Death Takes the Low Road

by Reginald Hill

  Hazlitt’s speed was eight times that and in any case his attention was very much distracted from the task.

  The man changing the wheel was the aubergine-eared gunman. The ginger man standing beside him was his driver companion. And the woman sitting on a rock by the roadside, smoking a cigarette, was Tom (Mark II)’s companion from Coruisk.

  He found he had braked hard. The mini-bus skidded elegantly, the two men leapt aside with athletic grace, even the sound of the collison had something almost harmonious about it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ repeated Hazlitt as the echoes died away. None of the geologists seemed injured but all looked badly shaken. He felt guilty at the ill repayment he had given them for their kindness. Outside, the trio from the shooting-brake were regrouping. The least he could do for his companions was spare them any involvement in gun play. He slid open the door and stepped out, hands slightly raised in surrender. Aubergine-ear had his right hand resting menacingly in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Please,’ said Hazlitt, shaking his head. ‘Whither thou goest I will go, thy people shall be …’

  But he didn’t finish. There was another screeching and wailing of brakes behind him and round the bend came the red Capri.

  Hazlitt flung himself out of its path and tumbled down a rocky incline into a saucer of boggy turf. Above, Tom (Mark I) proved himself a very superior kind of driver by successfully evading the mini-bus. Indeed he would probably have evaded everything had it not been for the presence on the road of the Skye trio. Unable to believe such a thing could happen twice, their evasion tactics were much more laboured than before, and Tom (Mark I), faced with a choice of running them down, or proceeding off the road into a natural car trap of rock and bog, or side-swiping the white shooting-brake, opted for the last.

  After the noise there was a long silence. Nobody seemed very interested in stirring. The geologists made no move to leave their bus, Tom (Mark I) sat quietly and impassively in his car, the Skye trio seemed bent on impressing a permanent outline of themselves into the ground.

  Hazlitt rose and checked himself for damage. All appeared well.

  There are times, he thought, when a man of breeding does not speak but slips away with unobtrusive speed. Such a time was now.

  He began to move with tasteful discretion away from the road and quickly disappeared among the rocky contours of the countryside.

  7

  The geography of Great Britain had occupied no great part of Caroline’s education. She knew from its appearance on her nursery globe how small it was compared with the great landmass of the Americas, or continental Europe, or Asia. And though she had outgrown her childish belief that her father’s homeland was a kind of Lilliput from which he on account of his unusual size had been expelled, she still retained an unspoken sense of miniaturism about the place.

  Even the journey from Edinburgh to Skye through some of the most splendid scenery she had met with did not dispel this. It was a long journey, true, but it was the insane bloody roads that made it so. A six-lane freeway would have made it a pre-breakfast jaunt.

  Thus it came as a nasty surprise to her to realise that Skye (not even a real island, she had been told, but a mere isle) was rather more than a couple of acres in size and had an interior and a population large enough to swallow Hazlitt without trace.

  She was back to her California private-eye role. This time she did have a photograph to slap down on bar counters, but unfortunately this photograph was worse than no photograph at all. She tried it out in Kyleakin, persuading a half-distrustful, half-amused barman to retreat to the optimum distance of eight feet and try to identify the vague outline of Hazlitt’s head. The two or three occupants of the bar (which was in an hotel and labelled, with true Scots economy, ‘public bar’ on the street entrance and ‘cocktail lounge’ on the hotel entrance) joined in the game. One of them affected to recognise the Prime Minister in the blurred arrangement of grey dots; another averred it was a thumbprint on the negative. Only a large bearded man in a tweed suit seemed truly interested and asked her many questions about Hazlitt’s appearance. His own face seemed vaguely familiar, but as she found most bearded men practically indistinguishable she was not much occupied by this.

  His efforts to help were interrupted by a summons to the telephone, upon which Caroline attempted to use the bar for its official purpose only to find it had closed. However, as a consolation, the barman offered two pieces of advice.

