Death Takes the Low Road

by Reginald Hill

  Next morning attitudes seemed to have thawed a bit. She had a feeling that someone somewhere had dropped a hint that she was not, after all, a wild, anarchist, drug-pushing drop-out, but a hitherto law-abiding and respectable citizen for whom the American embassy would be deeply and genuinely concerned. Surprisingly, the thought did not so much comfort her as make her feel old and bourgeois.

  They let her sleep until well on into the morning, which surprised her.

  The escort from England had not yet arrived, her WPC told her, with some sighing and shaking of heads at another example of southern inefficiency. Meanwhile would she care for kippers for breakfast and a look at the desk sergeant’s newspaper?

  Yes, she said to both questions. The kippers were excellent, the paper (a local journal—the national dailies, like her English escort, were still on their way) rather dull. Egotistically she searched through it for any reference to her own arrest, but found none. But as she was putting the paper aside to concentrate on her kippers one item tugged the corner of her eye.

  A car had plunged into the sea on the coastline between Durness and Thurso. Left unattended, its handbrake must have slipped and the driver and passengers had watched helplessly as the white shooting-brake slid quietly over the cliff.

  Into Caroline’s mind’s eye slipped a vivid picture of Hazlitt being hustled towards the car park by two men and a woman. A detail not remembered before was now quite clear. In the car park directly in their path was a large white shooting-brake. So distracted had she been thereafter, first by the bearded man and next by Constable Craig, that she had not seen where Hazlitt was taken. But now, like an old painting under the hands of a renovator, her memory was coming up bright and clear. The white shooting-brake had gone, she was sure of it, by the time Craig had escorted her from the Games arena.

  Or had this item in the paper in fact created the memory rather than merely restored it?

  The cell door opened and her policewoman came in. Her friendliness seemed to increase as Caroline’s departure drew nearer.

  ‘He’s arrived,’ she said. ‘But never worry, finish your breakfast. The poor mannie looks worn out and he’s taking a cup o’ coffee himself.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Caroline. ‘Say, I was just reading about this car that rolled into the sea. You have to deal with things like that?’

  ‘Oh that. Aye. Damn’ fools. Lucky they were no’ in it.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Aye, two men and a woman. They were trespassing anyway. The fanner whose land it was spotted them standing by the cliff’s edge. When he found out what had happened he rang us. They didna seem best pleased.’

  ‘There were just the three of them? No one else. In the car, I mean.’

  The WPC laughed.

  ‘Och no. They’d have been worried about that, even these three. No, the car was sticking well out of the water at low tide and we got their luggage out. It’s gey damp, naturally, but it’ll dry. I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast now. Five minutes do you? Good.’

  She went out. Caroline pushed aside her plate and stared unseeingly at the paper. If these were the people who had taken Hazlitt, if he had still been with them when they drove on to the headland, if the car had not gone into the water by accident, if … She pulled herself up short, realising that she was merely multiplying conditions in order to avoid conclusions. Or, rather, one particular conclusion.

  She turned the pages of the paper noisily as though she could shake away her fears. Here on the back page were the Deaths and In Memoriam columns. Not much help there. She looked away from them. Stop Press. News from Stromness, Orkney. A party of fishermen had returned late the previous evening, having been caught in the storm. With them they had brought an unusual catch. A man, completely exhausted and on the point of collapse. He had almost been tossed on board by a huge wave. They had wrapped him in blankets and fed him with whisky. It was then he uttered the only words he had spoken since his rescue. ‘Highland Park, 100 proof?’ he had asked. The unidentified man was at present under medical care in Stromness. No report had yet been received of anyone lost overboard during the storm.

  A flood tide of joy rose in Caroline’s heart. As certain as she had been about the car in the sea, just so certain was she now that this unidentified half-drowned man was Hazlitt.

  The joy overflowed in tears just as the cell door opened. Two voices spoke.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Nevis.’ Cool, professional.

  ‘Caroline, are you all right?’ Concerned, indignant.

