by Mark Jackson
“The man you SCRATCHED. He was at Bulwana.”
Kruger turned the blade in his hand.
“They hunted us down. We are still the hunted. With the British it is always the same.
“Packing women and children into camps for sickness and starvation to claim them.”
Skinstad was grimacing against the pain, but Kruger had not finished.
“I thought about leaving you in London to finish the job, but he knows your face. Perhaps now he wouldn’t recognise you.
Skinstad’s eyes were black with hate.
Kruger weighed the blade.
“You are on the threshold of death. One wrong step and you will fall.” The moment passed.
Kruger smiled.
“Clean yourself up and have Sturm sew you up. He has nimble fingers.”
Skinstad stumbled to his feet. He yanked open the door. Kruger wiped his blade and settled back in his seat.
Sturm looked up as Skinstad stepped out of the carriage, a bloodied hand holding his cheek together. Sturm turned away and Skinstad trailed behind.
In the narrow wooden taxi hut, weapons were being cleaned. Thomas passed Keilty an Enfield. He smiled and shook his head. On his knees balanced a small wooden briefcase.
Battle pointed to it.
“Didn’t figure you for a Mason, Ged.”
Keilty flicked open the case. Inside lay the components of a sniper’s rifle.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. Mac nodded.
“I wondered why you were hugging that thing when we jumped out of the Bull and Bush.”
Battle was all admiration.
“Lovely.”
Thomas was pleased.
“Well done, Jack. Did you get the other stuff?”
Jack nodded.
“It’s all in the bags over there.”
Keilty’s hands moved over the pieces of the rifle. He snapped it together. Screwed in the barrel, the trigger mechanism, the stock. Finally, slotted on the sights and capped it with a silencer. All this took just a few seconds.
McDonald looked at the Irishman.
“It’s been a long time. May I?”
Thomas was handing out canvas sacks and small cases. Battle looked perplexed.
“What the ruddy hell is all this stuff for, Doubtin’?”
McDonald interrupted.
“Shut up and listen, Tommy.”
Thomas waited for silence.
“We mustn’t attract any attention. Therefore, we can’t travel as a group, but we must all be on the train with Laird.
“You…”
Thomas pointed at Mac.
“You, Mac, in particular. You must pretend to get drunk so they put you in the lock up. The rest of us will have other roles to play.”
Inspector Reeves was at his desk, pouring over a map of London. If possible, Reeves looked even more worn out. He hadn’t shaven, his eyes were almost red raw. He traced a heavy lead pencil over the surface of the map. The tip hovered over the Tower of London, then edged south into the area known as London’s Docklands. Then the point moved again. One by one, it visited London’s main railway stations: Euston, King’s Cross, Paddington, Victoria and Waterloo. Reeves was homing in.
In the small wooden taxi hut, a head was being shaved. The hair fell around a pair of boots and chair legs. Ted was whistling softly as he clipped away.
Hands reached out and picked up a bottle. Dark liquid was poured out and rubbed into the greying hair.
McDonald inspected his shaven face. Jack helped him on with a heavy, tatty overcoat. Thomas watched the transformation as he adjusted his starched white cuffs.
The warders were going undercover.
Plumes of steam dotted along the horizon as the Highland Spirit powered along, disappearing under a bridge and emerging, billowing steam, on the other side.
Sturm was stitching up Skinstad. Another Boer sat watching, fascinated and slightly fearful. Skinstad was gritting his teeth, under a stark light. Sturm was humming to himself as he worked.
Laird was leaving his town house. The door opened and the two Boers carried out Laird’s luggage. Campbell appeared and skipped down the steps to hail a cab. He was surprisingly nimble for such a giant. The luggage was loaded in.
On the busy station concourse, police constables were inspecting passengers’ crates waiting for a Liverpool bound train.
One passenger, a portly red-faced man, took exception to the search.
“This is an outrage. An outrage.”
The officer was polite, but unmoved.
