Free The Low Road by A. D. Scott Page B

beach at the bend of the river where the fishermen kept the salmon cobles and where he had first kissed Joanne, the shore was wider and broader than usual. Stones and rounded smooth boulders—never having been exposed to the air before—were now a dull green, not the bright beech-leaf-green normally seen through the running river.
    A drought in the Highlands, he thought, that’ll be the day .
    The road to the ferry led to the meeting place, the pub rumored to belong to Jenny McPhee. Not that she had ever admitted this. Not that anyone was ever able to prove it. He parked outside with five minutes in hand. He knew his car would be safe because this pub, the most notorious in the area, if not the Highlands, was hallowed ground. No one would voluntarily cross the McPhees.
    The sun, still high in the sky even at this hour, shone on the stark edifice of a superbly unattractive blockhouse, doing it no favors. This building was a creature of the night. Daylight revealed rough concrete, badly laid tiles, high dirty windows. To McAllister, everything about the building was saying, Despair all ye who enter herein .
    Jenny was sitting in the snug bar, where he knew she would be. She checked the clock.
    â€œRight on time,” she said.
    â€œI’d be too scared not to be after your note.”
    She nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll no’ keep you. You’ll be wanting to get home to Joanne and the girls,” she started.
    She definitely has the second sight , he thought.
    She had her coat on, buttoned up. Her hat, the one that belonged on a scarecrow, was pulled down on the forehead hiding her face, partially . She’s looking old, was his next thought, or is it scared?
    â€œSo what did you find out in Glasgow?” She knew that if he’d found Jimmy he would have come straight out with it.
    â€œNot much,” he began. He was not offered a drink. She didn’t indicate a chair. Seeing that this was the way of it, he gave his account of the trip to Glasgow as though he was in the witness stand.
    â€œHe did his thirty days. Was released. A reporter at the Herald told me she’d heard there are people looking for Jimmy. She doesn’t know who, but she’s investigating.” He refrained from lighting a cigarette, even though he needed one. This was not a friendly meeting; this was an interview.
    â€œA man I knew as a boy came looking for me to warn me off,” McAllister continued.
    That made Jenny look up. “And?”
    â€œThis man, he didn’t mention Jimmy’s name, ‘my friend’ is what he said, and . . .”
    â€œHis name?”
    â€œGerry Dochery.”
    Jenny was shaking her head, indicating she had never heard of him.
    â€œHe’s well known, runs protection rackets, though sometimes he’ll take a contract, so I was told, but I couldn’t find out how, or if, he is connected to Jimmy.” He knew he wasn’t being completely honest but then again, he was reasoning, Gerry Dochery only mentioned “my friend.”
    â€œSo,” Jenny said after taking a sip of a clear, peat-smelling drink, obviously an Islay malt. “So,” she said again slower this time, “what do we do now? Have you an idea where to look for him?” She knew that if Jimmy were hiding, he’d be hard to trace. If not impossible.
    â€œNot really. Mary Ballantyne, the reporter at the Herald, she has a better chance than most of finding Jimmy.”
    â€œTell her there’s some money in it for her.”
    â€œI don’t think that will make a difference. Mary is in it . . .”
    â€œFor herself.”
    He’d meant her career. But maybe “herself” was more honest.
    Jenny sighed. “Aye, a woman needs to be tough to get on in a man’s world.” She was looking into the depths of her glass as though it held the secret to her son’s whereabouts. Then looking at him with her