  She looked up through tear-misted eyes.

  Standing in the doorway was Inspector Servis, the man who had talked to her in Enoch Arden’s back in Lincoln a hundred years ago.

  Beside him and much more welcome was Tommy Poulson, as grey and vague-looking as ever, but with real concern written in his face.

  ‘Hi, Tommy,’ she said with attempted casualness, and was distressed to find her tears of joy becoming real tears in the end.

  Poulson explained that he had been contacted by Professor Nevis with a request first for advice and then for active assistance. Nevis’s own solicitor was of a background which hardly equipped him to deal with young American girls on drug charges, and of an age which made the prospect of such a journey unthinkable.

  ‘James seemed to feel that even though I don’t actively practise law, my acquaintance with you made me a suitable adviser. I had nothing else on at the moment, so here I am. I hope you don’t mind.’ Poulson sounded genuinely worried lest his presence should be offensive.

  ‘Tommy, it’s just great to see you. Great,’ Caroline assured him, meaning every word.

  ‘Thank you. There’s nothing I can do here, of course, except travel back with you. The inspector has been most kind and agreed to this.’

  Servis nodded, his face expressionless.

  ‘Can I talk with you alone, Tommy?’ asked Caroline.

  It was Servis who answered.

  ‘It’s a difficult position, Miss Nevis. Mr Poulson is here as a friend rather than your legal representative. Or so I read the situation. He’s not a practising solicitor, are you, sir? I thought not. I think in the circumstances that I must exercise my right to be present at any interview you have.’

  ‘Can he do this, Tommy?’ demanded Caroline.

  ‘It’s debatable, at least,’ said Poulson. ‘But I think here and now’s not the place to debate. Let’s get you back home where we can fix up bail and then you can talk with anyone you want.’

  Caroline looked uncertainly at the two men. Her fears for Hazlitt were such that she felt an urge to confide in either of them, Poulson as a friend or Servis as a professional. But somehow the thought of explaining to both of them at the same time that a couple of paragraphs in a local paper had convinced her that Hazlitt, narrowly escaped from death, was lying in a Stromness sick-bed, was beyond her.

  ‘If you’re ready, miss, we’ve a train to catch,’ said Servis politely.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said, standing up. ‘You know, Inspector, one thing bothers me. Do you know I’ve been framed, or are you just some kind of useful mug?’

  She did not stay for an answer but marched rapidly out of the cell and along the corridor which led to the main area of the station. As she passed through the next door, the WPC stepped forward to greet her.

  ‘Chin up, eh?’ she advised. ‘Here’s your bag with your things. Just check them, then sign for them at the desk, will you?’

  A quick glance in her bag assured Caroline that her assortment of credit cards and panties had all been returned and she leaned on the desk to sign her receipt.

  Beside her, a middle-aged man with ginger hair was talking to the desk sergeant.

  ‘It’s a write-off,’ he was saying. ‘The garage went out this morning and the storm had smashed it to pieces.’

  ‘Aye well, sir. It’s a sad way to end your holiday. But it’s lucky you were all out of the machine.’

  Caroline’s ears pricked. Casually she glanc
ed towards the man. Surely this couldn’t be one of Hazlitt’s kidnappers?

  ‘Here’s your friends now,’ said the sergeant.

  From the back of the station appeared a man and a woman carrying some sea-stained suitcases. This was more like it! thought Caroline. The woman looked angry enough for murder and as for the man with his swollen left ear, he looked evil enough for anything.

  ‘It was kind of you to dry them out for us,’ said the ginger-haired man.

  ‘All part of the service, sir,’ smiled the sergeant.

  As though in answer to his name, Inspector Servis now appeared beside her.

  ‘All taken care of,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. There’s a car ready for us.’

  Caroline’s last sight of the three figures at the desk was not comforting. Ginger was still in conversation with the sergeant, the woman was glaring at him impatiently, while the man with the thick ear had picked up the sergeant’s newspaper and was casually glancing at the back page.

