He headed out to revisit the fell tops, where he had seen the three watchers forming their mysterious triangle. A quick foray north took him to Brockbarrow, but the only sign of life on the flat summit was a handful of Swaledales dotted among the bracken. He turned south, and passed over Dowthwaite Bay where he was surprised to see that the Teal and the police boats had now gone. On Rigg Knott there was a lone runner doing some leg stretches against the trig point. Apart from that the hilltop was empty.
Before heading to Raven Howe he continued south as far as the islands in Birthwaite Bay. As he crossed the channel between Ransome Holme and Benson Isle, he spotted Bobalong, the dinghy from River’s Edge, pulled up on the shingle beach on Ransome Holme.
Joel was casting a line from the beach with a rather clumsy flick of a rod. He looked like he was fly fishing. Maggie was sitting in the bow of the boat, bending over a book. She turned over a page, and pushed some hair behind her ear. He hoped that, just because he had agreed to take them swimming tomorrow, they wouldn’t expect him to spend the summer holidays hanging out with them. He would do his bit to keep Aunt Emily happy. But they couldn’t expect much more than that. After all, if it was climbing and swimming and playing Swallows and Amazons that they wanted, what use was he?
He was about to head east when he noticed a large orange speedboat tied to the jetty on the island on the other side of the channel. Although Benson Isle was the largest island on the lake it was also the least known, having been owned by the same reclusive family since the eighteenth century. Even Jim Rothwell, who knew every inch of the lake, had never stepped foot on it. ‘Come to think of it,’ Jim had said when Tom asked about it once, ‘I don’t know anyone who has.’ Then, a few months ago, the island had suddenly been sold, but in his many inquisitive flights over it Tom had seen little sign of the new owners, other than some fences appearing. Now, there was the Invincible moored up just underneath the Private: Keep Off sign. Perhaps the man who owned the fastest boat on the lake, also now owned its biggest and most secluded island. If so, whatever he was up to, he clearly meant business.
Tom pulled Skylark into a spiral until he was directly over the famous round house, which most people, speeding by on a tourist launch, only glimpsed through the trees. With every door closed and shutters over the windows, the place looked as deserted as ever. But as he circled around, a figure emerged from the trees. Tom recognized the red-headed woman, who went past the house and disappeared into a concrete outbuilding around the back.
Tom hovered for a few moments, but she didn’t reappear. He checked the battery, which showed fifteen per cent remaining. Then he pulled away towards Raven Howe – the peak where he’d first seen straw-hat man with the laptop.
The flight path to Raven Howe took Tom over a disused slate quarry cut into the hillside. He had flown into it regularly to look at a nest of peregrine falcons, perched high up in the wall of rock. The quarry had always been deserted, but now, parked in the middle of the slate-strewn floor, was a vehicle.
At first sight it looked like an ordinary white van, which would have been unusual enough. But as he circled overhead, Tom could see a plastic ice cream cone moulded into the roof. On the back of the van, in coloured writing, were the words: Luscious Lakeland – Real Ice Cream, Fresh from the Farm.
An ice cream van parked up in the abandoned quarry was so out of place that Tom wondered if someone were trying to steal eggs from the falcon’s nest. He dropped on to a flat shelf of rock at the top of the cliff and shut down the motors. There were two men in the quarry and Tom recognized them immediately. Standing guard at the entrance was ponytail man. He was cradling something in his hands. Tom felt a jolt as he realized it was a sub-machine gun. He didn’t wait this time, but zoomed in and took some photographs.
Then, where the ground fell away into the woods, he saw straw-hat man, now in a blazer and tie, with a clipboard in his hand.
Tom followed his gaze to the road that ran along the eastern shore, where cars like toys crawled along in each direction. Three vehicles were turning on to the track that wound up the hillside to the quarry, all shiny metal and tinted windows, clouds of dust billowing behind. Two black Land Rovers kitted out with spotlights and snorkels accompanied a Bentley SUV, like a pair of bodyguards, one at the front, one bringing up the rear. Ponytail man waved the cars into the quarry with his gun. A passenger door of the Bentley opened and a huge bald man in a bright Hawaiian shirt stepped out. Straw-hat man welcomed him with a handshake, and led him to the edge of the quarry. They looked down towards the lake where the Teal was making her way through a flotilla of red and blue dinghies.
While they looked at the view, Tom took some more photographs of the strange gathering. They stood around talking for a few more minutes, then the men got into the vehicles and headed back down the hill, the ice cream van bringing up the rear. Tom watched the wisps of dust disperse before starting the motors. As he lifted into the air he glanced down to the lake shore before heading for home. He knew that tourists crossed the world to see sights like this. But something told him these people were not there to enjoy the scenery.
CHAPTER 9
The next morning Tom went to the stone harbour and waited. He watched clouds of midges dancing in columns of light under the trees, and played out the next hour in his mind. He would get the apology done with straight away, show them the river, take them for a swim, get back. The water would be colder than they were expecting, so they wouldn’t want to stay long.
When Maggie and Joel arrived, rolled-up towels under their arms, he opened his mouth to offer his half-rehearsed speech, but the dog bounced around his legs, barking ecstatically and Tom had to hold on to a post to stop himself falling.
‘Where shall we start?’ said Maggie, as she grabbed Archie’s collar.
‘This is the River Elleray,’ said Tom, with a wave of his arm. They looked out over the water. The river was trembling with life. Cream-coloured feathers drifted past and bubbles popped with tiny sighs, as if the energy below the surface were trying to escape.
Maggie closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. ‘This place is . . . delicious! And you actually live here?’
‘Er . . . I do now,’ he said, slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm.
‘And we’ve got four whole weeks to explore.’
Joel looked at his watch. ‘Actually we’ve got three weeks, six days and one and a half hours left.’
