I was suddenly aware of a shadow. I turned and saw a man framed against the sun.
‘Would you be Mr Douglas Brodie, by any chance?’ His voice had the hard nasal lilt of Northern Ireland.
I stood up and saw his dog collar. He wore a blue shirt underneath and a black jacket. Thin blond hair was clamped tight to his skull by Brylcreem. He looked too young for the job and vulnerable behind thick specs.
He went on, ‘There aren’t so many visitors here just now and I was watching for the bus. Father Connor O’Brien, Mr Brodie.’ He held out his hand.
‘Just Brodie is fine. Thanks for meeting me,’ I said, stretching out my hand.
‘And I’m Connor. I was told yesterday you’d be in later. But I had another call this morning from Father Cassidy.’
‘We’re in a hurry. You’ll know why?’
He nodded. ‘Shall we sit here? It’s a rare day, so it is.’
We sat and he took a cigarette. He was maybe my age, but already losing his hair quite badly. The hair cream kept the strands carefully in place, maximising their coverage. The glasses made him look even more scholarly but there was a surprising toughness in his voice – and it wasn’t just the hard brogue – that suggested a certain underlying steel.
‘How did you wash up on these shores, Connor?’
‘I grew up in Belfast and wanted a change, somewhere quieter. They sent me here.’ He smiled.
‘Too quiet?’
‘Too small. Funny, with all this space’ – his wave took in the huge sky and the dancing sea – ‘it’s just a wee bit…’
‘… claustrophobic?’
He nodded. I knew what he was saying about the closeness, the nosiness of a small community. I’d seen it in Kilmarnock. It was part of its strength but it was certainly its downside too. Put a hand on a girl’s breast in a darkened close and you could hear the mass intake of breath from scandalised neighbours.
‘And you, Brodie. What’s your excuse for being here?’
He wasn’t asking what my mission was. In the simplest terms he knew that. He was asking a bigger question. I could have side-stepped it, saying I hadn’t the time or pretended I’d misunderstood, but there was something in his manner that I felt I could trust. Like meeting a stranger in a pub and swapping life stories over a few pints, knowing you’d never meet them again. I told him where I was born, pointing out across the water to the mainland and the beaches I’d played on as a wee boy. I told him of my army days, and how, to shore up my dwindling demob pay, I’d started on the journalistic path I should have taken after university, instead of the police. And how my plans had been scuppered when I’d been summoned to help Hugh try to escape his date with the hangman.
He was leaning forward gazing out to sea, elbows on knees, and nodding as I talked. ‘I see, I see…’
‘… so it’s a long shot, but we have to try everything.’ I finished by describing my search for Hugh’s erstwhile neighbours.
‘Well, Brodie, it’s not been easy getting to this point in your life, has it? But at least I can make the next wee step a simple one. The family that we’re talking about call themselves Kennedy. I’ve no way of telling if that’s their real name. But they arrived here about at the start of the year. From Glasgow, clearly, by their accent. Not of my own flock, but as I was saying, this is a small place and new folk stand out. Get themselves talked about in the post office.’
‘A mother and four kids?’
He nodded. ‘Rented a wee house round the back of Lamlash on the Ross Road. Paid the first six months’ rent in advance. That got them talked about, I can tell you. Kept themselves to themselves but the children were enrolled at school and in bible class at the kirk. She says – Mrs Kennedy, that is – that she lost her husband in the war. But of course the local gossips put a different tale on her.’
‘I think you’ll find her real name is Reid. If so, she might know something that will stop a hanging.’
TWENTY
We walked along the seafront and took the turn-off on the Ross Road that led to Sliddery, a village on the west side of the island. We were nearly running out of houses when we stopped and Connor O’Brien pointed across the narrow street at a little house set in from the road. A puff of smoke drifted from the chimney.
‘I’ll leave you to it, Brodie. Good luck, now.’ He turned and walked away and I crossed over. A curtain flicked. I knocked on the door. I knocked again and finally I heard steps. It opened. A big woman stood there in her pinny, pretending to be in the middle of housework. Strands of grey hair escaped from her headscarf. She clutched a worn duster to her heavy bosom like a bridal bouquet. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils were flared as though she’d encountered a snake in her coal bucket.
‘Whit is it?’ she managed, from a tight throat.
I took my hat off. ‘Mrs Kennedy, is it?’
She blinked and said, ‘Yes. Yes it’s me.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kennedy, have I come at a bad time?’ I wondered from her pallor and agitation if there was someone behind her with a gun pointed at her head. She twisted the duster as though killing a chicken.
‘No. No, I’m fine, so I am. What do you want? Who are you?’ she gushed.
‘Am I right in saying you used to live in Glasgow? In Florence Street? House number seven? Your neighbour at number eight was Hugh Donovan.’
I thought she would collapse as I lined up the facts and fired them at her. She was shaking her head and her mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish. Her hand crept to the door as though she was about to slam it in my face. I stuck my foot over the threshold. She saw I wasn’t going anywhere until I got some straight answers. A look of resignation came over her face.
‘Aye. We used to live there. But I hardly knew him.’
‘I thought the name in Glasgow was Reid?’
She blushed. ‘Kennedy was my maiden name.’
‘Which would you prefer?’
‘I’m a married woman still and all. It’s Mrs Reid. My man Alex Reid died four years ago. Accident at John Brown’s.’
‘I’m sorry. Can I come in a minute, Mrs Reid? It might be easier inside.’ I glanced meaningfully around at the net curtains of her neighbours. She glanced at my foot in her doorway.
She opened the door and let me inside. I was straight into a small room with a tiny fire flickering in the grate. It made the room too snug for today’s fine weather. There was a door leading into the kitchen and a staircase that I guessed led up to the bedrooms. The room was bare with nothing to suggest who lived here. No photos or ornaments, just a threadbare couch and a sagging armchair and a smell of cigarette smoke.
‘My name’s Douglas Brodie. I’m an old friend of Hugh’s, and I had a couple of questions for you.’
‘I’ll make some tea.’ She scuttled into the scullery and crashed around for a bit until reappearing with two cups and saucers and a teapot. She took the armchair and I perched on the couch.
‘Go on,’ she said, rattling her cup as she sipped at her too-hot tea.
‘You’ll have heard about the terrible happenings. The trial and everything?’
She nodded.
‘I’m working with his lawyer to see if there’s some grounds for an appeal. And to put it simply, we wondered if you could tell us what happened that night?’
‘What night would that be, Mr Brodie?’
‘The police came for Hugh in the morning. That’s when they found all the evidence in the house. We want to know if you might have heard or seen anything the night before.’ There, it was that simple.
And just as simply she said, ‘No. Nothing.’ She reached beside her chair and pulled up a handbag. She took out a cigarette pack and lit one. Her hands were trembling and then were stilled as she inhaled deeply and let the smoke trickle out in a slow cloud. Stupid, stupid. I was going too fast. I tried a different tack.
‘Did you know Hugh had a wee problem, Mrs Reid? That he took drugs for the pain?’