  ‘If your mannie’s a camping and hiking sort of fellow, you’d best ask after him in Sligachan or some such place. He’d no’ spend much time about here.’

  This made sense, but his second suggestion—to enquire of the men who worked on the ferry—made even more. Caroline realised guiltily that she had driven aboard, sat plunged in thought in her car during the brief crossing, and disembarked on Skye, without once considering the human agencies involved. She had once mocked Hazlitt with a charge of affectation when he had sent his compliments to a corner-café chef who had produced an unusually tasty lamb chop on a cheap businessman’s lunch menu.

  ‘You think it’s all done by machines, my dear,’ he had reprimanded her. ‘There’s a craftsman in that kitchen. He deserves our praise.’

  Now she set off down to the harbour feeling positively apologetic. Outside the hotel she was overtaken by the bearded Scot on his way to the car park.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said to her. ‘Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she answered, feeling disproportionately cheered by this gratuitous encouragement.

  It was hard to interview the men on the ferry and her sense of apology rapidly disappeared. They spent their lives in perpetual motion. When the ship stopped they moved; only when the vessel was in motion was there a chance of getting hold of one of them, so Caroline travelled across to the mainland and back with the ferry.

  She no longer bothered with the newspaper clipping, which had proved pretty useless as a visual aid so far, but offered instead a graphic description of Hazlitt to anyone who would listen.

  At the fith time of asking she struck oil.

  ‘Aye,’ said a young rather oil-stained boathand. ‘The wee man wi’ the van, ye mean? I mind him fine. That was a laugh, eh? Excuse me.’

  The ferry was docking at the other side and he set about his business of organising the influx of cars, leaving Caroline impatiently awaiting his return.

  ‘What do you mean, with the van?’ she asked, as they began juddering their way over the sea to Skye once more.

  ‘Is it no’ him ye mean?’ asked the youth. ‘Funny wee fellow, very red in the face, thin in the hair and stickitout ears? Och, I’m sorry, it’s no’ yer fether, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Caroline with a grin, storing the conversation up for later use. ‘But the van. You don’t mean the van in the water?’

  There had been no reason hitherto to think of any direct connection between Hazlitt and the central incident of the photograph. It had merely seemed a happy coincidence that he should have been a spectator and got his picture in the paper. But now …

  Quickly she produced the newspaper cutting and showed it to her informant.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘He hoppit out of it like a scalded cat, he was sae keen to catch the ferry. Well, he managed it, but the brake canna ha’ been properly locked, for the van came rolling doon the causeway after him. Mon, it was funny!’

  He laughed delightedly at the memory, but Caroline did not join in. Staring at the picture, she felt her heart sink as another ‘obvious’ fact she had completely missed now shouted out at her. The blurb underneath only referred to ‘the Skye ferry’ and she had foolishly assumed that this meant the ferry Hazlitt was on was making the crossing to Skye. Instead it was now clear as she glanced up and looked at the fast-approaching harbour of Kyleakin that the boat in the picture was leaving the island.

  Which meant that the formidable task of tracking him down on Skye was now dwarfed by the impo
ssible prospect of seeking him almost anywhere on the mainland.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, and wondered again if it was worth it.

  Despondent, she left the ferry and walked slowly back into Kyleakin along the line of cars waiting to embark. Halfway along the queue, she passed a battered cream-and-brown Peugeot. In it, listening to the radio, was the bearded Scot. He didn’t notice her, but she noticed him.

  Convinced that she was merely over-compensating for her previous stupidity and clutching at straws, Caroline stepped into an open shop doorway and dug out her newspaper clipping once more.

  If Hazlitt had come out of that van, then he had something to do with anyone else who had been in it. And the more she stared from the bearded face in the paper to the bearded face in the car, the more she became convinced they were one and the same.

  It was crazy, but what the hell! It was pointless staying on Skye for anything but a holiday and a holiday was not what she felt like just now.