  Again she thought of talking to Poulson and Servis and paused on the steps of the police station to assess the possible consequences. If Hazlitt wanted the police to be involved, he could have done it himself, she thought. And perhaps in any case the trio wouldn’t spot the Stop Press item.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Servis behind her.

  Outside everything was damp and fresh after the storm. The morning sun had not yet had time to do its repair work and the concrete of the steps still gleamed wetly. She took a pace forward, her foot skidded and she tumbled untidily on to the pavement.

  Poulson and Servis were there in a flash. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Servis.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ asked Poulson.

  She tried to stand up.

  ‘Ouch! Oh hell! I’ve done something to my ankle.’

  Servis looked down at her anxiously.

  ‘I’ll fetch a doctor,’ said Poulson.

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ said Caroline gamely. ‘I’ll manage. Where’s the car?’

  ‘It’s round the side,’ said Servis. Caroline thought it might be. There was a little cul-de-sac alongside the station where Constable Craig had parked the previous evening. She rose, leaned heavily on Poulson, and began to hobble along the pavement.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Servis. ‘I’ll go and fetch it.’

  He set off, paused uncertainly at the corner, and disappeared from sight.

  He was only gone for half a minute but when he returned the situation had altered radically.

  Poulson, looking very surprised, was lying on his back on the pavement. And Caroline, her sprained ankle miraculously healed, was sprinting away down the street like an Olympic two-hundred-metre finalist. This impression of great athleticism was rather spoiled as she rounded a corner with a Chaplinesque series of hops, but her speed must have picked up again immediately, for when Servis reached the corner, she had disappeared completely.

  Breathing hard, he leaned heavily against the solid grey stones of the Bank of Scotland building and implored God to sod all bloody Americans to eternal damnation.

  Caroline, inside the bank, watched him obliquely through the mullioned window and wished she could lip-read. Then, because to do nothing in a bank is odd and she needed money anyway, she sorted through her supply of credit cards and approached the counter.

  Twenty minutes later, after a nerve-racking zigzag trip down the main shopping street collecting goods and information, she left the town by bus. Scotland, her brief experience told her, was full of young girls wearing slacks, anoraks, floppy tartan berets with large pompoms, and carrying all their earthly belongings in a duffel bag. She had joined their ranks. And the bus she was on was heading for Scrabster where, her informants assured her, she would find the Orkney ferry.

  They were right. Queues of cars were edging their way forward to be hoisted precariously on a sling and dropped into the guts of two ships. Caroline joined a group of young people and walked unchallenged past a policeman who was examining all pedestrians with grim thoroughness. Only one of the ships carried passengers and it was the other which left first, causing a little unease among some of the drivers whose cars were on it. But finally the growing medley of noises around Caroline rose to a climax of departure and Scotland began to drift away from her. She let it go without a qualm and looked to the north and the open sea. It smelled of freedom. She could have shouted with joy, but the gulls tracking the ship’s wake seemed to be shouting it for her.

  Two hours later, as the Old Man of Hoy rose tumescently to starboard, she began to feel qualms, the gulls’ cries became derisive and her breakfast kippers seemed eager to rejoin their native element. She recalled that her mother made some modest claim to Mayflower descent, but her present feelings convinced her that no one in her family could have survived weeks on the Atlantic in a small wooden boat.

  The ship dipped slightly and her stomach rose violently. There were people on both sides of her and she turned away in search of a more private bit of rail. A few feet away she saw a sight which put her own ailments out of her mind for a moment. Leaning against the rail were the two men and the woman she had seen that morning in Thurso police station.

  It was small comfort that they looked as ill as she felt. She had hoped that they would not spot the news item at all, or at least would not have caught today’s ferry. But here they were, heading as quickly as she was for Hazlitt lying helpless in a hospital bed.

