Death Takes the Low Road

by Reginald Hill

  The mixture of metaphors suited Bill, thought Caroline sadly. Stumbling around standing on someone’s toes.

  ‘And these people are trying to kill him?’

  ‘For God’s sake, lassie, can you no’ keep your voice down to less than a rebel yell? Aye, that’s the strength of it. I managed to save him on Skye. But we got parted and like yourself I’ve been on his track ever since. Once I can get to him, I can protect him. Will you help me?’

  ‘Well, sure,’ said Caroline. ‘But how? I mean you know as much as me. Or more perhaps? I’m just guessing this man in the hospital is Bill. You may know it for certain. Do you?’

  She looked at him eagerly, hoping to have her guess confirmed, but he shook his head slowly.

  ‘No, I canna say for sure. But it seems likely.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, disappointed. ‘Yes. I hope it is. And I hope we reach him first.’

  ‘First?’

  ‘Before the others. For God’s sake, don’t you know they’re on board as well?’

  Clearly he didn’t. And clearly he was far from happy to make the discovery.

  ‘But what’s the problem?’ wondered Caroline. ‘Couldn’t you have them arrested or something?’

  ‘No, no. We don’t work like that, you see. Nothing which would bring us to public notice.’

  He finished his drink and looked through the window.

  ‘Not to worry, eh? We’re nearly there. It’s just a matter of moving quick, that’s all. Don’t look so glum. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O!’

  ‘I’d be careful or you’ll make your bosses suspicious,’ said Caroline. ‘I believe Burns is very popular in Russia.’

  ‘So he is,’ Campbell said with a laugh. ‘Let’s form a queue at the gang-plank. Or, rather, you form a queue. I’ll keep out of sight—they know me, you see. But never fear, I’ll be close behind.’

  A queue had already formed, though it was another fifteen minutes before the ship docked at Stromness. By a dint of much pushing and elbowing, Caroline contrived to be first down the gangway and set off along the quay at a good lick. There had been no sign of the seasick threesome and she hoped that their malaise would occupy them for some time to come.

  The other ship, she noticed, had also arrived and most of its cargo of cars were parked along the quayside. A pity in a way. It had been an amusing thought that the ship might in fact have headed down the coast to Aberdeen where the cars were all sold at a criminals’ auction.

  At the end of the quay stood a policeman. Caroline paused. Just how efficient had they been in Thurso? Pretty efficient, she answered herself, especially with an angry Servis roaming around the place. Which meant that there was a strong possibility that some of the shopkeepers had told of selling an anorak, a duffel bag and a tartan beret to a young American; perhaps her enquiries about the Orkney ferry had been passed on too; perhaps the bus conductor recalled having to change a pound note for her fare.

  The policeman was advancing. British policemen advanced differently from American policemen. American policemen looked conscious of their Western lawman heritage. They advanced alertly, suspiciously, ready to go for their guns if trouble broke out. British policemen had much more of majestic inevitability about them. If they hit water, they would keep on walking, through it or on it.

  He’s coming for me! Caroline was suddenly convinced. She glanced back. The quay was now full of people. Enough to sweep her by unnoticed? she wondered. It was not a risk she dared take, not now she was so near Hazlitt.

  She stepped sideways into the row of parked cars awaiting their owners. Their keys were all in. They had to be, of course, otherwise the car ship could not be unloaded till all the passengers arrived. Perhaps all the good people of Stromness had a mad half-hour of hell driving before the ferry came in? It must be a great temptation.

  It was, and she succumbed. Nearby was a flashy two-tone Cortina GT, complete with ostentatious GB plates, motoring club and county badges, cellophane bullet-holes, comic window-stickers, dangling dolls and a nodding-headed plastic Alsatian. Some people deserved nothing but the worst. She climbed in, started the engine and like the first away at Le Mans, blasted out of the line of cars, rounded the policeman on a brake-screaming arc and roared off along the quay.

