The Wicker Tree Page 5

  Orlando, who had been suitably moved by her undeniably lissom, generously breasted body, was transfixed by her bush. It reminded him, he couldn't get the image out of his mind, of Adolf Hitler's moustache. An oblong black tuft of hair, as smooth as a cat's pelt. It was so totally unexpected, halfway down to her toes from her luscious Madonna blonde curls, that he had to think hard of Mai Ping at the Thai massage parlour before he was able to do what was so evidently expected of him. He learned, only later, that turning the female bush into a form of topiary was a lucrative new service provided by the hair salons of Glasgow. Popular shapes included four leaf clovers (Celtic supporters), St Andrew's Crosses (for international away games) and something called 'the landing strip', which was what Morag had selected, unaware of its likeness to Hitler's moustache.

  So it wasn't that he expected to miss the ritual encounters in bed with her, when she lay like a relatively soft log and he toiled away, wondering why people thought this such a wonderful way to spend their time. 'Very nice,' she would say afterward, like an amiable aunt congratulating her little nephew on his finger-painting. He could very easily do without sex with beautiful WPC Morag McDevitt. It was the thought that, as soon as he was gone, someone else would almost certainly move in on his trophy that disturbed him. He already worried that she found him inadequate. After all, if he found her wanting, surely she must feel the same about him. He reflected, as many men in his position do, how fortunate it is that women represent half the human race. Where he was going, in the rustic borderlands, women who would be dazzled by his looks, his Glaswegian sophistication and his uniform would surely abound. Mai Ping, at the Thai massage parlour, had stroked his tender ego. There was nothing to worry about. She had, she assured him, rarely met a man as well endowed, as energetic, as strong as he. As a pollster of these matters, Orlando reflected, considerably re-assured, Mai Ping had more credibility than most.

  Before leaving Glasgow, he took Morag to an informal dinner the police rugby team had organised to see him on his way. It was a raucous evening and Orlando was among the first to leave, explaining that he still had packing to do. Morag was deep in conversation with the only other woman at the party, Inspector Jill Meander, a jolly, older woman built on generous, Junoesque lines with close-cropped, carroty-coloured hair and twinkling brown eyes.

  Morag looked up at Orlando as he came to say goodbye to her, gave him her most winning smile and offered her cheek for him to peck.

  'Don't forget to e-mail as soon as you're settled in,' she said. 'And take care,' she added kindly.

  'Yes, you take care, Orlando,' laughed Inspector Jill Meander. 'They hunt laddies like you down on the Borders, they really do.'

  Concert at the Cathedral

  DELIA SAW THEM arrive. It could only be them because the boy was wearing a cowboy hat and the girl had the kind of brave glow that Delia had observed before in some artists when they were approaching a performance. It was not totally unlike the aura of fear, tempered by defiance, she had witnessed years before when she had accompanied the earlier soldier-husband to watch an execution in Aden, in the last days of colonial rule. The American girl's lack of any artifice surprised Delia. Nothing to label her 'pop star'. No make-up. A plain navyblue turtle-neck jersey and black trousers clothed a good, understated figure. No jewellery, not even earrings, but a pretty belt decorated with small silver and turquoise medallions. A country girl, thought Delia, so confident that she needs no props. One indication of what had made this girl a star.

  As the bud of almost any flower or blossom first leaves the carapace of enclosing green, the texture and colour it shows the world is of a delicacy and freshness that is lost almost at once as the bloom develops. The female human face goes through this phase for a very short time and, while it varies immensely from person to person, one can occasionally glimpse it in its most sublime form. Too soon, and it can be spots and oily skin. Too late and the beautician's art may be needed. But Beth possessed, at this very moment in her life, the loveliness that only youth can confer and it made men and women alike stop and stare. Delia had recognised it across the crowded nave of the cathedral. Knowing she had once possessed it herself and what an incomparable gift it had been, she felt slight pangs of regret and envy.

