Scorpion Trail

by Geoffrey Archer

  Major Clarke-Hartley had little to say that evening, other than that the Bosnian Army third Corps was having trouble getting its Mujahedin elements to obey the cease-fire.

  ‘How many of them are there?’ asked a man from the BBC.

  ‘Don’t know for sure. A couple of hundred, maybe. But they’re a determined bunch, as many of you know.’

  There was a murmur of assent. The Muj hated journalists and they’d all had brushes with them.

  The briefing over, the Major nobbled Alex as he was about to leave.

  ‘Hi. Tell me, how’s old Mike Allison?’ he asked amiably. ‘He was in my regiment, you know. Splendid chap.’

  ‘Really? Well I’ve only met him once. Seemed pretty switched on.’

  ‘He certainly is.’ The Major seemed eager to chat. ‘So . . . where’ve you been today then?’

  Alex struggled to remember the name of the village.

  ‘Place called Duba?’

  ‘Oh, ye-es. Lots of Muj up there. We did a patrol through the area first thing this morning.’

  ‘And tomorrow we’re going to Busovaca,’ Alex continued. ‘There’s some village near there with a lot of Croat refugees, apparently.’

  ‘Balancing the books, eh? Well if there’s anything I can do, do tell me.’

  The man from the BBC had returned and hustled the Major away.

  Alex wandered back outside. Heading for Dragana’s house he suddenly noticed two armed men watching from the darkness on the far side of the road. Their eyes followed him as he turned into the drive, making the skin crawl on the back of his neck.

  He opened the door to the house and called out. No reply. Just the crackle of logs in the stove. McFee must still be doing his business. Could the man really get a thrill by paying some slag to serve him behind a container filled with ballast?

  In the living room, a single candle flickered. Alex lit another to brighten the place up, opened a can of beer and pulled out his cigarettes.

  Sod it! How was he going to persuade McFee to smuggle the girl out? He took in a lungful of smoke.

  Blackmail? Tell him he’d reveal his sordid sex life to the world? Hardly . . .

  He closed his eyes and thought of Lorna, remembering how good it had felt to be near her even if only for a moment when McFee had taken the photograph. Sounded stupid, but it had made him feel complete again. He’d never had that sort of closeness with Kirsty. He wondered how she was. There’d been no news when he’d telephoned from Split.

  He felt cosily comfortable with the gentle popping of wood on the fire, and the candle flames still as a painting. His eyelids drooped.

  After a while the sound of footsteps on the gravel stirred him from his doze. McFee returning?

  Two pairs of feet. Wouldn’t bring the whore back here, surely? He glanced at his watch. Just after ten. Late for visitors.

  A firm knock on the door. Alex took a candle to answer it.

  ‘Good evening, sir!’ A voice like a rasp. More announcement than greeting. Two UN soldiers with armbands.

  ‘Good evening. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Would you be Mister Moray McFee?’

  ‘No. He’s not here at the moment.’

  The soldiers glanced at one another.

  ‘Would it be okay if we came in and waited for him?’

  ‘I suppose so . . .’

  As he let them in, he saw the initials M.P. on their arms in big, red letters.

  ‘Can I ask who you are, sir?’

  ‘Alex Crawford. Moray and I work together. What’s this all about?’

  He gestured towards the velour sofa and they sat down, looking stiff and awkward. They laid their SA80 rifles on the carpet beside them.

  ‘A personal matter, sir. Can’t discuss it.’

  The one who’d done the talking had a sergeant’s stripes. His companion was a corporal.

  ‘I see. Well, would you like a beer?’

  Again, the policemen eyed each other.

  ‘That’d be grand.’ The accent sounded northern. Probably Liverpool.

  Alex retrieved the last two cans from the box in the corner.

  ‘Running low. I suppose I can get some more at the camp?’

  ‘No problem. Talk to my mate round the back of the NAAFI shop. He’ll see you right. Cheers.’

  They nattered for a while about beers, about the food at the camp and about the craziness of the Bosnian war. Then the sergeant looked at his watch.

  ‘D’you know when Mister McFee will be back?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t. Don’t even know where he is.’