“Sorry, sir, but we have reason to believe a gang of antiques thieves may be operating in this area.”
“What? Preposterous.”
The crate causing such concern was wrenched open by two officers using crowbars. They lifted out a large stuffed fox.
The officers looked blankly at each other. The gentleman looked extremely angry as he snatched back his treasure.
The Highland Spirit slowly drew into Glasgow Central station. Sturm was standing at one of the door windows, taking in the city, dark and faintly menacing. By African standards it had been a short journey. For Sturm, it had been too long. He wanted the ground beneath his feet.
Four hundred miles away, at the entrance to Euston station, a cab pulled up at the end of the rank. Janni stepped out, and held the door open for Laird. The lord adjusted his cuffs, as he waited for his luggage to be loaded onto a porter’s barrow. His cane twisted in his hand as he stepped out of the cab.
Inspector Reeves took another sip of his cold tea. The map of London hung over the edge of the desk. It still occupied him.
The Inspector looked up as Hinchcliffe knocked on the door and entered hurriedly.
“The files you asked for, sir.”
Reeves was brisk.
“Tea. Hot tea.”
“Sir.”
Hinchcliffe closed the door behind him.
The Inspector picked up the top file. It was Argyle’s service record. Reeves frowned slightly, as he reached across for another file.
A porter pushed his barrow with Laird’s luggage piled high on it through the crowded, jostling station. Laird strode along just ahead of it, Campbell towering at his side. Janni and Halle walked a couple of paces behind, flanking Laird.
The Northern Scot rested majestically at the platform. As they passed the engine, whistling could be heard. It was Greensleeves.
A shorn, bespectacled Battle was standing on the engine plate shovelling coal into the furnace’s mouth.
Ron, an oil-stained driver, raised an eyebrow at Battle.
“Bob got the trots again, eh?”
Battle paused. He considered his answer.
“Yeah, poor old Bob, chained to the seat.”
In a dark cubicle, Bob, the stoker, was gagged and tied to the toilet seat.
Battle paused slightly to watch Laird’s party pass.
The driver glanced at him.
“Looks like a right toff, guv.” Battle flicked a thumb at Laird’s back.
Ron nodded.
“Regular traveller that. Lord Laird. Some Scottish duke.”
Battle wiped the sweat from his eyes, shrugged and started working again.
The guard raised his flag and blew his whistle.
Battle looked up at the shrill sound of the whistle. He peered at two police constables standing on the platform. Head down again, he concentrated on his shovel and the coal.
Chapter Twelve
Steaming North
In the luxury of the first class carriage, Laird was settling in.
Laird chose a seat by the window. Campbell was putting a small case on the overhead netted rack.
Laird nodded his dismissal, but as Campbell moved to obey, the door opened.
The greeting was thrown out; a voice used to being heard.
“Good morning. Would there be room here for one of God’s foot soldiers?”
Without waiting for a reply, a priest shuffled in and laid his case on one of the e
mpty seats. He sat back and nodded to an irritated Laird and the towering Campbell.
Above the dog collar, Keilty smiled.
Reeves’s office lacked air.
The man was suffocating under the pressure of this case.
On his chaotic desk, lay a large white pad with a rough flow diagram of words, dates and lines scrawled on it. The words: ‘Tower’, ‘McDonald’, ‘Battle’, ‘Keilty’, ‘PC Stephen – Thames’.
Inspector Reeves wrote in ‘Argyle – Serpentine’. The pen drew a thin line from ‘McDonald’ to a blank area. Another line followed from ‘Argyle’ to the same blank place. Slowly he wrote in two words, his pen scratching the paper, ‘Lord Laird’.
The Northern Scot moved off from Euston station. Clouds of steam filled the platform.
Battle looked up from his labour and grinned through his spectacles. This was the kind of jaunt he had joined the army for.
Laird rustled his Times. Keilty smiled. Laird looked up to find that the priest had a flat wooden briefcase perched on his knees and was playing patience on it. Keilty looked up. He indicated the cards.
