The First Minister, page 1
G R Jordan
The First Minister
A Highlands and Islands Detective Thriller
First published by Carpetless Publishing 2023
Copyright © 2023 by G R Jordan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
G R Jordan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
G R Jordan has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-915562-37-1
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
Do not brood over your past mistakes and failures as this will only fill your mind with grief, regret and depression. Do not repeat them in the future.
Swami Sivananda
Contents
Foreword
Acknowledgement
Novels by G R Jordan
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Read on to discover the Patrick Smythe series!
About the Author
Also by G R Jordan
Foreword
The events of this book, while based around real locations in the north of Scotland, are entirely fictional and all characters do not represent any living or deceased person. All companies are fictitious representations.
Acknowledgement
To Ken, Jean, Colin, Evelyn, John and Rosemary for your work in bringing this novel to completion, your time and effort is deeply appreciated.
Novels by G R Jordan
The Highlands and Islands Detective series (Crime)
Water’s Edge
The Bothy
The Horror Weekend
The Small Ferry
Dead at Third Man
The Pirate Club
A Personal Agenda
A Just Punishment
The Numerous Deaths of Santa Claus
Our Gated Community
The Satchel
Culhwch Alpha
Fair Market Value
The Coach Bomber
The Culling at Singing Sands
Where Justice Fails
The Cortado Club
Cleared to Die
Man Overboard!
Antisocial Behaviour
Rogues’ Gallery
The Death of Macleod - Inferno Book 1
A Common Man - Inferno Book 2
A Sweeping Darkness - Inferno Book 3
Dormie 5
The First Minister - Past Mistakes Book 1
The Guilty Parties - Past Mistakes Book 2
Vengeance is Mine - Past Mistakes Book 3
Kirsten Stewart Thrillers (Thriller)
A Shot at Democracy
The Hunted Child
The Express Wishes of Mr MacIver
The Nationalist Express
The Hunt for ‘Red Anna’
The Execution of Celebrity
The Man Everyone Wanted
Busman’s Holiday
A Personal Favour
Infiltrator
Implosion
Traitor
The Contessa Munroe Mysteries (Cozy Mystery)
Corpse Reviver
Frostbite
Cobra’s Fang
The Patrick Smythe Series (Crime)
The Disappearance of Russell Hadleigh
The Graves of Calgary Bay
The Fairy Pools Gathering
Austerley & Kirkgordon Series (Fantasy)
Crescendo!
The Darkness at Dillingham
Dagon’s Revenge
Ship of Doom
Supernatural and Elder Threat Assessment Agency (SETAA) Series (Fantasy)
Scarlett O’Meara: Beastmaster
Island Adventures Series (Cosy Fantasy Adventure)
Surface Tensions
Dark Wen Series (Horror Fantasy)
The Blasphemous Welcome
The Demon’s Chalice
Chapter 01
It wasn’t that the armchair was uncomfortable; it was the fact that he sat in it every day. The view wasn’t unpalatable either, but the same view every day for the last year had become, frankly, boring. Yes, some days the mist swept through. Other days, there was that dreich drizzle, the almost mundane scourge of Hebridean life. You expected cool and wet weather. In summer, there were a few days that were quite glorious, including one which forced him to move his chair for the sun had broken through in and blazed upon him. Instead of his usual jumper and shirt, he’d been down to the thinnest fabric shirt he had. His lips smiled thinly remembering it because it was a different day. It was a day that broke the routine of the norm.
Yet he was thankful, for not everyone got the care and attention that he did. The women that worked in the care home were friendly, a bit heavy-handed and maybe a little loose with their talk. He had heard one the previous day discussing a women’s night out before a wedding. He was calmly ignoring it, instead reading a commentary on Job. When she spoke about the inflatable thing and how they were cavorting on it with their drinks, he felt distinctly uncomfortable and even offended. There was no place for talk like that. Not in the workplace.
In his years as a police officer, he never would’ve spoken like that. Yes, at times, he had to speak in a firm, confrontational way, but never with such rudeness or such a lack of propriety. As a church elder, he’d overseen many generations of ministers. He’d helped many of them become better preachers, better examples for the community. He had advised them on their wives’ place, to not let them get above their station.
