The Courier & Advertiser (Angus and Dundee)
He stated the facts simply, wondering why it was that they kept on coming back to haunt him
It was a random piece of information Mclean had picked up many years later.
That awkward teenage phase when he’d obsessed about his dead parents, collecting every scrap of information he could find about them, and about the people who had died on the plane with them.
“You’re right. I did. But I inherited this place about seven years ago.
“I was growing tired of London, so it seemed the ideal time to move.”
“And you never remarried. You know, after...” “After my father-in-law killed my husband and your parents in that damn-fool aeroplane of his?
“No. I didn’t have the stomach to go through all that again.”
A grey frown passed over the woman’s face, almost a scowl. “But you didn’t come here to reminisce, inspector.
“You weren’t expecting to find me here at all. So what did bring you here?”
“A burglary, Mrs Johnson. Just after a Miss Louisa Emmerson died at this house.”
“Louisa was Toby’s cousin. She was married to Bertie Farquhar.
“Old man Menzies bought them this house as a wedding present. Can you imagine that?
“She dropped her married name when Bertie died. That would have been the early sixties, I think. It was all a bit messy really.
“Got blind drunk and piled his car into a bus stop. She lived out here on her own until she died.
Burgled
“I only found out afterwards that she’d left it to me. Guess there was no one else in the family to pass it to.”
“So Albert Farquhar’s belongings would have been here?”
“Lord, yes. Most of them still are.
“The Farquhars never really needed to sell things off to pay the coal bill, if you know what I mean.”
Mclean looked up at the large house, then over at a lower building set a bit away; a converted coach house.
A brand new Range Rover poked its nose out of a wide garage. Money just seemed to cling to some people; they were so rich they didn’t even notice being robbed.
Was he like that? Would he get that way?
“Did you know that the place had been burgled, Mrs Johnson?”
“Goodness, no. When did you say it happened?” “Seven years ago. March the 14th. The day Miss Emmerson was buried.”
“Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. I didn’t get the house until July of that year; there was a mountain of paperwork to sort through.
“That’s what brought me back to Scotland, and once I was here, well, I realised how much I’d grown to hate London.”
Mrs Johnson paused for breath, then narrowed her eyes.
“But how do you know there was a burglary, inspector?”
“We caught the burglar trying to steal from another house. He kept records of where he’d been, and mementos from each job.”
“How very stupid of him. What did he take from here?”
“A number of small items, including a gold cufflink we can now positively identify as belonging to Albert Farquhar.”
“And is that important?”
“It could well be the clue that solves a particularly nasty murder.”
Tortuous
“Sounded like you’d met before. Did you get what you were looking for?”
Mclean studied the road as he drove the pool car back towards the city.
Grumpy Bob hadn’t moved from the car during the whole conversation.
“Mrs Emily Johnson was married to Andrew Johnson, whose father Tobias was flying the plane that crashed into the side of Ben Macdui on its way from Inverness to Edinburgh, killing himself, his son and my parents in 1974.”
He stated the facts simply, wondering why it was that they kept on coming back to haunt him. “The last time I saw her was at their funeral.” “Jesus. What’re the chances of that happening?” “Greater than you’d think, Bob.”
Mclean explained the tortuous, convoluted relationships that linked the current owner to Bertie Farquhar.
“So you reckon Farquhar’s your man, then?” “One of them. I asked Mrs Johnson if she recognised the nickname ‘Toots’, but it meant nothing to her.
“She said she’d have a search through the attic for any old photographs and stuff, though.
“And she came up with one other interesting piece of information.”
“Oh, aye. What’s that then?”
“Farquhar and Tobias Johnson were old friends. They served in the Army together during the Second World War. Some special forces group based in West Africa.”
They fell silent after that, as Mclean drove the car past the turning down to Roslin and its enigmatic chapel; past Loanhead and the blue-box Ikea warehouse, its car park overflowing with eager shoppers.
They carried on, under the bypass and through Burdiehouse; and finally up the hill towards Mortonhall, Liberton Brae and on into the city.
As they passed the entrance to the crematorium, he hit the brakes, darting in through the gates to a blare of horns from the car behind.
Grumpy Bob grabbed the dashboard, slamming his feet into the passenger foot well.
“Christ! Give us a bit of warning, will you.” “Sorry, Bob.”
Mclean pulled into a space in the car park, killed the engine and threw the keys to his passenger.
“Take the car back to the station, will you. There’s something I have to do here.”
Guilt
Mclean watched the car pull away, then went in search of the manager.
Moments later he was walking away from the crematorium building and into the grounds that surrounded it, clutching a tiny, plain terracotta urn.
It didn’t take long to reach the spot he was looking for. He felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t visited it in at least three years.
The headstone had developed a lean, probably from the action of tree roots. It bore his grandfather’s name and dates, then a wide gap had been left.
Beneath that his mother and father’s names. Two years separated their birth dates, but their deaths had occurred on the same day.
At the same instant when the aeroplane they had been flying in had hit the side of a mountain south of Inverness.
He liked to think they might have been holding hands when it happened, but in truth he hardly knew them at all.
More tomorrow.