  She set off at a brisk, athletic jog-trot to where she had parked her car.

  The flaxen-haired man who had driven off the ferry behind her slowly followed.

  ‘Yes, sir. I know she went to Skye. I caught up with her there.’

  ‘Clever boy. What’s she doing there?’

  ‘She’s not there any longer, sir. She left as soon as I arrived.’

  ‘Discerning girl. Heading for home, I hope?’

  ‘No, sir. North.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Is that bad, sir?’

  ‘Tell me, Durban, how is it that this transatlantic trollop so rapidly picks up trails it takes my own highly trained men ages to uncover?’

  ‘You mean Hazlitt’s up there too?’

  ‘Yes. Continuing his highly successful evasive tactics. Happily, he is making the other lot look as foolish as ourselves. Where are you now?’

  ‘Ullapool.’

  ‘Such odd places. Wait. Yes, yes, it must exist; it appears in my old school atlas. What’s happening?’

  ‘Her car seems to have blown up. I can see her out of the phone-box window. She’s talking with a mechanic. She seems to be having some difficulty with the language.’

  ‘It would be nice if she were stranded.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir. But it’s going to take a lot to strand this one. She’s a pretty determined girl.’

  ‘Please, Durban, no sentimental admiration. For all our sakes, she must be prevented from meddling further. There’s the shop-lifting thing, of course, but that’s all very vague. Look, leave it with me, will you? Don’t lose her and by tomorrow morning I’ll fix it so that she can be taken right out. These damned Americans. After a while they begin to believe their own movies.’

  The University Staff Club bar was unusually full for so early in the evening. Sir Walter Tyas had put in one of his rare appearances, his silky grey hair, three inches longer than when he was in politics, creating an aesthetic contrast with Stewart Stuart’s grizzled stubble as their two heads almost met over their drinks.

  ‘There’s Nevis now,’ said Stuart, looking towards the bar.

  ‘Ah, James!’ called Sir Walter. ‘Come and join us. How are you? Another drink?’

  ‘Later, perhaps.’

  ‘James, we were just talking about the new research grant for your department. Your efforts have really put us on the map, you know. There’s lots of money available. Lots. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You realise, of course, the ministry will want to be sure about … Well, you know, the kind of thing that’s going on. Who’s doing what. And who knows about it. You know what ministries are.’

  ‘I have my suspicions,’ said Nevis.

  ‘Perhaps you could drop in at my office some time and we’ll have a talk. Yes, we’ll have a talk when you drop in,’ said Stuart.

  ‘That will be nice,’ said Nevis. ‘Is Bill Hazlitt back yet?’

  The Vice-Chancellor and Registrar exchanged glances.

  ‘No,’ said Stuart. ‘No. He’s not. He’s not back. Anything I can do?’

  ‘Oh no. Nothing official. I was just enquiring.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Tarquin Adams’ elegant voice, ‘but there’s a phone call for you, Professor Nevis. Someone called Servis, I think. Sounded a bit grim, I’m afraid. Servis without a smile.’

  He got none here either. Nevis excused himself and left, passing Thomas Poulson and Sholto Greig in deep conversation at the bar. Tarquin watched him go, willed the Vice-Chancellor to invite him to sit down, failed, and began looking round to see if he could spot the Reader in Moral Philosophy. It was a nice warm evening, just right for a swim.

  ‘You realise,’ said the mechanic, ‘it’s a disaster?’

  ‘But it’s only got thirty thousand on the clock!’

  ‘Aye. The second time round, perhaps. They shouldna hire out sic things.’

  ‘I didn’t hire it,’ said Caroline. ‘I bought it.’

  ‘You don’t say? Well, well,’ said the mechanic, shaking his head in what looked more like admiration than disapproval of such a feat of salesmanship.

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘How long, oh lord, how long?’ moaned Caroline. ‘Look, you fixum magic waggon without horse, how many moons?’