Then he’d had the stroke, and nowadays he needed help just to go to the bathroom. He wasn’t totally infirm, not completely restricted. Three times a day he got up to walk. He made it down that corridor and back. Each painting was the same as the day he’d come in here. Each painting showed nothing new when you looked at them. Maybe if they had that Dutch guy, Van Gok or whatever it was he was called. Although he’d never understood what the excitement was about those flowers.
It would’ve been better if they had some historical photographs, places he could reminisce about. His life now was stuck in this one building in Leverburgh at the south end of Harris. He’d worked up in Stornoway before moving further down. Then he had tended his crop for five years before the stroke hit him. Now the house had been sold, the money being used to fund this rather drab life.
It was a sin to not be content. A sin to question what the Lord was doing, but recently, Angus McNeil had more than enough reason to question Him.
‘Hello, Angus. How are we today? How’s the view?’
There came a chortle from the young woman that passed him by. Sarah was a young mother of three. Angus knew this because she told him about twice a week. She’d moved up here with her husband looking for an idyllic lifestyle and had found a job in the care home. She had tattoos down one arm. Colourful, but it was wrong. Your body was perfect, given by the Lord. You didn’t mark it like that.
The care staff had light green tops; polo shirts presumably supplied by the care home. Some of Angus’s money they were wearing. They looked smart, in fairness, but the staff could wear whatever they wanted below these polo tops. A few of the older ladies had large skirts that drifted around just above the ankle. Sensible, appropriate. But Sarah wore jeans. They were often tight and blue, and she tucked the green top in so tight that Angus couldn’t help but notice her figure. She was also red of hair, and for some reason, had a ring that went through her eyebrow. Angus didn’t get this jewellery fascination. Earrings he could handle, but not the way they did it these days.
‘You look like a pygmy.’ His one comment on the matter.
That wouldn’t be allowed today either, would it? You couldn’t call people pygmies. It’d have to be indigenous, something or other. The world was spinning too fast for him, and he didn’t like becoming old. He didn’t like t
He watched as Sarah crossed the room, bent over to make some tea, and then brought him a large cup. It was milky, always too milky; and never warm enough. He’d questioned Sarah about this before and she said it was because he threw it around himself. She didn’t want him scalded.
He took the cup from her and then watched as she turned to make more. He found his eyes following her and then shouted at himself. A woman who’d become so brazen was not one for his eyes to follow. He felt the anger bubbling up. Why was he here? Lord, why was he here?
‘Oh, I nearly forgot, Angus,’ said Sarah. ‘Got a letter for you. Are you okay with it?’
‘Of course, I’ll be okay, dear,’ he said. ‘Have you ever thought about skirts?’
‘Oh, you don’t wear them, not with the kids. I mean, I’ve got a long summer one for when it’s boiling, but it hasn’t got that hot here, has it? But jeans are more practical, do you not think?’
She turned almost as if she was modelling, raising half her backside towards him, and Angus shook his head. But he didn’t look away. He found himself unable to look away. He was stronger when he was younger, more determined.
‘You going to open it, then?’ asked Sarah.
‘I will. I’ll do it now. You can continue making the tea.’
She would not get to see what was being delivered. This was private. You didn’t examine other people’s letters. No doubt she’d say she was just there to help, make sure he could open it.
He pulled hard. At least he thought it was hard, trying to rip the envelope apart, but it didn’t work. Then her face was there, smiling down at him as her hands removed the envelope from his and opened it with one quick movement, her nail slipping along the top edge.
‘There you go, love. Is that okay?’
He grunted, but watched her as she turned away. He used to be strong. Someone like that never would’ve entertained him. Never would’ve brought thoughts to mind that shouldn’t be there, but Sarah did every day.
Why won’t you take me away from here, Lord? he thought.
He fumbled with the pages, dropping one on the floor, and Sarah brought it back to him. The stroke had really messed him up. Angus used to be coordinated. He used to work out on the croft, tending sheep, planting vegetables, cutting peats in the summer. He was a powerful man, a proud man. Maybe he’d been too proud, and this was God punishing him.
He settled down with the letter and began to read. It was addressed to him, but there was no address at the top of the letter, so he couldn’t see who it had come from. Slowly he read it, and then he stopped. The sickness of it. How could someone write this? How could someone… His tea was sitting on the edge of the chair and it fell as he trembled at the acts described.
Sarah was over in a shot. The tea had fortunately gone to one side, but Angus was clearly affected.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Sarah. ‘Angus, are you okay? Is there pain? Can you feel any pain?’