  Delia and Lachlan had just been greeted by the Reverend Byng McLeod, the most fashionable and clubbable divine in the Church of Scotland, beloved of television talk-show hosts and his congregation alike. He wore his prematurely snow white hair as Oscar Wilde once had, long and carelessly wavy, as if he judged it his crowning glory. Behind him, musical sounds from an assorted collection of instrumentalists came from the specially erected stage in front of the sanctuary, where all was in place to receive the full orchestra. From both his tone and his manner the Reverend McLeod exuded the self confidence that confirmed that in this cathedral, on this occasion, when presenting this musical programme, there was no impresario, no authority higher than he.

  'Sir Lachlan, Lady Morrison, welcome indeed!' He spoke with a diction so musically cadenced, so successful in using the softer felicities of Scottish English, that one half expected him to burst into song.

  'We are absolutely thrilled, Lachlan, that you are giving us that solo of yours again this year. I saw your Glee Club rehearsing a little earlier, but I fancy they are now wetting their whistles around the corner at the Silver Thistle. Singing is such thirsty work. Don't worry. I've got the lovely Adelaide looking after them and she'll have them back just now I have not the slightest doubt…'

  Looking confidently around, the Reverend McLeod saw Beth and Steve advancing a little hesitantly up the nave. Delia, who had been watching the couple, thought she heard a little neigh of excitement as he tossed his locks from one of his eyes and led her and Lachlan to meet the Americans.

  Beth, who had already met with the Reverend, braced herself for the wave of Scottish or British (what was the difference?) effusiveness that she knew was now coming.

  'Now Delia, Lachlan, I want you to meet our American star Beth Boothby. If you were sixteen, Delia, you'd already be swooning, I assure you. She is the wonderful new soloist with the Redeemers Choir. And a successful recording artist. Gold and platinum platters, eh Beth? I expect you'll remember the Redeemers from last year? Beth, meet Sir Lachlan and Lady Morrison. He will be singing with you in the Oratorio.' Steve hung back while Beth's hand was shaken but Delia was sizing him up.

  'And who is this?' she asked. Steve, still wearing his hat, seemed ill at ease.

  'This is Steve Thomson,' said Beth. 'I guess you'd call him my fiancé. Right Steve? We've made like a commitment.'

  'To help fund a mission? Is that right?' the Reverend McLeod was clearly unsure.

  'No sir,' said Steve. 'Our commitment is – well, we've promised to save it for marriage. We call it our Silver Ring Thing.' They both smilingly held up their hands to show their rings, looking at the slightly surprised faces around them. 'Tough huh? But we're both Redeemers you know. Like the Choir. Only when they go home, we're staying behind to like spread the Word.'

  The conductor had now appeared on the stage and was signalling to the Reverend McLeod that he was ready for Beth. Glad to be at last able to regain her own medium, she smiled her farewells to the Morrisons and the Reverend, planted a light kiss on Steve's cheek and hurried across to the stage.

  The Reverend excused himself to Lachlan and Delia and, taking Steve by the arm, led him to a chair in the nave where he would have a good view of the rehearsal. On the way, he gently removed Steve's hat from his head and handed it to him.

  This left Lachlan gazing admiringly after Beth's retreating form. The organist was floating chords out into the enormous nave while small rehearsals or meetings of musicians were going on in various parts of the cathedral.

  'What a very beautiful girl,' said Lachlan. 'Another Redeemer you see. What a little star. If she can really sing.'

  'A country girl, I'd bet,' said Delia. 'Yes, she is beautiful in a cornfed, apple-cheeked way. I bet she smel
ls of the dairy. A musky bush, milky tits and just a hint of warm cow's dung behind the ears.'

  'Does that mean you approve of her?' asked Lachlan, amused.

  Delia was laughing now. 'And that poor Steve, waiting till his wedding day. It's another world over there in America, isn't it? Oh look, they're fixing up a microphone for Beth. None of these pop people can really sing.'

  But even as the orchestra warmed up and the conductor conferred with Beth she was quietly indicating that the microphone should be removed. The Glee Club were drifting back from the pub, being chivvied along by a tall lady with wiry, iron-grey hair and an imperial bosom, 'the lovely Adelaide'.