“It’s a virtue. Patience, that is.”
Keilty the priest smiled. Laird turned his attention back to his newspaper. Infernal missionaries.
Glasgow Central station was filled with cheerful chaos, as Sturm stepped down from the last of the Highland Spirit’s passenger carriages. Behind him stood two goods wagons. Sturm raised his hand to Kruger, who was already on the platform, half way along the train.
Passengers were still climbing down, being greeted by relatives; hugs and kisses, shouts echoing down the platform. Kruger stood, cupping a match to his cigarette. He watched as some of his men walked past.
Skinstad climbed down gingerly, aided by a colleague, his head and jaw bandaged.
Kruger looked back towards the rear of the train to where Sturm had been minutes before.
Sturm was no longer there. Neither was the end of the train. The freight wagons had vanished.
Janni and Halle were sitting in the second class carriage on the Northern Scot. Campbell made his way along the carriage. Campbell leaned in.
“Check the train.”
The Boers showed a flash of resentment, but obeyed. Janni and Halle viewed Campbell with wary dislike and a healthy dose of fear. They had quietly agreed earlier that if any man could take on Otto Sturm, it was the giant sikh.
Halle moved through the train. He scanned the passengers as he walked, while the Northern Scot whistled along. His gait was unsteady; he had yet to master the roll of the locomotive. A gifted horseman in his own land, he preferred being in the saddle.
Parked outside Laird’s London residence was a dark police car. Inspector Reeves, Sergeant Tucker and Constable Hinchcliffe were standing on the steps to the imposing townhouse. The constable rang the doorbell repeatedly, but there was no answer. Reeves impatiently looked at his watch.
“Get around the back, Hinchcliffe, see if there’s a servants’ entrance. Hop to it.” Reeves’s exasperation showed.
Keilty the priest was tutting to himself as he played his card game. Laird looked annoyed, yet his good manners prevailed. Keilty studied his cards and he picked out the jack of diamonds as his third card. He considered it and looked across at Laird. His smile was just a little crooked as he laid the card down.
Glasgow Central was teeming. Porters rushed to aid passengers with their luggage. Stacks of leather bound trunks were being hauled onto sturdy wooden barrows.
Skinstad was with Rudi, a squat bearded man, helping him walk off the platform, and negotiating the crammed hall.
A woman noticed the wounded Skinstad.
“Sore head, man?” Her hand on her hip.
Skinstad stared at her. He looked hostile. Rudi smiled.
“Dental surgery,” he explained.
“That’s why I dinnae bother.”
The woman smiled with a very bad, uneven set of teeth. The Boers moved on.
Halle reached the end of the Northern Scot entering the final carriage from the passageway. A guard was sitting smoking in the mail carriage. The guard nodded to Halle. The Boer looked into a partitioned area, where a scruffy looking McDonald was snoring on some mail sacks, a near empty bottle at his feet. Halle frowned.
The guard laughed.
“Ratted, mate. Absolutely kalied. Just letting him sleep it off.”
Halle looked dismissive.
In the cushioned first class, the card game continued.
“Damn! Forgive me, Father.”
Keilty beamed at Laird. The peer returned to his paper.
After a few seconds, Laird put down his paper and stood up. He pulled out his pocket watch and stretched.
“If you’ll excuse me, Father. Lunch.”
Laird edged out of the carriage, drawing the door closed behind him.
Keilty nodded to himself.
“Bon Appetit, you old devil.”
Laird eased into his seat in the dining carriage. He pulled out his napkin. He looked out of the window as the hills rolled by and smiled to himself. Not long now.
“Would you like to look at the wine list, sir?” The waiter’s voice intruded.
Laird was pulled back from his thoughts.
“Yes.”
He took the list. Made a quick decision.
“The claret, ‘96.”
Thomas, in a waiter’s black and white, took the wine list back from him.
“Thank you, sir. Fine choice.”
Laird glanced at him, as Thomas, the wine waiter, shuffled away.