  ‘I might have it ready by the morn,’ said the mechanic.

  ‘Tomorrow!’

  ‘Aye. On the other hand, I canna promise. Sometimes medicine man speak with forked tongue too.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ said Caroline, raising a grin. But she felt far from happy as she gazed out past the little white township up the rising road along which the Peugeot had disappeared to heaven knew what destination.

  Hazlitt had dined well. His chosen path had led him parallel to the road for a couple of miles to a small village boasting a petrol pump, an hotel and a café. A police car went through it as he approached and he felt certain it must be going to investigate the accident he had left behind him. He peered into the café which seemed to be full of small children eating mince and tatties. A notice in the window assured him that no deep frying took place on Sundays. A religious precaution, he felt sure. Ye who deep fry on the Sabbath shall yourselves be deep fried.

  His own supplies were running very low and he thought for a moment of stopping for a meal. Coquilles St Jacques à la Provençale might have proved irresistible, but it wasn’t worth taking such a risk for mince and tatties.

  As he walked by the hotel, he saw through the open front door a table on which it seemed returning fishermen deposited their catch. Someone had had a good day. Two fine salmon and half a dozen sea trout of various sizes. For fishing as a sport he had a great contempt. Killing things for pleasure had no appeal, but for food was a different matter entirely. Without compunction, he stepped through the door, selected two small sea trout, wrapped them in a copy of the Scotsman which someone had conveniently left on the reception desk, and retreated in good order.

  He baked them whole in a turf oven of his own design, sitting on a high rocky peninsula which fell away in near-vertical slices on either side, like a cut loaf falling forward into the sea. In the mouth of each fish he placed one of the ready-made bouquets garnis he carried with him and he washed each delicately flavoured mouthful down with a nip of the Highland Park 100 proof straight malt he felt no well-equipped walker should be without.

  The sea was calm, no wind stirred, but still the weight of the vast Atlantic swinging in the cradle of the moon was enough to fill his sleep with the growling of waters as they gnawed and sucked at the dark bones of the land.

  8

  Caroline’s life at the moment was full of geophysical surprises. In his bitterer moments her father had assured her it was always pouring down in Britain and especially in Scotland. Now she was finding that the farther north she got, the hotter the weather became.

  The Ullapool medicine man had not, after all, spoken with forked tongue and she would have got away before nine o�
�clock had not some joker slashed all her tyres during the night. The garage owner was most distressed and immediately rang the police, a course of action which filled Caroline with some concern. She was suddenly conscious that she should have attended court the previous day and though she assured herself that Professor Nevis would be able to cover up for her in some way, meeting the police did not feel like a good idea.

  In addition she was aware that the phrase ‘some joker’ was euphemistically dismissive. She had begun to distrust accident. Anything that happened at the moment was likely to have a purpose. So she urged the mechanic to greater speed, herself assisted as best she could, and was able to get into the newly tyred car and drive away before the investigatory forces arrived.

  ‘I have to be in Inverness this afternoon,’ she assured the garage proprietor. ‘If I’m needed I can be reached at the Station Hotel. Okay?’

  She felt quite proud of the lie as she drove due north.

  Now it was early afternoon and she was driving with all windows open, wondering why the British never thought of putting air conditioning in their cars. At least in the small township of Durness, which she was now entering, they seemed to have had the sense to adopt the southern custom of siesta. There was scarcely a soul in sight, all the buildings seemed to be shut up and deserted, even the cars which were parked in some profusion gave an impression of being abandoned.

  She began to be worried. Above all things at the moment she wanted a long cold drink and this place held out little promise of providing one. Perhaps the Vikings had landed or the plague had struck.

  When she enquired of an old man with a stick where everyone was and he muttered something about a gathering, her facetious guess about the plague suddenly became a possibility.

  ‘Gathering? You mean like a boil?’ she enquired, stepping back a little.

  ‘The Games, lassie,’ he replied contemptuously. ‘The Games.’