07 - Skinner's Ghosts

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Yes, let’s hope so. Who’s meeting us up there? A squad from Northern?’

  The DCC shook his head. ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘This is down to us, Andy, just you and me.’

  They sat in silence for the rest of the flight, looking at the scenery, as they crossed Stirlingshire to Crianlarich, then swung northward, skirting Ben Nevis and Fort William to the west, and following the jagged coastline. Finally, just before eight thirty, the pilot began his descent, until Balliol’s castle came into view, a grey speck on the horizon at first, but growing larger and larger as they approached, along the banks of Loch Mhor.

  ‘Set it down near Mr Balliol’s own helicopter,’ Skinner ordered, looking down and seeing two black-clad figures run out on to the castle terrace.

  As the aircraft settled in the grass and as the blades began to slow in their rotation, the DCC saw Balliol himself emerge, from a small door not far from his study. He jumped down from the helicopter, and ran towards him.

  ‘What the hell’s this, Bob?’ drawled the American, yet with the air of someone who had not been truly surprised for a long time.

  Skinner shook his hand and introduced Martin, who had followed behind. ‘Sorry to drop in unannounced like this, Everard, but this is important and we have to move fast. I need to know, does you estate include a place called King’s Gully?’

  The billionaire looked at him. ‘Sure, and the land for ten miles north of that, five miles east and all the way west to the coast.’

  ‘There are cottages in the Gully - two according to the map. Who lives there?’

  ‘Christ, Bob, I don’t know that. My estate factor deals with all that stuff.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No, he lives on the far side of the loch. Come on in, guys; I’ll call him, and tell him to get round here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Skinner, ‘and ask him also, if he has any plans of the King’s Gully cottages, to bring them with him.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ He led the way into the house, and through to the study. ‘Set three more places for supper,’ he barked to one of the Koreans. ‘No, make that four: I forgot about the pilot.’

  ‘No,’ said the DCC. ‘He has to stay with the chopper. I’m sure he’d be pleased if you took something out to him, though.’

  They were still in the study, but ready to eat when the estate factor’s Land Rover drew up outside the study window, twenty minutes after Balliol’s telephone summons. A tall, grey, weatherbeaten, tweed-clad man jumped down from the driver’s seat and strode purposefully into the house, carrying a briefcase.

  ‘Hi, Don,’ called Balliol, as the newcomer appeared in the doorway of the study. ‘This is Donald McDonald,’ he announced to Skinner and Martin. ‘He was here when I bought the place, but if he hadn’t been I’d have hired him anyway, for his name alone.’

  The billionaire waved his employee towards a seat, as two Koreans followed him into the room carrying trays laden with hamburger rolls and jugs of coffee. ‘Don, these guys are policemen. They need to know about the cottages up in King’s Gully. Like are they occupied, and if so, by whom?’

  McDonald gave a thin smile. ‘I can answer those questions.’ His accent, like his name, was pure Highlands. ‘You may have seen two cottages on the map, gentlemen, but one has been derelict for years.’ He turned to Balliol. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you, sir, about either demolishing it, or refurbishing it for rental.’

  ‘Later, Don, later.’

  ‘Very good. The cottage which is in habitable condition is rented to a single gentleman. His name is Gilbert Peters.’

  ‘How long has he held the tenancy?’ asked Martin.

  ‘This time, these six months past.’

  ‘This time?’

  ‘Yes sir. A few years ago now, when my father was estate factor here and I was his assistant, in the time of Lord Erran, Mr Peters also rented the cottage. When he gave it up, we assumed we’d seen the last of him, but when he turned up again, I remembered him well enough.

  ‘I had no hesitation about letting him have the place once more. My father used to comment on how good a tenant he was. Always paid his rent on time, by bank transfer, and always kept the place spotless. He even made a few improvements.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, when he was here the first time he had the telephone put in. Since he’s been back, he’s painted the outside, and he’s installed a television satellite dish.’

  ‘What sort of car does he drive?’ asked Skinner.