The engine was hot.
Battle was standing looking down the track. He wiped his face. The driver clapped him on the back and offered him a tin cup. Battle toasted him and the engineer, who was sitting sipping his drink.
Careful not to spill a drop of the claret, Thomas poured the dark red wine into Laird’s glass.
Kruger stood looking across the River Clyde. He turned. Behind him, Sturm was organising the lifting of crates onto a boat. Sturm shouted instructions. Cargoes were being loaded aboard much larger vessels. Ships bound for the Americas; transatlantic freighters heading for Boston and Nova Scotia. Kruger admired the Americans; they had fought and beaten the British.
Kruger turned back and scanned the boat. Standing on the deck was Skinstad. His face still bandaged. He stared back. Kruger smiled cruelly.
A crate was lowered onto the deck of the boat. Sturm was directing operations. He looked beyond the crate at Skinstad. The bandaged face showed no reaction.
Thomas was polishing glasses in a pristine kitchen. Intermittently, he glanced into the dining carriage where Laird was still enjoying his luncheon.
Laird’s cook was sitting sweating in front of Reeves and Tucker. The cook looked scared, like a rabbit between two stoats. In the dimly lit cell, the only light fell on the frightened woman, while the policemen circled in the shadows.
Laird was asleep, gently rocked by the motion of the train. Keilty was still playing cards, his eyes alternating between the cards and the sleeping peer.
Further down the rolling train, Campbell and Halle were dozing. Janni stretched his shoulders; he needed movement, the train felt like an elongated cage. He walked down the carriage, a slim man, light on his feet.
Battle was covered in sweat, his muscles bulging as he shovelled the coal into the furnace.
“Blow this for a game of soldiers.”
Halle woke up as the train rocked and jolted heavily. Facing him was an empty seat. Janni was not there. Halle frowned. He looked across at the lolling Campbell. Halle rose and looked down the carriage. He stood and walked in the opposite direction to the one that Janni had gone.
Halle tried to walk with the rolling motion of the train. He scanned the faces. No sign of Janni.
As Halle came into the mailroom, he scanned the room. There was no guard. McDonald the drunk was no longer there. Wind from an open sliding door tugged at Halle. He moved towards the gaping door.
&n
bsp; The Northern Scot shot onto a viaduct.
Halle cautiously edged to the open door and peered out. As he jerked back from the opening, linked hands clubbed him in the back.
Halle fell from the train, as it crossed the viaduct, his body plummeting to the ground.
Mac watched him fall.
“Welcome to Scotland, laddie.”
Mac pulled the sliding door closed.
Janni made his way back towards his seat. Campbell was still sleeping. Halle was not there. Janni looked down the carriage and settled back into his seat. Janni closed his eyes.
A small boat left the Glasgow quayside. At the helm was Sturm. Kruger stood at the doorway. He watched the boat manoeuvre away from land. He turned to find Skinstad staring at his back. Kruger stared back and his subordinate lowered his eyes and moved behind the wheelhouse. Kruger looked satisfied. He could sense Skinstad’s hate and his fear; it was right to fear the leader of the pride.
The Northern Scot hurtled along.
Janni moved with purpose along the aisle, looking for Halle.
He stopped where Campbell was still sleeping. He reached over and roughly shook him. Campbell jolted to wakefulness.
“What…”
Janni leaned in.
“Halle is missing.”
Campbell was conscious of the other passengers.
“Quiet. You’ll wake the entire train.”
Campbell rose. He leaned in close, towering over the young Boer.
“Come with me.”
Laird’s eyes were closed, so too were the priest’s, when there was a gentle knock at the door.
Campbell slid the door open. Janni was with him.
“Excuse me, Sahib, we may have a slight problem.”
He looked at his master and then at the sleeping priest.
Laird dismissed Campbell’s caution.
“He’s gone to the wind. What is it?”
Janni answered him.
“Halle has disappeared.”
“Have you searched the train?”