  She found herself momentarily nonplussed when she reached what she took to be the street. It was paved with large flagstones and looked much more like a pedestrian pavement than a thoroughfare for vehicles. In other circumstances it looked a fascinating place to explore, wandering off most invitingly in either direction. But Caroline had no idea which way to go. She wound down the window and shouted at a group of men sitting in silent communion with each other on a bench outside a shipping office.

  Courteously one of them rose and made his way to the car. Oh hell, thought Caroline. What do I ask for?

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a hospital. Or a clinic perhaps.’

  The man looked concerned.

  ‘Is it the seasickness?’ he queried in a pleasant accent which was at the same time sing-song and guttural.

  ‘No, not for me. Someone I know … a man was picked up by a boat last night, now where would they take him?’

  ‘Ah yes. The drowned man.’

  ‘Drowned? You mean he’s dead?’ Her heart contracted to a walnut of pain.

  ‘No, no. Just drowned, not dead,’ said the man. ‘They took him there.’

  He pointed. Caroline followed his finger, still fearing to see a funeral parlour at the end of it. Instead she found herself staring at a splendid three-storeyed building, like an Edwardian villa gone mad, which bore the title on tarnished gilt letters: ‘Hamnavoe Hotel’.

  She nodded to herself. Yes, that would be it. Even half drowned, Hazlitt would have himself taken to the best hotel.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, getting out of the car. It might as well stay here where its owners could easily find it. She slammed the door and the Alsatian nodded inanely at her.

  The bottom storey of the Hamnavoe was devoted exclusively to bars, she discovered. It seemed a sensible arrangement. On the next floor she found a reception desk. A pleasant open-faced man greeted her, enquiring after her accommodation needs.

  ‘No, I don’t want a room,’ said Caroline. ‘A guy was brought here last night, I believe. Picked up at sea.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the man, who seemed to be the manager, ‘Mr Coleridge, you mean.’

  Oh God, thought Caroline. Coleridge!

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘He should really have gone to hospital, you know. But he was most insistent that he should be taken to a good hotel. A doctor was called, of course, but apart from fatigue he seems to have been all right. Extraordinary bit of luck, though, being picked up like that. Sailing to the Shetlands in a small boat’s just not on, even at this time of year. You’re a friend, are you?’

  ‘I’m his daughter,’ said Caroline.

  Coleridge indeed! Sailing to the Shetlands! He was not the only good liar in Stromness.

  ‘I’ll take you along to his room. This way.’

  He set off up the stairs to the next floor, Caroline following. This place had really been built for a statelier age. The corridors and stair-wells were all wide enough to take a sizable motor-car with ease. Perhaps that’s what the locals did with all those tempting cars off the ferry!

  ‘Here we are.’ The manager halted outside a nice solid-looking door and rapped hard on it.

  ‘Mr Coleridge. You have a visitor.’

  There was no reply and the manager turned the handle. Slowly the door swung open and suddenly Caroline was terrified that perhaps she would be faced by a real nautical Mr Coleridge, unfortunately shipwrecked while sailing to the Shetlands.

  Instead a more disturbing sight met her eyes. The room was empty. The bed had been recently slept in, that was clear, but of Hazlitt or Coleridge there was no sign.

  ‘How odd,’ said the m
anager. ‘Perhaps the bathroom …’

  But Caroline was not interested in the bathroom. Her eyes were fixed on the pair of spectacles which lay on the thick carpeted floor. She bent and picked them up. They were his, all right. Those lenses were unmistakable. He would never leave voluntarily without these.

  They got here before me! she thought in panic. Somehow the threesome got here before me and they’ve taken him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked the manager anxiously.

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I’m fine,’ she said.

  It had to be the police now, she decided. And quick.

  A strange noise came from somewhere. She glanced at the manager, but it plainly was not him. It had been a kind of surprised, puzzled grunt.

  She looked round the room. Slowly, like a perfectly made prop for a horror film, the door of the huge mahogany wardrobe swung open.

