw my bag into the back of a minicab and instructed the driver to take me there. En route, I asked him what the Wee Frees were. Apparently the Free Church had broken away from the Church of Scotland in the nineteenth century because they thought the clergy were having too much mince with their tatties. Since then there had been succession of subdivisions, each more austere than the last. Nowadays the Wee Frees didn’t just take it easy on the mince; they didn’t have the tatties either.
Argyle and Bute’s tourist board described the scenery on the third leg of my trip as breathtaking. As far as I’m concerned, when you’ve seen one mountain range you’ve seen them all, and when it comes to lochs you can throw away the quay. That wasn’t the opinion of my fellow travellers, most of whom squealed with delight every two minutes and fired off SLRs like Kalashnikovs.
A couple of miniatures from the drinks trolley lulled me into a deep sleep. I awoke with a start to find myself alone in the carriage. Panic that I might have overshot was dispelled by an announcement that the next station was Saltrossan. I popped a Polo mint into my mouth and ran my fingers through my dishevelled hair. Important to make a good first impression on the locals.
According to the bus timetable outside the station, a Coastal Hoppa was due in three minutes’ time. When it arrived, the only other passenger was a dapper chap in his sixties, wearing a dark-blue suit and a canary-coloured tie. On the seat next to him was a pet carrier from which came a persistent series of hisses and scratches. Judging by the plasters on the gent’s fingers, the carrier’s occupant hadn’t entered it willingly.
After ten minutes bumping down a narrow road, the three of us arrived. If you like your seaside towns on the bijou side, with most of the houses painted a cheerful pink, then Saltrossan would be hard to beat. Its small harbour had a few boats bobbing about in it, and the high street was refreshingly free of franchised coffee outlets.
The Bannock Hotel was constructed from slabs of Highland granite, and dominated the cosier buildings like a Victorian headmaster in a school line-up. Its oak-panelled lobby smelled of Mansion polish and was decorated with framed photographs of glum-looking men brandishing dead fish. I rang the brass bell. A tall woman in her early fifties emerged from a door underneath a print of The Stag at Bay.
‘Welcome to the Bannock,’ she said brightly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I should have a reservation. The name’s Kenny Gabriel.’
‘The chap who’s trying to track down his friend?’ I admitted I was. ‘I’m Katherine Pike,’ she said. ‘We spoke on the phone.’
We shook hands. Katherine had bobbed blonde hair and large hooped earrings. Her dark-blue dress looked as though it hadn’t been bought in one of the local boutiques. Not unless Saltrossan had an unlikely taste for haute couture.
‘Was Alec any help?’ she asked.
‘He was, as a matter of fact. Is he working today?’
‘In the lounge bar,’ she said, while consulting a computer screen. ‘We have you down for a single night with breakfast. Would you like dinner in the restaurant?’
‘Can I play it by ear?’
‘Certainly. Although we’re busy tonight, so if your friend’s joining you it might be an idea to make a reservation by four o’clock.’
‘I think that’s unlikely,’ I said.
‘You haven’t managed to get in touch with her?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What a shame,’ she said, handing me a key card. ‘Although I’m sure, if it’s meant to be, then it’s meant to be. You’re in room 211 on the second floor. The lift’s a bit of an antique, so the stairs might be your best bet.’
‘Actually, I thought I’d pop in and see Alec first.’
‘Good luck,’ Katherine said.