Moot is a novel set during the real Third Rover Scout Moot which was held in the grounds of Monzie Castle in July 1939, just weeks before the outbreak of World War Two. We hope you enjoy this extract.

Moot
By Rob McInroy
Published by Ringwood

Bob looked up and saw a policeman standing behind the queue of Rover Scouts waiting for breakfast, flushed in his serge uniform and helmet. ‘Geordie Macrae,’ he said. 

‘Sergeant Macrae to you.’ 

‘They’ve never made you a sergeant?’ 

‘Aye, they have. Just think, if you’d stuck around you could’ve made inspector by now.’ 

Bob shuddered. ‘I think the world’s close enough to catastrophe as it is.’ 

Geordie laughed. ‘You took some findin,’ he repeated. ‘Man, this is a big site.’ 

‘Three-and-a-half thoosand laddies.’ 

Geordie hitched his head towards the exit. ‘Can we go for a wee talk?’ 

Bob gestured to the queue of men patiently watching this small scene unfold. ‘I’m a bit busy, ken?’ 

‘Bob, I am the polis.’ 

‘Come off it, Geordie, I never did what the polis said when I was in the polis.’ 

‘When d’you get a break?’ 

‘When I run out of Rovers or bacon, whichever comes first. Go and hae a walk aboot. I’ll come and get you when I’m done.’ 

‘How will you find me?’ 

‘The polisman in uniform?’ 

‘Aye, right.’ 

It was a half after midday before Bob felt he could leave James alone. He strolled to the information centre in the middle of the site and hunted for Annie. The queue for her services was longer than Bob’s bacon line and she looked puggled. Her boss, Brigadier Ross from the Black Watch, told her to take a break and they walked outside into the sunshine. 

‘My,’ Annie said, ‘I thocht cleanin for the Conoboys was hard work.’ 

He took her hand as they walked past the barber’s and the chemist, both with queues outside. ‘Geordie Macrae’s lookin for us.’ 

‘The bobby fae Perth?’ 

‘The same. Sergeant Macrae now, would you believe?’ 

Annie snorted. ‘They must be gey hard up. Geordie’s a lovely lad …’ 

‘I ken. I had to stop mysel sayin the same thing.’ 

They found Geordie admiring a fifteen-foot Loch Ness Monster carved out of a fallen tree and painted in greens and red. He was having a surreptitious cigarette and he threw it into the bushes when he saw them approaching. 

‘I was just sayin to Annie,’ Bob said, ‘you’ve been made sergeant.’ He pointed to the three chevrons on Geordie’s sleeve. 

‘Aye,’ said Annie, ‘I’m fair impressed.’ 

‘No only that,’ said Geordie. ‘Sergeant in the CID.’ 

‘CID?’ said Bob. ‘But that’s in the County force.’ 

‘Aye. I transferred from the City Police to the County.’ He pointed to the badge on his chest. ‘I’m the highest ranking CID officer in Perthshire.’ 

Bob opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. The idea of Geordie Macrae being in charge of criminal investigations was remarkable. Troubling, in fact. ‘I think I’ll tak to crime,’ he said finally. 

‘Very funny.’ 

‘So what brings you here?’ said Annie. 

‘Your discovery. Yesterday. The deid body.’ 

‘Are you goin to lead the investigation?’ 

Geordie shifted uneasily. ‘No exactly.’ 

‘No exactly?’ 

‘The word I got from on high, like, was we dinnae really want an investigation unless it’s absolutely necessary.’ 

‘What, like if someone’s been murdered, you mean?’ 

‘Aye.’ Geordie stopped, searching for the right words. 

‘Somebody has been,’ said Annie. 

‘We dinnae ken that.’ 

‘No,’ said Bob, speaking slowly. ‘That’s why you undertake an investigation. You bein a CID officer and all. Criminal investigation bein your job …’ 

‘They wanted …’ 

‘Who wanted?’ 

‘On high.’ 

Bob rolled his eyes. ‘On high wanted what?’ 

‘Unless I was sure there’d been a murder, and unless I was sure …’ He paused again. Bob and Annie waited, not understanding what was making him so reticent. ‘And unless I was sure it wasnae a tinker, then on high dinnae want an investigation.’ 

Annie looked at him incredulously. ‘So even if it was murder, if it was a traveller you were told no to investigate?’ 

‘More or less.’ 

‘“More or less”? Who on high? The Chief Constable?’ 

‘Higher, I think.’ 

‘The Procurator Fiscal?’ said Bob. 

‘Higher.’ 

Bob stared at him. ‘The government?’ 

‘The Chief Constable was on the phone for half an hoor yesterday afternoon. Hellish mood when he came aff. It was the Home Office called him.’ 

‘That doesnae mak sense,’ said Annie. ‘Why would the Home Office care?’ 

‘Because,’ said Bob, ‘the Moot’s a big international event. It’s even on the wireless the morn. It’ll be in all the papers. They winnae want a murder on the very edge of the campsite. International peace and friendship and aa that. They winnae want anyone thinkin a murder’s onythin to do with the Moot.’ 

‘So they’d cover it up?’ 

‘No cover it up. Just no investigate it.’ 

Annie turned to Geordie. ‘So what do you think? Was it a murder?’ 

‘I couldnae say.’ 

‘But you could hazard an opinion.’ 

‘It could be.’ 

‘And you think it micht be a traveller?’ 

‘Looks like it, does it no? It is a tinker’s tent, efter all.’ 

Bob whistled. ‘So you’re no goin to do anythin aboot it. D’you mind the last time the polis couldnae be arsed investigatin a crime? Barossa Street?’ 

‘Exactly. That’s why I’m here.’ 

‘How?’ 

‘Barossa Street, you did your ain investigation.’ 

‘We did, aye.’ 

‘Dinnae do it again. Please.’ 

‘How no?’ 

‘Cause if it is murder, and you find wha did it, how would that look for me?’ 

Bob pulled his pipe from his jacket and tamped tobacco into the well. ‘If I find onythin you’ll be the first to ken.’ 

‘That’s what you said last time.’ 

‘I never found onythin.’ 

‘You and I both ken that isnae true.’ 

‘Right, Geordie. I’ll no do onythin that micht embarrass you. Deal?’ 

‘Deal.’ 

Bob looked at Annie, shook his head imperceptibly. 

Moot by Rob McInroy is published by Ringwood, priced £9.99