  Standing inside, eyes screwed up in short-sighted puzzlement, clad in a huge pair of pyjamas and clutching a bottle of Highland Park 100 proof malt whisky menacingly in his right hand, was a bearded figure she hardly recognised for a moment.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Coleridge,’ said the manager brightly. ‘Here’s your daughter come to visit you.’

  11

  Meeting after such adventures and in such circumstances they should have fallen into each other’s arms and then into the very convenient bed.

  Instead Hazlitt stepped out of the wardrobe, took his spectacles from her hand, put them on, peered into her face, said, ‘My God! Caroline!’ and poured himself a large shot of whisky.

  The manager, unperturbed at this strange reunion, smiled approvingly and left.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ demanded Hazlitt crossly. ‘I thought it was … well, never mind.’

  Absurdly Caroline found herself starting to stammer out an apologetic explanation. She pulled herself up short, took a deep breath, and exploded.

  ‘Listen, fatso!’ she said. ‘I’ve been charged with shoplifting and drug-taking! I’ve been arrested and jailed! I’ve been chased, harried and seasick! I’ve assaulted Tommy Poulson and I’ve stolen a car! All to get to you before those other three. But as far as I’m concerned now, they can have you and welcome!’

  She hoped to appeal to his conscience, but instead touched a more sensitive area.

  ‘Those three? Which three? What do you mean?’

  ‘The three who took you away from Durness. Two men and a woman.’

  This produced an agitation in Hazlitt she had not seen since Tarquin or Sholto had asked him if he was commissioned during the last war.

  Making faint mewing noises, he ran around the room in little spurts and dashes like Harry Langdon in the old movies, finally coming to rest at the wardrobe.

  ‘You’re not getting back in there?’ queried Caroline in some alarm.

  ‘Clothes! They’ve taken my clothes!’ protested Hazlitt.

  ‘Well, they must have been pretty damp,’ Caroline pointed out.

  ‘What have you got in there?’ he demanded, eyeing her duffel bag greedily.

  ‘Nothing really,’ she said opening it. ‘Would a pair of panties be any help?’

  ‘Slacks!’ he said. ‘Take your slacks off.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Take them off!’ he commanded, dropping his pyjama pants and dancing impatiently before her.

  Is this how it happens then? wondered Caroline, slowly unzipping her slacks. What became of the moonlight and violins?

  ‘Come on!’ he said, pushing her back on the bed and dragging the garment over her ankles.

  ‘Bill,’ she said anxiously, ‘you will marry me, won’t you?’

  ‘What? Are you mad or something? Give me a hand!’

  Hazlitt was having difficulty getting into the slacks which were designed to fit a slimmer leg than his, but with a great effort he succeeded. He tucked the pyjama top into the waistband and pulled up the zip as far as it would go. Fortunately it was at the side, which meant that modesty was not very much endangered.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Caroline, standing up and looking at her bare legs forking provocatively from under her anorak.

  ‘Mini-skirt,’ said Hazlitt. ‘You wear them all the time. You haven’t got a spare pair of shoes, have you?’

  ‘No!’

  He immersed his tiny feet in a huge pair of carpet slippers, sighing deeply at her lack of preparedness.

  ‘These will have to do. Money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give me five.’

  He laid the note on the pillow, picked up his bottle of Scotch and headed for the door.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  He looked at her disparagingly.

  ‘Anywhere,’ he said. ‘Remember. If you can find me, anyone can find me. Let’s go.’

  It was not an assessment of her achievement that she much cared for, but something about Hazlitt’s stealthy air communicated itself to her and she postponed her protests.

  The huge corridor was empty, but voices were audible coming up the stairwell.

  Dominant was the manager’s.

  ‘Mr Coleridge is looking much better. His daughter’s visit has probably cheered him up a lot as well. He’ll be delighted to see you all, I’ve no doubt … quite a family party …’

  What particular relationship the threesome had claimed with him, Hazlitt did not care to find out. Seizing Caroline’s hand, he dragged her along the corridor and through a door which led to a smaller flight of stairs, which took them down into the kitchen where a chef was basting a saddle of beef.

  Hazlitt sniffed.

