Chapter Twenty-six
The Bainbridge Inn was as close to an American motel as Scotland was likely to offer, a series of rooms beneath a steeply pitched roof stretching from the office, each with parking outside its door. St. James rose at six. The sky was threatening, but there was no rain. Putting on his tennis shoes and sweats, he stretched and hit the road. Aches and pains manifested themselves from the previous day, but he sucked it in and ran it off. After ten minutes, the aches all merged into one.
He looped behind the Bainbridge up a rocky trail that rose sharply above the village. From the top he could see the tiny village, various farms, and outbuildings stretching out before him in the hilly gray earth. Visibility was limited to about a half mile because of the fog. He reckoned he’d done a mile by the time he got back to his room, gasping and sweating. Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day.
Connie joined St. James for breakfast in the hotel’s diner. They took a booth by the fogged window. “My friend Gert called me this morning,” Connie said. “She works for Der Stern. She did a little digging and found that Klapp left the university under a cloud. Many student complaints, mostly from outraged feminists. Apparently his brand of patriarchal Druidism was not what they wanted to hear.”
“They can’t bounce the bloke just because the students don’t like the facts.”
“There were allegations of improper contact with female students.”
St. James pinned his lower right eyelid with his index finger and pulled down, producing a lugubrious expression.
Connie laughed.
They checked out and drove to the nearest hardware store, in Selkirk, where they purchased two spade-tipped shovels, gloves, a pick, and buckets. “Relax,” St. James said. “Oi’ve done this before.”
Their departure had to wait until eleven when the local off-license opened. St. James suspected that Peter MacGowan really didn’t give a damn what kind of Scotch they got him, but it was Richard Serafin’s money so what the hell. They got him a bottle of Macallan. They headed back to Odoyle searching for the turnoff to MacGowan’s place. They passed the nearly invisible road twice before Connie spotted an old wooden pole in the ditch and nearby the detached shingle pointing to Rathkroghen. The shingle was made of rotted wood, the black on white lettering barely legible. It was their first official confirmation that such a place existed.
The rocky rutted road wound up and over the hill, and within minutes, they were out of sight of the main road. Within a mile they were out of sight of civilization. The road wound before them through bleak gray hills overgrown with gorse. The fog had lifted and a pale sun rose, but you’d never know it was summer. A stone monolith jutted toward the sky, too symmetrical to be anything other than the work of man.
Several times the car scraped its frame on the rocks. “I hope we don’t trash the bleedin’ car,” St. James said.
“Just as long as it gets us there.”
Connie fiddled with the radio but was unable to find anything but static, which was odd, because they were in the south of Scotland within broadcast distance not only of most English stations but those on the continent as well. Nor did the GPS work.
“I think we’re off the grid,” she said.
They rode on in silence until it seemed they must have passed MacGowan’s place or been given bogus direction.
“I think we should turn around,” Connie said.
“We’ll just go up to that next ridge, and if we don’t see it, we’ll go back.” St. James shifted the car into first and ground up the rough surface. They stopped where the road leveled off for about ten yards before plunging down into the next valley. A gray building made of field stone lay a quarter mile ahead, a little off the path. It had a thatched roof and smoke issued from the chimney despite it being one-thirty in the afternoon.
Connie got out of the car and took pictures. “What a terrible place.”
The only visible trees were twisted and devoid of leaves. The land looked like a frozen angry sea. Tiny lochs reflected the bleak sky. Connie got back in the car and they descended toward the cabin. Two forlorn gateposts marked a rock path leading to the cabin’s front door. It had been fitted with frame windows. Has to be absolute hell in the wintertime, St. James thought.
Grabbing the bottle of Macallan from the back seat, St. James got out. Connie was already at the front door. She lifted the cast-iron knocker in the shape of a gremlin and let it fall with a clank. St. James joined her. There was no response. She let it fall again.
From inside the cottage, they heard sounds of movement, scraping furniture, a man cursing. Seconds later the door swung inward, revealing an old man who had once been tall but was now stooped, wild white hair flying in all directions, wearing grimy long johns, dungarees, and a pair of red suspenders. He was barefoot.
“What do ye fuckin’ want?” he said in a gravelly voice.
“Mr. Peter MacGowan? Hello! I’m Connie Cosgrove from In Crowd magazine, and this is my associate Ian St. James.”
The old man peered at St. James intensely. “St. James, eh? I remember you. And a fuckin’ lot of good it done me.”
St. James held up the bottle of Scotch. “My circumstances weren’t much better than yours, Mr. MacGowan. We brought you a little something to atone for it.”
MacGowan reached for the Scotch, a gleam in his eye. “Macallan, eh? Well, you done good with the selection, now what do ye want?”
Connie went doe-eyed. “Do you mind if we come inside, Mr. MacGowan?”
MacGowan melted like a Popsicle in a microwave at the sight of Connie. “Aye. Come in. It’s a cold fuckin’ day for June. A dram’ll cheer us all up.”
He ushered them into the main room which included a tiny corner kitchen. Two closed doors presumably led to the bedroom and water closet. The room had a wood floor and a few filthy scatter rugs. Two rough-hewn benches like you might find at a summer camp pulled up to an old wood table. A fat black tabby dozed in a pale beam of light. An ancient black and white photograph hung on the wall, depicting a much younger Peter, wife Abbie, and baby Paddy standing in front of a larger house with a picket fence. Next to it was a framed Banshees poster advertising their appearance at Albert Hall.
MacGowan sat on the bench and uncorked the Scotch. He reached over to the kitchen counter and grabbed three glasses, each touting a different beer. St. James held his hands up. “None for me, thanks.”
MacGowan shrugged and poured. Connie stopped him at one finger.
MacGowan hoisted his glass. “Cheers.”
Connie sipped.
MacGowan refilled his glass. “So what do ye want?”
“We’d like to dig up Paddy’s grave. We understand you buried him yourself not far from here.”
“That I did and I’d prefer he stayed buried. What in the world do ye want to do that for?”
“We have reason to believe that’s not Paddy you buried there. I understand he was nearly incinerated in the crash. You never actually saw a body, did you?”
MacGowan looked at her through his hedgerow brows. “That I didn’t. And what do ye hope to prove?”
“The Banshees are back, Mr. MacGowan,” Connie said. “We saw them two nights ago in Berlin.”
“Yer daft.”
“Did you ever see them?” Connie asked.
“Never. I like Victor Borgia.” MacGowan poured himself another drink.
“Do we have permission to take a look in the coffin? Will you show us where you buried him?”
MacGowan waved her away. “Ahhhhh! Do what ye like, but I’m not going over there. Not today. Too much to do.”
St. James looked at the sleeping cat.
“Will you tell us how to get there?” Connie pressed in her most sincere and girlish voice.
MacGowan gestured again. “Just keep on this road another six miles. You’ll see an iron gate by the side of the road. Falling down, it is. That’s the entrance to the old Rathkroghen cemetery. Paddy’s grave’s the one with the guitar on the headstone. I didn’t pay for it. Some fan paid for it. Only person who showed up at the burial. Paddy didn’t leave many friends, did he?”
“May I take your picture Mr. MacGowan?”
The wave. “Ahhhh!”
Taking it for consent, Connie pulled out her little silver camera and carefully shot MacGowan as he sat at the table glowering. “Thank you, sir. We’ll take no more of your time.”
MacGowan didn’t answer as he carefully poured another couple of fingers. Connie placed a Walter Scott on the table. “Thank you for your trouble.”
MacGowan disappeared the bill into his pants as Connie and St. James headed out the door.
“Put it back the way ye found it,” he called after them.