  Alex felt the sergeant’s eyes boring into his head. Disbelief was written on the soldiers’ faces.

  ‘What’s the outfit you work for? Bosnia Emergency, is it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Just the two of you here?’

  Alex nodded.

  ‘And you don’t know where your mate is at half-past ten at night?’

  ‘Sorry. No I don’t.’ It wasn’t his business to tell them McFee was with a whore. ‘He told me he was going to hang around the camp and pick up some gossip. Are you sure I can’t help?’

  ‘Not unless your name’s McFee and you come from Edinburgh,’ the sergeant scowled.

  ‘Edinburgh? Something to do with his wife?’ Maybe she’d had an accident.

  The corporal snorted. ‘She weren’t old enough to be anybody’s wife . . .’

  Alex felt a chill descend on him. These soldiers were policemen.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  McFee’s uneasiness that evening . . . the hunted look. The feeling that the man had said more than he’d meant to . . .

  ‘There’s just some questions we want to ask him . . .’

  Alex recalled the headlines in the Edinburgh paper on the day he left home. The police with clipboards investigating the death of a girl . . . The appeal for witnesses.

  ‘You’ve not come to arrest him?’ Alex asked incredulously.

  They shook their heads in unison. The sergeant’s eyes were like bullets.

  ‘Just some questions. On behalf of Edinburgh constabulary.’

  Stony faces that suspected he knew something.

  ‘Something to do with a girl?’ A nod. ‘Not the one found dead in Edinburgh ten days ago?’

  ‘What was that then, sir?’ The well-practised look of surprise.

  ‘We’re both from Edinburgh. That’s where we met. It was in the papers when I left, about the girl. A thirteen-year-old found dead. Some suspicion she’d been caught up in prostitution?’

  The sergeant nodded slowly.

  ‘Ever talk about it, you and him?’

  ‘Never. But . . . is that why you’re here?’

  The sideways glances again.

  “Sright, sir.’

  ‘But surely you don’t think Moray . . .?’ he gasped.

  They stared blankly, letting him flounder.

  ‘Anything you want to tell me, Mr Crawford?’ The voice was softer, cajoling.

  ‘I can’t believe . . . I mean, I hardly know the bloke,’ Alex stammered. ‘Met him a couple of times on the Lothian coast, that’s all. I used to go running on the beach there, and he walked his dog.’

  ‘Yellow Craig, was it?’

  The words jabbed at his guts. The dunes . . . No one went there at night. Not at this time of year. He knew what was coming. He nodded.

  ‘That’s where they found the girl, sir. She’d been strangled.’

  Alex shook his head. McFee’s words in his head – since you’re paying for it, you call the shots . . .

  ‘She’d been a virgin, until that night . . .’ the corporal added.

  Silence. Just the fire crackling. Then a short burst from an automatic some distance away.

  ‘Cleaning the barrels . . .’ the corporal muttered. ‘’Appens most nights. They can’t seem to kick the habit round here.’

  The sergeant nudged him to be quiet.

  ‘Moray McFee killed a child?’ Al
ex gasped. He needed them to spell it out.

  ‘That’s right. At least, that’s what the boys in Edinburgh say.’

  ‘Jesus . . .! But what evidence have they got that it’s him?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir, but they sounded pretty certain. Must be if they’re involving us. Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me?’ the sergeant pressed. ‘You must have some idea where he is.’

  Alex clamped his hands on his head. His brain felt as if it were about to explode.

  ‘The last time I saw him was in the camp, after supper,’ he whispered. ‘Round where those containers are. With a woman from the kitchens.’

  ‘What, Illie?’

  ‘I think that’s the name, yes.’

  ‘Tch! She’s the camp bike,’ said the corporal.

  ‘Well . . . if what you’re saying is right, maybe . . . maybe she’s in some sort of danger . . .’ Alex spluttered. ‘I mean, Moray must be a nutter . . .’

  His mind raced. Why had McFee rung him on that day of the funeral? Why had he picked him to come out with him? As an unsuspecting smokescreen? Or because he’d been wanting to talk all along, and thought for some reason Alex would listen? He was good at listening. People always told him as much. Jodie, Kirsty – Lorna.

