Read Online North Sea Requiem by A. D. Scott - Free Book Online

help.”
    The decisive way McAllister rattled out orders helped. Frankie stood, thanked him.
    McAllister stood and shook Frankie’s hand. “Give your father my best.”
    â€œThanks, boss.” Rob spoke quietly for both of them, grateful and relieved that McAllister was involved.
    McAllister saw that Rob had automatically run in three or four sheets of paper, separated by carbon paper. “Show a copy to Don. Ask his opinion.” He was hoping Don the oracle might find some clue in the words.
    He took his hat, walked out into a wind that could cut through steel, regretted he’d left his coat at home, and marchedup the street to Boots the Chemist, making straight for the stationery department.
    Basildon Bond was the label on the writing pads. Matching envelopes were next to them. Parker pens, bottles of blue ink, and black, were on the next shelf.
    â€œSell many of these?” McAllister asked the woman behind the counter, who was standing, looking bored, and welcomed a chance of a conversation.
    â€œLoads,” she said. “Our best line.”
    â€œThese pens?”
    â€œAye, they don’t sell as well as the new biros, but they sell. Especially after the eleven plus results come out, or when school starts, or after the Highers’ results, or for birthdays . . . grannies are always after buying them for birthdays.”
    â€œSo, mostly sold for high school students.” It wasn’t a question, more an affirmation, but the woman started off again.
    â€œAye. Sometimes people buy them for themselves, but . . .”
    â€œWomen?”
    â€œMostly. Men buy black ink and . . .”
    It took her a moment to register that McAllister had doffed his hat, muttered thanks, and was walking towards the stairs, leaving her still talking.
    A woman, he was thinking as he walked back to the office , would a woman do this? He remembered the acid had caught Nurse Urquhart on the throat . I wonder how tall she is, was his next thought. Maybe the attacker was shorter and missed the face? The very idea of throwing acid was abhorrent—an act of desperation—or revenge. Whatever the motive, it was an act of hate. And hate kills.

S IX

    J oanne was fascinated by Mae Bell, a woman whom she hardly knew, but an exotic creature in these parts. Mae represented everything Joanne wanted to be—confident, elegant, well-traveled, mysterious. She wanted to keep Mae Bell to herself, but also wanted to show off her fascinating new friend.
    Chiara and her father, Gino Corelli, were outsiders, people of the world—coming to this distant highland town from war-ravaged Italy, meeting up when the war was over, and Gino Corelli, released from a prisoner of war camp in northern Scotland, had made the decision to stay. They have no coffee or ice cream, was Gino’s simple explanation for the decision. That there was nothing left for him in his birthplace was the real reason; wife killed, home and orchards and olive groves and small café burned to the ground—that was the real reason. That and a chance to make a better life.
    Make a better life he did; a new café, an ice cream business, and a fish-and-chips shop were all achieved in the first seven years. His daughter’s marrying another émigré, a Polish nobleman who had fled with his air force unit to Scotland, delighted him. The recent birth of his first grandson delighted him even more.
    Life is good, Gino Corelli said. Often.
    Joanne hoped her friends would find Mae Bell as fascinating as she did, and when Mae Bell said she wanted to thank Joanne for the article on her husband, she agreed to meet in the café on the river.
    â€œHello, Mr. Corelli.”
    He looked up, saw Joanne, and smiled with his whole body.
    â€œI’d like to introduce my friend Mrs. Mae Bell.” Joanne stood back, gesturing towards Mae as though she were a prize exhibit in an art gallery.
    â€œMae, please. Hi,