  She stumbled away towards the bows of the ship, worry and seasickness fighting a war of attrition inside her. She wondered whether she might be better off inside and hesitated at a door which led into the ship’s bar. It opened as she stood there and she had to jerk back to avoid being struck.

  ‘Sorry, lassie,’ said the man who stepped out. She recognised him instantly. It was the man with the beard from Skye.

  Her pom-pom hat postponed his recognition for a second only.

  ‘Well hello!’ he said. ‘It’s you again! Man, but you look ill!’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said Caroline with sturdy American independence, finding it difficult to keep her feet.

  ‘I know what you need,’ he said with a grin that showed strong white teeth through the blackness of his beard. ‘The Scottish panacea. John Barleycorn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘ ’Twill make a man forget his woes;

  ’Twill heighten all his joy;

  ’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,

  Tho’ the tear were in her eye.’

  He seized her arm as he declaimed and pulled her through the door. For a moment she thought the change of atmosphere and the crush of people would make her sick instantly. But her mind, eager for familiarity, quickly began to arrange these new surroundings into the familiar context of any saloon bar in any pub on any Saturday night. As long as she didn’t look through the windows and ignored the shiftings of the floor, she could cope with this and she was beginning to feel better already before the bearded man thrust a glass of amber liquid into her hand.

  ‘This’ll make your heart sing,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m no widow,’ she answered. She drank it; it was good.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he said, looking at her with worry in his eyes. ‘Tell me, why are you going to Orkney, Miss Nevis?’

  ‘Just a holiday visit, Mr … er …?’

  ‘Campbell. Lackie Campbell.’ He paused, seemed to make up his mind about something and spoke once more. ‘I think we’re after the same thing, Miss Nevis. And we both think we’ll find it on Orkney.’

  ‘And what’s that, Mr Campbell?’

  ‘Hazlitt.’

  ‘Oh. And what’s your reason for looking for him?’ asked Caroline, surprised at her own self-control.

  ‘The same as yours, I suspect.’

  ‘My God!’

  He shook his head, grinning.

  ‘No, I don’t mean I love him. But I want to protect him. He’s got nothing to fear from me, but there’s others who’d be glad to see him put under the ground.
Believe me, Miss Nevis.’

  ‘Who are you, Mr Campbell?’ she asked

  He drew her into a corner and pressed up close against her so that she could feel the heat of his body through her anorak and slacks.

  ‘I can tell you because I doubt if you’ll believe me,’ he murmured. ‘I work for British Intelligence Counter-Espionage. Aye, there you are, I can see it in your face.’

  ‘What you see in my face is a wish not to be ravished in such a public place. That may be a masonic grip you’ve got on my left thigh but it’s telling me nothing.’ She sighed with relief as he backed off a little. ‘That’s better. Okay, so you’re a secret agent. Prove it.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘They don’t give us certificates. Suppose I buy you another malt. Will you believe me then?’

  ‘It’d help.’

  Surprisingly, it did. She found herself quite taking to Lackie and after only a little bit of prompting she described her adventures since last they had met at the Durness Gathering.

  ‘Aye, I’m sorry about a’ that,’ he said as she described her arrest and incarceration.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re sorry?’ she said suspiciously. ‘Hey, you don’t mean you’ve fixed all this?’

  ‘Oh no. Not me personally, you understand,’ he protested. ‘But it sounds like the kind of thing the department would do, just to keep you out of harm’s way.’

  ‘I’ll sue the bastards! All this mother-of-democracy guff. I’ll take it to the United Nations!’ She was genuinely indignant. Campbell just grinned at her.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘what’s Bill supposed to have done?’

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘Hazlitt.’

  He looked around at their nearest neighbours, who were a young couple impelled by fatigue, sickness or lust into each other’s arms, and a thickset man with his nose buried in a Guide to the Orkneys. Then, dropping his voice, he said, ‘He’s a spy.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Shh! It’s okay. He’s one of ours. Not very important, not till recently anyway. Then he stumbled on something big.’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘Aye. Well, big enough to stand on someone’s toes.’