  ‘Shouldn’t you go and search the camp?’ he suggested.

  ‘Done that just now. We know all the places. We’ll just wait.’ They sat in silence, Alex staring at the floor and the soldiers staring at him.

  Maybe McFee had been on the point of confessing . . . Maybe that’s why he’d begun talking about his ‘somewhere else’.

  ‘Don’t mind us if you want to turn in,’ the sergeant said before long.

  Alex looked at his watch again. After eleven. He stood up and moved to the window, the neighbouring houses of the village dark and silent in the grey moonlight. McFee was out there somewhere. A hostage of the night.

  ‘All right with you if we sit it out ‘til he gets back?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Mmm? Yes of course.’ He turned back to face them. ‘I think I will head for the sack.’

  ‘Just before you do, sir, can I have a quick shufti round?’

  The sergeant propelled himself to his feet and flicked on a pocket torch.

  ‘Always like to see how the other half lives . . .’

  Alex bristled at the implication he was hiding McFee, but followed him to the bathroom then the bedroom.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Not a bad little place, sir. Got the landlady upstairs, have you?’

  Alex nodded. He wanted to be on his own now.

  ‘No more beer, I’m afraid,’ he said, heading for his room. ‘But help yourself to tea and coffee. If I’m asleep when he comes back, you’d better wake me.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. ’Night.’

  Alone, Alex sat on the divan with his head in his hands. For over a week he’d been cheek by jowl with a man who’d raped a child, then stolen her life – and he’d known nothing about it. He couldn’t believe it.

  The MPs would have to arrest Moray. Ship him back to Scotland so the Edinburgh CID could get to work on him.

  He sat motionless for a stretch, stunned and incredulous. The man had seemed so normal most of the time. ‘I love children’, he’d said. God Almighty! How could McFee live with himself? And he’d talked so gloatingly of his ladies o’ the night . . . The man was sick.

  After a while Alex suppressed his feelings. Had to think about what it meant for him – the practical problem of carrying on the job without McFee.

  There was the delivery to the Croats in the morning. And there’d have to be a phone call to Mike Allison in Farnham.

  Then the journey through the mountains back to Split, driving the Bedford all the way by himself . . .

  It hit him.

  Without McFee, there would be no one to stop him smuggling Lorna’s orphan out in the back of the truck . . .

  Sixteen

  Tuesday 29th March

  Vitez

  ALEX WAS WOKEN by the sound of tank tracks outside. He held his wrist away from his face, trying to make out the figures on his watch.

  Five past seven. Jesus! He’d slept, despite everything. Was McFee back? He had no idea.

  He tugged down the zip of his sleeping bag and extracted his feet, still wearing yesterday’s socks. It was icy cold in the room. He pulled on his long johns, jeans and a pullover.

  Gruff voices as he stumbled into the sitting room, and rifles on the floor. The soldiers who’d come for McFee last night were still here.

  ‘Morning,’ he mumbled, startled. ‘Where’s Moray? Didn’t he come back?’

  The sergeant raised himself from the sofa and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Nope. Can’t have done.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We both ’ad a nap. Took it in turns . . .’

  They stood up and shook the stiffness from their legs.

  ‘Where the hell is he, then?’ demanded Alex. ‘Something must have happened.’

  ‘Yeh. Must’ve. We’d better put the word out.’

  ‘You’re going to search for him?’ Alex pressed, anxiously.

  ‘We’ll look round the camp anyway. There’s a limit though. We’re not the law around here.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No, ta. Better you hang on here in case he turns up. Can I trust you to let us know?’

  ‘Don’t you worry . . .’

  The soldiers picked up their rifles, straightened their berets, and left.

  Alex stared out of the window trying to get his sleep-befuddled brain thinking again. He turned to the stove, swung the kettle to check there was water in it, then placed it over the heat. A mug of tea was what he needed.

  Last night when the soldiers told him what McFee was accused of, he’d felt revulsion for the man. Now in the light of day, he was worried for his safety.