  Lachlan had drifted off to gather his Glee Club for their preperformance pep talk. Delia remained standing in the middle of the aisle watching Beth, almost willing her to be less than was clearly expected by the Reverend McLeod and hyped by the media. Now Beth had stepped forward. The conductor, his baton raised, glanced from Beth to the leader of the orchestra and back to Beth. His hands gave the signal. Delia saw the huge breath she took. Now came the voice:

  'I know that my Redeemer liveth…'

  The sound was literally enormous. The purity of the voice. The richness of tone. The absolute mastery of the long drawn-out phrase. There could be, Delia knew, no corner of that great building that had not heard with absolute clarity the exquisitely conveyed message: Beth is certain her Redeemer is alive.

  Apart from the voice and the orchestra, total silence had fallen on people in all parts of the cathedral. Delia who, not for nothing, lived with a man whose chief aesthetic pleasure was music, was aware that for Handel the impact of the first performance of the oratorio at St Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin was the stuff of musical legend. But she found it hard to imagine a greater impact then than the sound of Beth Boothby singing it now in Glasgow Cathedral.

  Delia saw Lachlan turn from staring at Beth, to look across the nave at her, to signal to her the importance of the moment. It was rare to see astonishment on his face. But she saw it now. She knew what he would be thinking. Beth was the one they must have. But how?

  She wondered, as she walked towards where Steve was seated, whether Lachlan had really registered the young man, so impressed had he been with the young woman.

  She sat down quietly beside Steve, briefly touching his hand to make her presence known. She saw peripherally that he turned his head and studied her profile and noted how absorbed he was in Beth's singing.

  'A truly wonderful voice,' she whispered.

  'Yeah, my pa and me,' he whispered back, 'we always say she sounds like an angel.'

  'Of course. That's what she reminds me of. An angel.'

  'Hey,' Steve was so delighted that he forgot to whisper. 'You believe in angels?'

  'Doesn't everyone?' responded Delia in a surprised tone.

  The conductor was rapping with his stick and the orchestra had stopped playing. Beth was waiting patiently while he addressed the string section.

  Delia rose now and turned to Steve.

  'I hope we'll see you later,' she said.

  He half rose for an awkward handshake. As she walked away Steve marvelled that anyone could talk quite like she did. It was one of those Brit accents you heard in movies, usually old historical movies. He'd watched quite a few of those on TV because they often had great horses in them. Stunt riding was one of the things he'd always thought of doing. Delia had reached close to where the tall, exceptionally British dude, her husband, was hanging out with some guys who were all studying some sheet music. Her husband leant towards her to listen to what she had to say over the racket coming from the orchestra. Then they both looked over to where he, Steve, was watching them. They smiled and both gave a small wave before continuing their conversation. He waved back. These people were weird alright, but, in their own way, he thought, they were probably OK.

  Orlando's Revelation

  FOR ORLANDO, TRESSOCK was something of a revelation. The streets lined with trees and white washed houses, with their brick framed windows and porticos, their brightly coloured front doors and decorative skylights, were quite festive in his eyes. Used to the sombre, manse-like Victorian houses in the shabby genteel part of Glasgow where he had been raised, he discovered in this new place a quality he had never seriously considered before, a certain charm.

  The little mews house that had long served as the Police Station lay at the end of Main Street where it curved to meet the great gates of Tressock Castle. This vantage point meant that he could, from his bed-sitting room's lace-curtained windows, survey the movements of the townspeople and their comings and goings from the Grove Inn, while, from the big window in his office, by the Police Station's front door, he could see the gates to Sir Lachlan's castle and monitor all who visited it.

  He was less pleased with the interior of his new home, which seemed to have been preserved just as Tom Makepiece had left it, like some grungy shrine. The bed-sitting room was spacious enough but so crammed with heavy Victorian furniture and stuffed birds that it made Orlando wonder whether the late Tom's aim was to create a mortuary out of an aviary, or maybe vice versa. A sizeable bathroom adjoined it on one side while, on the other, there was a door that led directly to the Police Station office. This was convenient in its way, but forced him into an unaccustomed tidiness in his living quarters.

