The Goldenacre

Episode 56

Shona closed the call. The sun was now high and warm on her neck and arms.

“What was that all about?” her father said, not looking at her, but filling in the hole again. A single fat worm slowly writhed on the turned mud.

“A story I’m working on. I’m not sure where it’s going. There’s some kind of financial thing going on, and I don’t quite understand it. Filthy lucre. Hector might work it out, though. Maybe we will work it out together.”

“Hector might, he’s a bright boy,” her father said, nodding. “But I am sure you’ll work it out. So is there something new? Some new information? Is this the Cullen murder?”

“No, that’s all gone quiet for now,” she said. “Funeral is probably next week, suspect we’ll send someone along to get all the misery and heartbreak. Ask his wife and kids how sad they are. The usual.”

“Aye, the “how devastated are you?” quotes,” Hugh said, flattening down the earth. “Poor wee John Cullen, he was one of the good ones. Head staved in, I heard. Nasty business.”

Shona peered at her father. “How do you know he had his head staved in?”

“I still have my contacts and conversations.” He grinned. “You’re not the only ace reporter in the family.”

Kneeling in the wet soil, his face muddy, his thin hair under a heavy woollen cap and his beard bristling, he looked medieval. “So, what did you hear?”

“I heard,” he said, standing up slowly, levering himself with a dirty hand on a knee, “that it’s all not quite as the polis quite said it was. It wasn’t some mugging gone wrong. Cullen’s head was panned in, I heard. Messy and violent.”

“Head panned in?”

“Aye, like I just said. I need a coffee, and it sounds like you need one too. Would you be my darling and put the kettle on?” he said, pointing to the shed.

“Robert Love had his head ‘panned in’ too,” she said, standing and moving to the shed.

“Two burst heids in a week,” her dad said. “It’s all a mucky business, my sweetness.”

Shona clicked on the kettle, and something in her brain clicked. On the small black kettle, a red light came on.

After a short while, the water began to boil angrily.

“Jeez,” she said.

“No need for that, Shona Rose Sandison,” her father chirped from outside.

“I think I need to call Stricken back.” The plastic shell of the kettle was shaking and shooting out steam. Shona bit her lip and looked for Stricken’s number.

“It’s your day off,” her father said. He was washing his hands under the metal tap outside. “And I’m cooking tonight.”

“I’ve had enough chilli con carne this week,” she said.

“Impossible.” He wiped his hands on his dirty trousers.

Shona phoned Stricken, but it rang and rang then went to voicemail. She rang the newsdesk at the Post. It rang for a while – the paper was being put together by a skeleton crew, and it was likely Stricken was the only reporter on duty. “Post?” a voice said quickly.

“I’m looking for Stricken.”

“Hi, Shona. How nice to hear your voice.

He’s away.”

“Away? He’s on duty.”

“I know,” the tired production editor, Taylor, said, “but he’s out on a job, I’m guessing.”

“Where to?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Why don’t you call him? He’s taken the pool car, so I guess it’s further than a walk. There’s not much doing today so maybe he’s just gone to the shops.”

“Unlikely. He doesn’t shop. Any idea at all where he is? I need to speak to him about a tale.”

“No, I don’t. How would I know? Lemme look at his desk.

“Don’t exert yourself too much,” Shona said.

She noticed her heart was beating faster. “Shona, I’ve fourteen pages to fill, no ads and only one story. The only thing we got is the big fire in Glasgow – that’s it. Why don’t you come in and file some copy yerself ? Wait a second.”

The receiver was plonked down on a desk. Shona could hear Taylor stomping through the office. Other phones were ringing. A TV clearly had football on.

“Come on, come on,” she said. The handset was picked up again. “What big fire in Glasgow?” she said.

“Art school burned down again,” her father said, from the garden.

“Shona, do you watch the news? Fire at the art school. Last night. I guess that’s the splash. The Mackintosh Building is a ruin. Burned to the ground. No deaths, thankfully. But a disaster.”

“Jeez,” she said, “that’s two fires there now.”

“Yes – fancy writing a spread and an analysis piece by 5 pm on it?”

“No. It’s in Glasgow, anyway, so no one east of Lenzie gives a damn. Anything on Stricken’s desk?”

“The usual jungle of rubbish. A Post-it note I left earlier. Some guy called for him. All a bit vague. So, nothing new.”

“What was the message? We’re working on the same story, Taylor. Was there a meeting planned or something?”

“He just left an address – there’s not much detail: Oldmeg Developments. I think that’s one of those new housing developments out in East Lothian. Not sure that’s enough of a story for our brave man Stricken to get his teeth into. As I said, he’s probably off to the Gyle to buy some new waterproofs.”

“Taylor – thanks,” she said, and closed the call.

While her dad whistled in the newly warm sun outside, she searched the internet on her phone for Oldmeg Developments.

“Aye, the art school, it’s a rum do, I tell you that,” her father said.

“Oldmeg. Here it is. Yep, it’s a new housing development in East Lothian.”

“They’re throwing them up down there,” Hugh said. “Edinburgh’s population is expanding and will be bigger than Glasgow by–”

“Fascinating facts, Dad,” she said sharply, staring at her phone.

More tomorrow.

Philip Miller lives in Edinburgh. An awardwinning journalist for 20 years, he is now a civil servant. The Goldenacre, published by Birlinn, follows his previous novels, The Blue Horse and All The Galaxies. His latest novel, The Hollow Tree, is to be a sequel to The Goldenacre.

Shona clicked on the kettle, and something in her brain clicked