  ‘Last time he came to see me it was a Subaru,’ replied McDonald. ‘Silvery grey in colour, four-wheel drive. You really need that here.’

  ‘When did he come to see you last?’

  ‘About four months ago, to ask if he could paint the place and install the dish.’

  ‘And when did you last call on him?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said the factor. ‘My father and I have always held that good tenants have as much right to privacy as property-owners. I’ve seen the place from a distance, seen the repainting and the dish, but that’s all. If Mr Peters invited me to call on him, I would, but otherwise no.

  ‘Last time he was here, he used to invite my father and me up for a malt, on occasion, but that hasn’t happened since he’s been back.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’ asked the DCC.

  ‘I know that he was a soldier, because when he rented the cottage the first time, my father took up the references he gave. I saw no need to do so this time.’

  ‘Did he tell you where he’d been since he left?’

  McDonald scratched his head. ‘Not directly. But he implied that he’d been on service abroad. He did say that he’d retired from the Army, though. He didn’t say what he’s doing now.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that you’ll know when he’s there, and when he isn’t?’

  ‘No. The last time I looked into the Gully I didn’t see his car, but he could have gone to Fort William to shop.’

  ‘When was that?’

  The factor scratched his head a second time, as if to aid his memory. ‘A week ago last Friday,’ he replied at last.

  Skinner nodded. ‘Okay. One last question, Mr McDonald,’ he said. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, and took out a small photograph, taken earlier from the folder on Peter Gilbert Heuer. He held it up. ‘Is this Gilbert Peters?’

  The grey man peered at the picture. ‘Oh yes,’ he nodded. ‘It’s not recent, more like from his first time here, but that’s Mr Peters, all right.’

  The two policemen looked at each other. ‘Plans, Mr McDonald,’ asked Martin. ‘Do you have any plans?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the factor answered, delving into his briefcase. He unfolded an old sheet of waxed paper. ‘This goes back years, to the time that the electricity was installed, but it’s still accurate. There have been no internal structural alterations to the cottage since then.’

  He spread the plan on Balliol’s desk. The four men stood around it, studying the layout. Mr McDonald pointed to a direction symbol in the top right corner. ‘The front of the cottage faces south, across the King’s Gully,’ he said. ‘To catch the sun. It is built more or less on the Gully floor.’

  He took them through the layout. ‘This is the front door, here, with a window to the left. There is a small entrance hall with a living room to the right and a bedroom to the left. At the back of the hall there are doors to the kitchen, bathroom and second bedroom.’

  ‘Where’s the back door?’ asked the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘Through the kitchen. There’s a wee garden to the back, with a wee burn running through it.’

  Skinner and Martin leaned over the plan, studying it in detail. ‘How wide is the floor of the Gully?’ asked the DCC.

  ‘About two hundred yards. The cottage is in the centre of the basin.’

  ‘How is it approached, normally?’

  ‘By vehicle, from a rough track to the east.’

  ‘And wha
t’s the terrain?’

  ‘Bracken,’ said the factor. ‘Tall green bracken. None of the estate workers ever go into the Gully. There’s no point. It’s no use for pasture, so you don’t get sheep or deer going in there either. Only rabbits. Mr Peters is free to shoot as many of them as he likes for the pot. There’s a wee loch just to the north. He can fish that for trout if he wants, too.’

  ‘Does he shoot, do you know?’ Skinner interposed.

  ‘I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard shots that could only have been him. If it had been poachers, the keeper would have found their signs.’

  ‘What sort of firearm? Shotgun?’

  ‘No. Rifle, it sounded like.’

  ‘Mmm, I see,’ mused the detective.

  ‘One more thing,’ he asked. ‘Can you remember where the phone is?’

  ‘The telephone, sir? Yes, it’s on a wee table by the front door, beneath the window.’

  ‘Is that the only one, or are there extensions?’

