The bar held around twenty customers, divided into two camps. Congregated around a glass-fronted bookcase was an irritation of middle-aged men in waxed jackets, several of whom were clutching Ordnance Survey maps. All had walking boots on and one even sported a deerstalker hat. It was obvious from the yammering that they were English.
Gathered under the implacable gaze of a stuffed otter were the locals. Each had a pint glass in front of him. Half a dozen bags of crisps had been ripped open and their contents plundered. A fifty-year-old in a beanie hat puffed determinedly on an electronic cigarette. His companions stared at each other or into space, as though witnesses to a recent natural disaster.
The wooden bar to my left protruded into the room like the prow of a galleon. The bloke polishing glasses behind it was about five foot three and couldn’t have weighed more than seven stone wet through. He wore heavy black glasses and what was either a wig or the worst haircut in Saltrossan.
‘Are you Alec?’ I asked.
‘Aye,’ he said holding a glass up and inspecting it for blemishes.
‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel. We spoke yesterday.’
‘You must be keen to have a word with Peachy to be here so soon.’
‘I am, but I wouldn’t mind having a shot of one of those before I do.’ Behind Alec was an impressive collection of whisky bottles. ‘Which d’you recommend?’ I asked.
‘All of them,’ he replied.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we each have a double of your favourite on me?’
Alec made eye contact for the first time. He draped the tea towel around his scrawny neck and placed the glass on a shelf above the bar.
‘I’ll take a glass of Ledchig with you.’
The bottle he uncorked was labelled LEDAIG. Either Alec’s pronunciation was deeply Gaelic or his dentures were slipping. He poured a pair of generous doubles and slid one across the bar.
‘Not bad,’ I said after taking a sip. Alec gave me a look. ‘Superb,’ I corrected myself. ‘I’m planning to visit Peachy later on. Got any tips?’
‘Dinnae bother.’
‘Any others?’
Alec considered the question. ‘You’d do well to be straight with the man. Otherwise yer arse’ll be out the door so fast it’ll no’ touch the pavement. Always assuming that you get your arse in the door, that is.’
‘You said that Peachy’s religious.’
‘A lot of folks in ’Rossan are.’
‘He wasn’t always that way, though?’
‘Peachy used to be a regular in here. That was before Mary left, mind.’
‘His wife?’ Alec nodded. ‘When did that happen?’
‘Eighty-one. Eighty-two, maybe.’
‘How did Peachy take it?’
‘Hard. Quit his job and hit the bottle.’
‘But then he found the Lord?’
Alec knocked back his whisky. He peered into the glass like a bereaved man.
‘Another?’ I suggested.
‘You’re a gentleman. Will you being taking one yerself?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
Judging by what I’d heard about Peachy, it wouldn’t be sensible to turn up half-cut on Scotch, however superlative the calibre. Alec poured himself another dram, and added a dribble of water from a jug on the bar. ‘Lets the taste out,’ he explained.
‘You were telling me about Peachy and his issues with alcohol,’ I reminded him.
‘They were a bit more than issues, son. Peachy wis a mean drunk and then some.’
‘Until he found Jesus?’
Alec nodded. ‘Drinking and fighting one weekend; singing his heart out in the kirk the next.’
‘What about April?’
‘She came back a few years before Peachy and Mary split. Just for a day or two.’
‘Did she have any friends?’
‘Not really. April kept herself to herself even when she was a wee girl. She never seemed to fit in round here.’ Alec glanced in the direction of the braying tourists. ‘Not everybody does,’ he said.
‘What happened to her?’
‘Peachy and Mary said that she’d gone back to London for good. And that was that. People mind their business in ’Rossan.’
‘And Mary? Where did she go when she left Peachy?’
‘Havenae a clue.’
The only other thing I needed to get out of Alec were directions to Peachy’s house. He produced a tourist map and circled Hill Road with a stump of pencil.
‘Ten minutes’ walk for a young pup like yerself.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
I instructed Alec to pour himself another and stick the bill on my room. He had the cork out of the bottle before I’d reached the door.
Hill Road was on a steep incline leading out of Saltrossan. Its houses were stolid granite terraces put up between the wars. Most were well maintained with spotless nets and immaculate doorsteps. Number twenty-eight was tidier than most.
I rapped twice using the brass knocker. No response. I gave it a minute before trying again. April’s dad would be in his late seventies by now and probably not as sprightly as when he’d been a two-fisted drinker. Someone approached the door. Two bolts were thrown and it opened to reveal Peachy Thomson.
The guy must have been a handful in his heyday. He was six-three with shoulders that almost filled the doorframe. Short white hair lay thick on his scalp and his blue eyes had none of the rheum of old age. He was wearing a navy-blue suit and a tieless white shirt buttoned to the top.
‘What d’you want?’ he said.
‘Mr Thomson?’
‘Aye.’
‘My name’s Kenny Gabriel.’ Peachy stared at my outstretched hand. ‘I was a friend of your daughter’s when she lived in London . . .’
He stepped back and slammed the door. Under different circumstances I’d have left it at that. As things were, I got down on my knees and prised the letterbox open.
‘I appreciate this has come out of the blue, Mr Thomson. All I want to know is where April is living at the moment.’
No answer.
‘It isn’t anything sinister, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just interested in getting in touch with her for old times’ sake.’
No answer.
‘All I need is an address.’
No answer.
The metal flap was so tight that my thumbs began to cramp. I let it fall back into place and was blowing warm air into my cupped hands when the door opened as abruptly as it had been closed. The shock sent me sprawling backwards.
‘April’s not here,’ Peachy said.
‘Then tell me where I can reach her and I’ll be on my way.’
‘Sighthill Cemetery.’
‘What?’
‘She’s been dead thirty years.’
THIRTY-THREE
The smell of boiled cabbage hung in the front room. What furniture there was – primarily a three-piece suite, roll-top desk and battered sideboard – had been made in the seventies and the olive carpet was worn as smooth as a billiard table. On the mantelpiece, a Smiths Sectric silently ticked away the seconds of its owner’s life.
Peachy’s angular body was scrupulously erect in his chair; the springs in mine so shot that my knees almost touched my chest. He stared at the floor as though expecting something to materialise in the space between us. When it didn’t, he spoke.
‘So you knew April in London?’