"I can make the age-old excuse, of course; in not contacting him I was obeying my father's order. I worshipped my dad… as did Michael in his own very different way. It would have been a betrayal for me to have gone against him; for me, the ultimate disloyalty. But now, I'll go through my life believing that if I had reached out to him, maybe he wouldn't have wound up in that fucking river."
Brother Aidan nodded. "You may do so," he conceded. "But even if you had reached out, as you put it, I doubt very much whether Michael would have given up his life here. Your father put him here because he had a personality disorder and he was alcoholic. A Christmas card from you might have been nice, but it wouldn't have changed that. Be hard on yourself if you like… wearing a hair shirt on occasion is good for any man… but don't be too hard. Bury him where he belongs, beside his parents, then try to move on."
Alex reached across and took his hand. "Yes, Dad, please."
Skinner let out a low growling sound. "Mmmm. Time will tell if I can; my life seems to be full of guilt and anger just now. Maybe the best thing I could do is take over Michael's bed here."
"You don't qualify," said Brother Aidan, brusquely. "There's a queue from here to Glasgow of people who need help, before we get round to those who just feel sorry for themselves."
Reproved, the policeman smiled. "True."
"You mentioned a river," the little priest continued. "You've never told me how Michael died. Was that it?"
"Part of it, at least. Tell me, Brother, did Michael leave here often?"
"He'd go down the shops like everyone else, but if you mean did he take a trip somewhere, that happened only rarely. In fact, two weeks ago was the first time he ever went away for any length of time without me.
Michael and I used to go on holiday together," he explained. "I have a nephew in a village near Cork, and we would visit him every year or two."
"So what happened two weeks ago? Where did he go?"
"Glasgow, I was told."
"On his own?"
"Oh no. He couldn't have done that. Not that there'd have been anything to stop him, mind, other than himself. My friends here are all free men; they can come and go any time they please. But many,
Michael among them, choose to remain.
"What happened was this. A few months ago, your brother had a letter, out of the blue. He said it was from a man called Skipper, someone he'd known a long time ago, when he was young. Skipper said that he'd been abroad for many years, and that he'd only just come back to
Scotland. He'd asked around about Michael and had been told by a friend of a friend back in Mother well that he'd gone to live in Oak Lodge."
"Did my uncle write back to him?" asked Alex.
"There was no return address, my dear. However a couple of weeks later, there was a telephone call for Michael, from the man. I didn't think he was going to take it at first. Apart from once when my nephew called from Ireland and he said a quick hello, he hadn't spoken on the telephone for thirty years. But he plucked up his courage and he did.
The outcome was that Skipper came to visit him, shortly afterwards.
They had a chat, then they went out for a drink together."
"Did this guy have another name?" Skinner asked.
"That's the only one I know. I don't know whether it's a surname, nickname or whatever. In any event, he came another couple of times, and eventually, it was arranged between them that Michael would go to stay with him for a couple of weeks."
The old man sighed. "The truth be told, when you called to say you wanted to see me, I thought you were going to tell me that Michael wasn't going to be coming back. That's just what you did tell me, but not in the way I expected."
"Sadly not. Brother Aidan, can you tell me what this man Skipper looked like?"
The Jesuit ran his fingers through his sparse hair. "He'd have been about Michael's age, I suppose. In height, he'd have been around the same, but he was fairly thin; much more lightly built. He wore spectacles with blue lenses; sunglasses I suppose they were."
"Hair?"
"Grey, like yours. A bit greyer, maybe. Does that ring any bells?"
"None. I'll maybe talk to a couple of people in Mother well, who might have known my brother back in the old days. They'll probably be rogues or policemen, but some of them will still be around."
"Why do you need to trace this man, Robert?" Brother Aidan asked.
"Because Michael's death may have been either suicide, or an accident, or something else. There's considerable doubt about it." He told the priest the rest of the story, explaining where and how he had been found. As he spoke, the old man's mouth formed into a perfect O of horror.
He crossed himself. "How terrible," he whispered. "My poor old friend, that he should die like that. But tell me, how did the police make the connection to you?"
"The only thing they found on his body was a photograph of my father.
Someone who knew me saw it, spotted the likeness between us, and came to me."
"Ahh," Brother Aidan exclaimed. "That would be it. It was all he had with him when they brought him here. And it was all he took with him just over two weeks ago, when he went away with Skipper, for the last time."
Twenty-Three
"What do we know about this fire-raising thing?" asked Stevie Steele.
"It's in our records, right enough," DS George Regan replied. "And so is the girl's photograph, full face and profile, Strachan, Andrea. I pulled it, and it pretty much matches the face on the video. Her address is listed as If4, 43 Albany Terrace; I checked with the probation service. She's still there."
"So what happened? What did she do? How come it means nothing to me?"
"It wasn't in our division, Stevie. It happened down in Joppa, at the back end of last October. They called it a church, but it was more of a gospel hall, one of these Baptist hand-clapping, hallelujah places; it was near the offices of the charity where she worked, and it got to her then. The Strachan girl seems to be a bit of a Christian fundamentalist; to her it was Sodom and Gomorrah all rolled into one big party. Eventually, God talked to her, didn't he, and he told her that he had chosen her to destroy it."
"Schizophrenic?" asked Alice Cowan.
"That's what they said afterwards. As far as she was concerned, though, it was the Man Upstairs all the way, giving her His battle orders. So, her with a chemistry degree and all, she made up what would have been a pretty effective incendiary bomb, went to one of their services, and tried to tape it under one of the pews at the back."
Steele held up a hand. "Did it have a timer?"
"Aye, a wee alarm clock thing. It would have worked too."
"Why didn't it?"
"She might be a clever girl, but she's still not all that bright.
Somebody came into the church behind her as she was planting it, and saw her. She ran for it, but they caught her just down the road, and called the police."
"Court?"
"Nah. The fiscal was persuaded not to proceed on the basis that the lass was clearly disturbed, and she hadn't done any damage. So she was sectioned for six months under the Mental Health Act, and went into the
Royal Edinburgh. Her probation officer says that she's still going back as an out-patient."
"Have you spoken to anyone there?" asked Maggie Rose.
Regan shook his head. "Not yet, ma'am. I thought I'd speak to you and
Inspector Steele before I did that."
"Just as well; we'll need to play it carefully there. The girl may have been committed, but she's as entitled to medical confidentiality as the rest of us."