  McDonald shook his head. ‘As far as I recall there’s only the one, unless Mr Peters has put in more. But it would not be easy to do that, because it’s an old-fashioned installation, not the kind they have today that you can unplug and move about.’

  ‘Right,’ said Skinner, pointing at the plan. ‘The phone’s under this window. Can you remember, is there a curtain or a blind?’

  ‘No, sir, there is not, or at least there has not been. The front door is solid, so there is only the window to catch the light.’

  ‘That’s good. That’s very good,’ said the DCC, almost to himself. He picked up a hamburger, glancing at his watch in the process. ‘It’s nine thirty, so there’ll be some half-decent light left. Could you take us up towards the Gully, now, to a point about a mile short? So that we know how to get back there in the morning?’

  McDonald glanced at Balliol, who nodded.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Skinner, taking his mobile phone from his belt, where it was clipped. ‘Before we go, I must call my daughter. Will I get a signal up here?’

  ‘Sure,’ Balliol told him. ‘I had a cell specially installed so I can be contacted anywhere on the estate, anytime.’

  He stepped to the study window and dialled Andy and Alex’s number. The signal was strong and her voice was clear when she came on line. ‘That’s good, love,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure this thing would work up here. Andy and I have had to go up north. We’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, Pops. I know better than to ask why. Tell him to bring back some salmon.’

  ‘Venison, more like. We’re off hunting. See you.’

  He reclipped the phone and turned to see Martin follow McDonald from the study. Only Balliol remained. ‘See here, Bob?’ he asked. ‘What’s this about?’

  Skinner looked him in the eye, debating with himself for a moment or two. At last he decided. ‘Your Mr Peters has killed two women and kidnapped their children. He’s holding them for ransom, in your cottage. Pay-day is the day after tomorrow. Andy and I have to get those kids out before then. That’s if they’re still alive.’

  The billionaire’s sallow face went pale. ‘I have done some things in my time,’ he snarled. ‘But women and children . . .’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You want my Koreans? They’re damn good. Mercenaries. Night fighters.’

  ‘Not good enough for this guy. He’ll have the area around the place wired with traps and geophones so’s he’d know as soon as they were within fifty yards. He’d kill the children for sure at that, then your Koreans, and he’d be off into the night.’

  The big policeman looked at the American. ‘If you could lend us a Land Rover tomorrow morning that would be good, but I don’t want your men anywhere near the Gully. I don’t want anyone around.

  ‘I didn’t have a firm plan, before I’d spoken to Mr McDonald, but I do now. If everything is as he said, it’ll work.’

  ‘And if it isn’t . . .’

  ‘Then, Everard, I will simply wait, for as long as it takes.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For a clear shot. Then I’ll just kill the fucker.’

  83

  It was 7.45 a.m. as they left the Land Rover in the small copse beside the track which Donald McDonald had shown them the night before.

  On the slow drive from the castle, where they had spent the night, and breakfasted with Balliol, Andy had asked Bob about Pamela, and about their split.

  ‘Later, man, later. I’ll tell you and Alex together. But for now we have to concentrate completely on what’s to be done here.’

  There were no estate workers about as they made their way north, up the climbing, winding track, towards the Gully. Nor would there be any. On Balliol’s orders, McDonald would direct them all to work on the south side of Loch Mhor.

  The two policemen were clad in the green trousers and pullovers which the Army had provided for them. Pouches hung on their belts, and each carried a short stubby assault carbine. Skinner’s weapon was fitted on top with a cumbersome, awkward-looking device, with an eyepiece.

  Even in the early morning cool, they were both sweating as, after a thirty-five-minute trek, they reached the slope which, as their map showed them, led up to King’s Gully. As the factor had described it they could see that, near the top, the grass gave way abruptly to wavy green ferns.

  Skinner waved to Martin to stop just at the point where the bracken began, the two of them sitting down, heavily, at the edge of the open grass.

  ‘Okay, Andy,’ he said. ‘Once we’ve got our breath back, we’ll get into position. You’re clear on the plan?’