  ‘Enough’s enough,’ he said to the man. ‘You’ve overdone it. This way I think.’

  They left the kitchen, and joined the main stairway.

  ‘It’s the Scottish disease,’ said Hazlitt. ‘They overcook everything. Here we are!’

  They burst out of the hotel doors and stood on the steps looking down at the paved street. Caroline recognised in Hazlitt her own indecisiveness of a few minutes ago. Across the road at the entrance to the harbour the Cortina stood where she had left it. Its rightful owners seemed to have appeared and were in angry conversation with the policeman whom Caroline had so feared on arrival. The owners, a middle-aged man and woman, were making themselves plainly heard even at this distance.

  ‘We haven’t come all this way on those bloody awful roads just so some peasant can take a joy-ride in our car!’ protested the man in a vaguely Londonish accent, while his wife kept up a burden of long drawn out That’s right and Yeses.

  As they watched, the policeman, probably exasperated by the noise these two were making and the attention they were attracting, ushered them into the shipping office in search of privacy.

  ‘Come on,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Where?’

  She did not answer but dragged him over the road to the Cortina. The little group of people round it made no attempt to hinder them as she opened the door and climbed in, though Hazlitt’s strange garb caused a stir of interest.

  As the engine burst into life, three things happened. The door of the shipping office opened and the car owner reappeared, his face red with incredulous indignation. And out of the hotel rushed Chuff, Cherry and Sandy, while behind the car from the pier appeared Lackie Campbell.

  Caroline thrust her foot down on the accelerator, spun the wheel hard right and unceremoniously crashed her way into the line of traffic making its way from the ferries.

  ‘I think,’ she said as they left behind the narrow streets of Stromness which had been restricting her to a mere 70 mph, ‘I think you’d better start telling me what this is all about.’

  Hazlitt eyed her assessingly, wondering what lie he could tell her.

  He’s wondering what lie he can tell me, thought Caroline.

  ‘Take the next left,’ said Hazlitt. His acquaintance with Orkney was a very vague one, based on a single visit at least twelve years earlier. And when he set out on his swim from
the sunken car he had had no intention of renewing it. When the storm finally broke he had been convinced that, the end had arrived and not even thoughts of halibut, rubbed with lemon juice and thyme and dried and smoked over a cherry-wood fire, were able to still the fear fluttering in his belly. Then he heard voices, and the fishing boat had appeared and the next wave had practically spilled him aboard.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Caroline. ‘And why not just tell me the truth?’

  The two questions were not in any way connected and sadly Hazlitt recognised the foolishness of trying to pretend they were.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted to both questions. ‘If we’d kept on going we’d have ended up in Kirkwall, the capital, which is where we don’t want to be with a stolen car. I assume you have stolen this car?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caroline. ‘We have stolen this car. Are you complaining?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘Then stop sounding so bloody condescending. It’s your blasted fault if I’ve plunged into criminality.’

  ‘Stepped,’ said Hazlitt. ‘For most Englishmen it’s a plunge. For most Americans it’s a mere step.’

  ‘Well, you certainly seem to have plunged pretty deep.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Hazlitt. ‘It’s in order to avoid plunging that I’ve come to this pass.’

  ‘You’re still not telling me anything!’ protested Caroline.

  ‘Let us first dispose of this car,’ said Hazlitt. ‘Then we’ll find a ditch to sit in and exchange confidences.’

  They drove on in silence, Caroline leaving the job of car disposal to Hazlitt. Finally he tapped her on the arm with one of his irritatingly authoritative gestures.

  ‘Over there,’ he said. ‘There’ turned out to be a rather primitive car park just off the road. There were half a dozen cars in it already and Hazlitt made her manœuvre the Cortina until it was as well hidden from the roadway as possible.

  ‘Good place to hide a car is a car park,’ he said.

  ‘Clever,’ said Caroline. ‘You sound pretty expert.’

  ‘You soon develop an instinct,’ said Hazlitt, rummaging around in the back of the car. ‘Ah! we’re in luck. Yesterday’s picnic!’