Assistant Director was breakfasting with Legal Blair when the Kingussie Hotel manager came to their table. For a moment he hovered above them before he introduced himself with a discreet cough.
“Have you gentlemen seen the newspapers?” he queried, knowing they had not. “I’ve brought one for you.” He laid a copy of the Daily News ‘Sunday Special’ beside a toast rack. “It’s come out,” he said, nodding sagely, “had to, I always said.”
“Well, well,” Assistant Director had caught the startling headline, “Daily News has revealed the role of their helicopter…I see it was chartered by some freelance photographer. Do read with care, Blair. Ah, Rattray…”
“Good morning,” Rattray said. “I see you already have the news.”
“Indeed we have,” Assistant Director replied, eyeing the Regional Chief with some distaste. “I trust these disclosures will give comfort to people here in Kingussie. It clears their forester of any error of judgement.”
“I’ll contact Mackinnon in Strontian,” Rattray turned to leave, “he may not know.”
Mackinnon was paying a rare Sunday visit to the office at Polloch when the phone rang. The ganger who had accompanied him handed over the receiver. “Rattray for you, Euan,” the ganger said, curiosity in his voice. “Sounds important.”
Mackinnon remained expressionless as Rattray relayed the news story under the ‘Lochaber Tragedy’ headline.
“So the Daily News is taking responsibility, I can hardly believe it,” Mackinnon said.
“An over-zealous freelance photographer is to be blamed, they say, along with a pilot who should have known better. They report that the freelance was an occasional hireling of the Daily News. The paper confesses to an obsession with giving readers the latest news and the most lurid pictures that money can buy. Did you ever give the newspaper a statement, Mac?”
“No, I never did,” Mackinnon said. “Daily News employed the two poor buggers who ended up being shot because news reports didn’t mention a helicopter. Remember, as soon as men in the Community Centre accused that baby-faced reporter of a cover-up, Noel went crazy with the gun.”
“Christ, of course,” Rattray said. “There’s a paragraph in the newspaper explaining that the early reports didn’t carry the full story because they needed verification, they took it so seriously. Responsible journalism, I believe they are saying. Suffering from their commitment to the truth, it seems. They are reporting themselves as victims.”
Mackinnon handed back the telephone to the ganger and walked outside. Mist dragged over burnt hillsides and drizzling rain refreshed him. There was muted ringing from the hutments. Through a streaked window pane he saw the ganger wave him in. Mackinnon pushed at the door.
“Would you credit it, it’s the Daily News for you,” the ganger said.
“Tell them to…just say I’m not available right now,” Mackinnon replied. “Tell them that it’s the Sabbath, that up here we all pray all day long. No, don’t tell them that. Don’t tell them anything. Refer them to Head Office. Ask them to ring our Press Liaison people, then hang up.”
Mackinnon walked back outside. There was something cleansing about the rain. He stood bareheaded while his hair grew lank and droplets ran down his face.