  Martin nodded. He wore a dark green beret to hide his blond hair, and his powerful shoulders bulged in the tight battledress pullover. ‘I take up position to the north, behind the house, no closer than one hundred yards away.’

  ‘Right. With your two-way radio on receive. Listen and do as you hear me say. It’ll take you longer to get in position than me. I’ll wait fifteen minutes before I move in.’

  Martin nodded, and snaked off eastward, keeping below the ridge of King’s Gully. Skinner sat on the grass and waited, hefting his carbine, testing and re-testing the device on top. At last, with a final check of his watch he moved off, up towards the crest of the slope, diving into the thick bracken before it opened out into the bowl of the Gully.

  He snaked forward slowly and carefully on his belly, taking care so that any disturbance of the thick ferns would look like no more than morning breeze. After a few yards he stopped, and peered through a gap in the undergrowth. He saw the cottage, exactly where the map had promised, and exactly as Donald McDonald had described it. At the side stood a silvery grey car, a hatchback, with a slightly bulbous rear.

  He changed course, wriggling to the left of his original approach, parallel with the front of the cottage, careful not to go too close. At last he was in his chosen position, around one hundred yards away from the cottage, directly facing the front door and the wide green-framed window. He smiled. The window still had no curtain or blind.

  From the pouch on the left side of his belt, he took out his two-way radio. ‘Ready to go, Andy,’ he said quietly, into its microphone.

  Next, from the same pouch, he took his mobile phone and laid it on the ground in front of him. Finally he removed a small head-set, with earpiece and mouthpiece, which he put on before plugging its lead into a socket in the phone casing.

  Taking a deep breath he switched on his phone, then pressed the short code for the telephone number which he had programmed in the night before: the number which Donald McDonald had given him, the number of the King’s Gully cottage.

  The mobile’s display lit up, green amidst the bracken. Skinner pressed ‘Send’, then hefted his carbine up to his shoulder, looking through his very special telescopic sight, and training it on the window beside the black-painted front door of the house.

  He heard the ringing in his ear, once, twice, a third time. On the fourth ring a tall, slim, fair-haired figure stepped into the hall, from the left. He was w
earing glasses. Framed in the window, Skinner saw him pick up the telephone.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Heuer,’ he said calmly and evenly, before the man could speak himself. ‘Please don’t move a muscle, other than to look down at your shirt. Just left of centre, where you heart is.’

  Through the sight, he saw the man look down slowly at a small red dot on his shirt, a dot which was not printed on, yet which stayed rock-steady.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Skinner. ‘I think you might know what that dot is. Nod if you do.’ Very slowly, Peter Gilbert Heuer nodded his head.

  ‘That’s right, it’s the trace from a laser sight, mounted in this case on an H & K carbine, not very far away. I am very, very good with an H & K. My name’s Bob Skinner, by the way. It’s my turn to phone you now.

  ‘As I’m sure you’ve worked out by now, Mr Heuer, if you drop the phone, or make any attempt to move from the spot on which you’re standing right now, that nice wee red dot will turn all of a sudden into a black hole and you will be dead.

  ‘Now.’ His voice became rock-hard. ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘They are in the kitchen.’ Heuer’s voice was still flat and calm, but no longer assertive.

  ‘Are they alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they are alone? There is no-one else in the house?’

  ‘No-one.’

  ‘If there is, you’re dead, whatever else happens. You know that, Heuer, do you?’

  For the first time, the voice was less than calm. ‘There is no-one. I swear.’

  Skinner raised his voice, so that it would be picked up by the radio lying in front of him. ‘Okay, Andy. Kids in the kitchen. Kick the back door in. Go. Go. Go. Fire two shots when you’re clear.’

  He held the sight on Heuer. ‘If there’s any unpleasant surprise waiting in there for my mate,’ he said, ‘I’ll shoot your eyes out. Are you religious?’ he asked suddenly, almost conversationally.

  ‘No.’ The voice was flat and calm once more.