  With the tea inside him, he began to think straighter. Perhaps there was a simple explanation for his disappearance. Moray could have spent the night in Illie’s bed, wherever that was. Maybe he would turn up for breakfast in the cookhouse.

  He pulled on his walking boots, left foot first, still ruled by the silly superstition he’d cultivated during his Scottish exile.

  There had been a dusting of snow overnight. He hurried down the road to the UN camp, took his breakfast tray to an empty table, and scanned the faces around him. McFee’s was not amongst them.

  As he was finishing, he spotted Major Clarke-Hartley emerging from the partitioned-off section for officers. He hurried over to catch him.

  ‘Morning Alan!’

  ‘Alex. Good day to you.’

  They stepped into the fresh air, a crisp astringent after the cookhouse fug.

  ‘I’ve got a problem on my hands,’ Alex began.

  ‘Yes. You bloody well have.’

  ‘You’ve heard?’

  “Fraid so. The MPs dropped in when they left your house this morning. What’s your chum been up to?’

  ‘Nothing good. But we’ve got to find him. Could he have been taken hostage d’you think?’

  ‘Anything’s possible in this place. We’ll send someone to badger the HVO this morning.’

  ‘Thanks. In the meantime I’ve got boxes to deliver to the Croats. Don’t even know how to find the place.’

  ‘We’ll send a recce patrol with you. And we’ll lend a pair of hands to get the boxes into the truck.’

  ‘Terrific, Alan. I’m most grateful.’

  ‘Look, when you talk to Mike Allison today, as I’m sure you will, do make the point that you’re a bit thin on the ground. You need a full-time liaison bod and an interpreter. I know it’s to do with money, but tell him all the same. And say it came from me.’

  ‘I will,’ Alex muttered. ‘Couldn’t agree more.’

  The call to Farnham would wait until later. McFee might have turned up by then.

  After half-an-hour, Clarke-Hartley sent round a corporal to help Alex load up. Then a pair of Scimitar light tanks
scurried up the road from the camp.

  The lieutenant in command checked the grid reference of the village they were bound for on his hundred thousand scale map.

  ‘Right,’ he called from his turret. ‘All set?’

  ‘Yes, but not too fast. I’m still a bit green with the driving.’

  The truck seemed bigger with just himself in the cab, but with one white tank in front and another behind, at least he felt safe.

  The road crossed the battle zone along what was now a cease-fire line. Huge water-filled craters, bullet-spattered houses, and a mosque minaret broken like a spear bore witness to the intensity of the fight of recent weeks. Somewhere in the hills to his left was Tulici, Alex remembered.

  The route followed the line of the La?va river, a pretty torrent under a pale blue sky, spoiled here and there by the detritus of war.

  Thirty minutes later they reached the Croat village up a muddy track just wide enough for the Scimitars. Children in anoraks and bobble hats ran to greet them.

  An HVO soldier waved the vehicles towards a barn. The ground sloped. Alex pulled on the handbrake, cut the engine, but left it in gear.

  No crowds surging forward like yesterday. Just dozens of watchful faces emerging from houses, alerted by the noise of the engines. And, striding towards the Bedford, a priest in a black cassock.

  ‘Dobro jutro.’

  ‘Good morning,’ Alex replied, jumping to the ground.

  ‘English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can speak. Welcome. I am Father Pravic. I am priest here.’

  Pravic, Alex gulped.

  ‘I’m Alex Crawford. My organization’s called Bosnia Emergency.’

  Did he say Pravic?

  ‘You bring food, or medicines?’

  ‘Tinned food and clothing. Mostly for children. You can use it?’

  ‘Of course. Everything needed here. Come. I show.’

  The crucial question hovered on Alex’s lips.

  The priest led him into the barn. The cows had been chained at one end to make space for humans. Dozens and dozens of them.

  ‘One hundred twenty refugees came when their village was attacked,’ the priest explained. ‘Ten people killed.’

  Tired, defeated faces. Same as yesterday, just Catholic, instead of Muslim.

  ‘I have some boys ready to help,’ said the priest, directing him outside again.