It was nearing midnight when Rattray lifted a suitcase into the boot of his car and drove off, lifting a hand in salutation to Mackinnon under a porch light at his front door. Ten minutes later a car passed him travelling in the opposite direction and he thought he recognised the vehicle as belonging to Special Branch. He rubbed an eye. Surely he was mistaken.
It was a lonely time to be on the road. He drove around the head of Loch Linnhe where it nearly meets Loch Eil, through Fort William, and inland by mountainous country along Loch Laggan to Kingussie, in Gaelic ‘the head of the pine forest’, the great rival of neighbouring Newtonmore and once capital of ancient Badenoch.
Despite the early hour, he was awaited. He released hold of his suitcase and held out his hand. The hotel manager gripped it firmly and greeted him with a sad smile, “Good to see you again.” He leaned forward and grasped the extended handle of the heavy case.
“There’s a snack laid out in the room for you,” he added. “The family are coming back here after the funeral. You’ll know that it’s Kenny Stewart being buried today. Tomorrow it’s the turn of poor Johnny Borthwick and Peter Mackenzie, the goalkeeper.”
Rattray said,” Was that black crepe I saw around the market cross?”
“It was. Did you not see black drapes on the street lighting? It’s the same in Newtonmore. Everyone here is still in shock. There’s anger too, under the dignity. A lot of anger.”
The pain in Rattray’s face silenced the hotelier for a moment. “Aye, you were there, they told me,” the hotel manager said quickly. “I’ll show you to your room.” He reached down towards Rattray’s suitcase.
Rattray shook his head. “It’s fine. No weight. I’ll take it.” The manager leading, they ascended a winding carpeted stair in the grey stone hotel, once an estate owner’s mansion house. The hotelier pushed a room key into the lock. The key turned with a neat click.
“I’ll give you a call at eight thirty,” the hotel manager said, “and bring up eggs and bacon at nine. I’ll have the Press downstairs. Better have a quiet breakfast here. The cortege sets off at eleven.” He withdrew the room key and handed it to Rattray who stepped past him and placed his suitcase on a rack by the door. The hotelier sighed and backed out of the room.
Rattray was showered and shaved when the manager brought a breakfast tray. “You should switch on the set,” he said, nodding at the black screen of a small television. “Two Daily News journalists shot dead in Strontian last night; it’s all over the news channels. They are saying that the killer committed suicide. It must have happened around the time that you left,” and he laid the tray on a tiny table under the window. He tried to keep it matter-of-fact, but an excitement in his voice defeated him.
Rattray stared at the hotelier. He remembered Baby-face on the hillside, “Press, sir…Daily News, the paper that never sleeps”, with the grizzled photographer ambling towards high trees beside the Polloch road. And the car that had flashed past would indeed have been driven by Special Branch racing to the scene. “Whatever happened last night, I’ve Kenny Stewart’s family to meet and the funeral to go to,” Rattray said, but not unkindly. “Nothing else matters this morning.”
Breaking news of the Strontian shootings had captured headlines. Media representatives in Kingussie had reacted with horror then thought to add speculation that these events were not merely co-incidental, an approach that elevated coverage of this first funeral from national news to a leader worldwide.
With newsmen and newswomen focused on reshaping their presentation, Rattray was able to slip unnoticed from the hotel and walk to the square where mourners were congregating behind black cars patiently awaiting immediate family of the deceased. Sunlight glinted on polished surfaces and a light air rustled crepe bandages on the market cross and stirred the sad cloths hanging from street lights.
It was as though the town had closed for the day. Many high street shops were shuttered and blinds were drawn everywhere. Black tape linked all lighting standards along the route to the church and its graveyard. Media cameramen had taken prime viewing positions. A planned aerial filming by helicopter had been cancelled after an interview with four survivors.
The funeral cortege was led by a piper playing slow marches through streets lined with silent onlookers. Behind the family came the shinty teams of Kingussie and their rivals, Newtonmore, followed by a host representing the Commission, the Camanachd Association, local and national officialdom, and people of Badenoch.
The church was packed and several hundred folk stood outside in bright sunshine singing hymns in unison with mourners in the church. Mellow and comforting, their voices blended in the spring air. The service over, the single piper led them once more, with Mo Dhachaidh, My Home, to the graveside.
The families of the bereaved had determined to have the same procedure followed for each of the dead men in order to emphasise unity in life and in death. It was a ritual destined to be much repeated. Only Rattray, of the large Commission contingent present, would attend each occasion.
Rattray would have walked in procession with Assistant Director and the other Commission notables but Kenny Stewart’s father had come over to him and asked him to accompany members of the immediate family, as a close personal friend. When Assistant Director advanced at the head of a group of Commission executives to offer condolences he remained silent, allowing the hierarchy to introduce themselves and make expressions of sympathy, not intruding into these little moments.