He gave a slight shake of his head, the letter still lying on his lap, one hand vaguely holding onto it.
‘Is it the letter?’
He nodded. Slowly. He didn’t look back at it. He didn’t need to see that letter. Sarah took it off him. She began to read. She shouldn’t be doing that, but Angus couldn’t stop her.
‘The dirty bastards,’ said Sarah. ‘What the hell’s this? Do you know the people who wrote you this?’
Angus sat there, his face reddening.
‘It’s like some sort of porn thing, isn’t it? It’s like some sort of… Blimey!’
Sarah wasn’t disgusted. She was almost laughing, but Angus felt he was violated. He never agreed with that sort of thing anyway, but these days, well, men could be with men. It was still wrong, though. Still wrong in the eyes of the Lord, he thought. Some of the church had changed. Some of the church had fallen asunder. Had the Lord changed? But this wasn’t two men being together. This was abusive. One man abusing the other. The detail. The detail….
‘Flipping heck,’ said Sarah. ‘I don’t think we should be reading this. It gets a bit sick towards the end, doesn’t it?’
It got sick at the start, thought Angus. Was sick the whole way through.
‘I’m going to report this,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m going to report it to the police. You shouldn’t be receiving stuff like this. There’s no name at the end of it either. There’s no address. Did you ever get letters like this before, Angus? Ever?’
He shook his head slowly. Why are you punishing me? He said to himself. Why, God? Why do I get this at my time of life? He sat in the silence, awaiting an answer.
* * *
‘Reverend Barkley, if you could just stand over to the side there, we’ll be live in two minutes.’
The Reverend Hugh Barkley nodded and obediently stepped over onto the path that ran alongside the ruined church behind him. He hadn’t wanted to do this, preferring a quieter life, but he oversaw the parish. The TV crew had come, and his parishioners wouldn’t understand why he didn’t want himself up in the public forum.
He’d managed a quiet life since those days. He’d squirrelled away, but now he was doing a live broadcast interview. The woman who guided them over was quite the celebrity on Scottish TV. Some twenty years his junior, but she looked extremely professional. Smart, with long grey trousers and matching jacket, brown hair immaculately held in place.
He felt he had too much makeup on. Was it blusher? Something like that. They were constantly wiping around his face. People had said the television made you look fatter, and looking at the woman about to interview him, he thought that might be true. She looked incredibly slim, and yet on the television you thought she could do with a losing a bit. TV was funny.
The day was warm but a little windy. Standing in his dog collar, black trousers, and black suit jacket, Hugh remembered a time when there was more colour in his life. It was long ago, but not forgotten.
‘One minute,’ said the woman beside him. ‘Are you good?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Hugh. ‘It’s okay. I know my stuff.’
‘I’ll keep it simple. The questions will just be what we’ve asked before.’
‘Okay,’ said Hugh.
He watched her turn away to talk to someone, and he thought of a time when he really would’ve enjoyed this. Back in those days, he was up for anything, but it had been a long and distinguished career within the church. He had said nothing controversial. Done nothing controversial. He’d simply chugged along, often helping people. He kept his appetites in check.
After all, he was to set a good example. Though he could count the number of men and women interesting him, but everything was kept in the mind. That was the thing, wasn’t it? If it was in the mind, nobody else could see it. The mind was the place for it. It did no damage. And it could still be remarkably enjoyable.
‘We are live in five, four, three, two, one, go.’
Hugh stood, smiling as bright as an excited lemon. Beside him, Scotland’s finest outdoor reporter talked of the church building behind them. There had been a restoration fund and visitors were now going to come and look at the building. That was it, though, wasn’t it? All these buildings being restored to come and be looked at, not to be used.
Hugh found that strange even though he wasn’t really that committed to the God behind the church. Still, he couldn’t complain. As a boss, he hadn’t been tough. He had let him live out life in anonymity. If he’d been a hard boss, he would have been pulled out to pay for his sins, but no. He’d be all right for the next twenty years. He enjoyed his beef on a Sunday after a few inspirational words, and then back to watching the world go around.
Hugh became suddenly aware that he was being asked a question, something about the fundraising, and he blurted his prepared speech.
‘Really, it’s been a team effort. They’ve all pulled together so well. We fundraised both online and through various other collections.’
There were some people behind the interviewer. Beyond her blonde hair, he could see four figures in black coming towards him. They were masked.