  His cleaner, old Mrs Menzies, fitted perfectly with Orlando's idea of a crone or witch, and had become his first suspect as a possible member of a cult. She seemed to have a life contract to come in three days a week to redistribute the dust and make sure that everything was still as dear old Tom had left it. Orlando's suggestion that the stuffed birds might find a happier home elsewhere shocked her deeply. He learned from her that apart from Mr Beame, the butler up at the castle, Tom was considered the finest taxidermist in Tressock, a place renowned for this ancient craft. This seemed to make Orlando the fortunate custodian of a precious collection. He tactfully tried to sound impressed, but the truth was that the birds depressed him deeply. Everything from a golden eagle, through barn owls and jackdaws to sea birds, like sand pipers and terns, had given their lives for this, in his view, pointless hobby. If Orlando had been a countryman he would have belonged to the 'if you can't eat it, don't kill it' school of shooting and hunting.

  The Police Station office got most of Mrs Menzies' professional attention. She liked to linger with her bucket and mop while Orlando dealt with routine police business on the phone. Tom had obviously indulged her curiosity about every small misdemeanour committed in Tressock, letting her know by whom it was done and with what consequences. On the day that Orlando received a large poster from headquarters, with the faces of some forty missing persons upon it, to be placed on the public notice-board, she gave him the favour of her opinion on all indigent or transient persons, young and old.

  'It's a chronic waste of your time looking for the likes of them,' she said. 'Most of yins are cracked, and should be in with the loonies and moonies. But the young yins are away to the sinbins and fleshpots of London, and good luck to them.'

  Orlando had arrived in March, while snow flurries were still skittering down Tressock's Main Street, and the folks at the Grove Inn had welcomed him with some hot rum toddy and a game of skittles. Their friendliness seemed real enough, but he guessed it was just cordiality to a foreigner, with maybe a bit of keeping in with the law thrown in. 'Any help we can give you,' said Peter McNeil, the innkeeper, 'just let us know.' The crowd of younger men in the bar chorused their assent and Orlando found himself with yet another drink in his hand. Happily, like him, the Tressock men all followed the game of rugby, both in the papers and on the television, rather than soccer. This meant that however doubly foreign their new cop might be, both Glaswegian and Italian, they all had a strong interest in common. At least this was true for the men.

  There were, of course, often women in the bar, who tended to ignore the rugby, but mostly they were the girlfriends or wives of the male drinkers. No new female appeared o
n Orlando's horizon to diminish his memory of Morag's beautiful face. His e-mail correspondence with her was chatty; police force gossip, some tittle tattle about mutual friends, but very little in the way of personal news.

  An officer becomes a regular customer at a particular bar or inn at his peril, said one of the manuals on Public Contact and Awareness that Orlando remembered from police college. He knew this was a sensible warning, so he kept his visits to the Grove occasional and brief. With Peter, the innkeeper, he managed to cultivate a slightly closer relationship than with the others. But that, both of them knew, was part of their professional duty. An inn may at any time have need of the police and it is useful for the latter to have friendly access to a place where so much of the drama of life in a township like Tressock is played out. Or, as another bromide from police college put it: An officer's effectiveness is only as good as the intelligence he has managed to gather.

  He had copious notes, in particular from his interview with Jack, the curly-haired little man who frequented the bar and stared fixedly at people with his unblinking eyes. Orlando was intrigued by this probably aspergist Englishman who was guardian of the ravens, a mysterious job he had been given by the Laird himself. It involved regular feeding of these rare birds, apparently unique to Tressock. He lived a rather precarious existence, tolerated by his neighbours in spite of his nationality and his tendency to make bizarre pronouncements as if he thought of himself as some latter day prophet. When asked by Orlando what he did when not feeding the ravens, he said (and the detective carefully noted):

  'Sometimes I seek for haddocks' eyes

  Amongst the heather bright

  And make them into waistcoat buttons

  In the silent night.'

  This answer was obviously a silly lie and certainly not a prophecy. But re-reading the notes he had taken of the Englishman's statements (conversation with him was very hard to achieve), there was nothing that really seemed to point to cult-like activity.