‘Joel, don’t start all that.’
Tom studied them, mystified. Both brother and sister had jet-black hair, like their mother’s, and dark brown eyes. Maggie was a little older than Tom, and Joel a little younger. Not surprisingly, they both had a hint of a northern accent. But Maggie had a way of speaking that was strangely urgent, almost dramatic.
‘Is this your boat?’ said Maggie. Tom heard a note of doubt in her voice as she pointed to his scuffed old fibre-glass dinghy, tied up in the harbour, blue paint flaking off her sides.
‘That’s Maggot.’ Tom couldn’t seem to soften the sharpness in his voice. ‘You don’t need to worry, she won’t sink!’
‘Maggot,’ she repeated. ‘I like the name.’
Tom remembered watching her, fascinated, on the top of Brockbarrow. Close up, she was even more intense – she had a kind of pent-up energy that made Tom think of a dog that had been left indoors too long. He knew the feeling. He had to get this over with. He gestured to the steps and held on to the painter while they climbed aboard.
Tom pulled the starter cord and felt the current ease them into the river. With a twist of the throttle the boat found her groove.
‘How fast can it go?’ asked Joel.
‘She,’ said Tom.
‘What?’
‘You always call a boat “she”.’
‘Sorry. How fast can she go?’
‘Fast,’ said Tom, looking past him to navigate the right-hand bend. ‘But we have to stick to the speed limit.’
‘So why the big engine?’ Joel raised his voic
e above the growl of the outboard. ‘Wouldn’t it be more economical to have the right size?’
‘I built it myself from three broken ones. It’s more power than Maggot needs, but it comes in handy occasionally,’ said Tom. He couldn’t help feeling flattered by Joel’s interest, and gave the throttle a sharp twist, to show him what fifty horsepower on a twelve-foot dinghy felt like. The boat lurched, and Maggie was flung along the bench. She laughed, letting the wind blow the hair out of her eyes.
Tom took a deep breath. ‘Guys. I . . . er . . . About yesterday when you arrived—’
‘Oh, look,’ said Joel. ‘Podiceps cristatus!’ He pointed to a bird with two candy-striped chicks riding on her back, paddling up stream.
‘We call them great crested grebes.’
‘They’re totally gorgeous,’ said Maggie.
They reached the open water and Tom gunned the engine until conversation was impossible and they could taste the spray in their mouths. He would try again on the way back.
When they landed, Joel and Maggie jumped out and helped pull the dinghy on to the gravel beach.
‘Thanks,’ Tom said, tying the painter to the bleached root of an alder. Guests usually needed telling what to do.
‘So you like birds too?’ asked Joel, looking at the binoculars hanging round Tom’s neck.
‘Um. Well. Anything that flies really.’
But Tom had not brought the binoculars for bird spotting, and as soon as the others had begun gingerly wading out into the water, he made his way up the slope behind the beach and began to scan the lake and fell tops for anything suspicious. There was nothing out of the ordinary today. He watched Maggie and Joel splashing each other and laughing at the cold, the dog dashing between them, quivering with excitement. Then, around to his right, through the trees, he spotted a white vehicle in the car park. There was no mistaking the ice cream van, with the plastic ice cream cone, complete with chocolate flake, moulded into the roof, and Luscious Lakeland – Real Ice Cream, Fresh from the Farm, in coloured letters on the back. He made his way back to the beach, wondering if he would have time to go and have a look at it, as Maggie and Joel began to tiptoe out of the water, jagged stones on soft feet making them wave their arms about like string puppets.
‘See anything from up there?’ asked Joel, wrapping a towel around his waist.
‘What?’ Tom started.
‘Any birds?’
‘Oh, not really.’
‘So what were you looking at?’
‘I . . . just some cormorants.’
‘Where?’
Tom sighed and handed the other boy the binoculars. He pointed to a rocky island some way down the lake. ‘If you look at the dead tree sticking out on that island, you’ll usually see a few drying their wings.’
Maggie picked up a pebble and skimmed it over the water, watching it bounce six or seven times, before disappearing with a graceful splash. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘Joel and I wanted to camp on an island and cook on a fire while we’re here. We’ve never done anything like that.’
‘Maggie’s reading Swallows and Amazons,’ said Joel, as if by way of explanation.
‘I read all the books years ago,’ corrected Maggie, with a wave of a hand. ‘But now we’re in the Lake District, I thought I’d see some of the places where they were set.’
Tom looked at his watch, wondering about the ice cream van.
‘Where would you recommend, Tom? I bet you know all the islands!’
‘One or two,’ said Tom. He conjured up a picture in his mind of secluded little Heron Holme, down on the south-west side, with its perfect camping place and sheltered harbour. But he’d always thought of it as his secret. It would probably be too far for them anyway. ‘There’s only one option for camping at this time of year. It’s the second largest of the islands in the middle of the lake, in Birthwaite Bay.’
‘When I looked at the map I counted nineteen islands,’ said Joel. ‘Including some small ones, I admit, but they all had names.’
‘The smaller ones are too small,’ Tom said. ‘Or closed for nesting. The big one with the house, Benson Isle, is private. The one you can camp on is the long, wooded island opposite that.’
‘That’s the one we went to yesterday evening to fish from,’ said Joel. ‘Although I didn’t catch anything. Any ideas?’
‘It’s not great for fly fishing,’ said Tom. ‘You’re better off going after perch and pike with a spinner. Especially on the other side of the island.’
Maggie was watching a wooden tourist launch, barbed with selfie sticks, pass by. ‘Hold on.’ She spun around and met Tom’s eyes. He turned away in realization of what he’d said. ‘How did you know which side of the island Joel was fishing from last night?’
‘Well, I—’
‘And how did you know I was fly fishing?’ added Joel.
Tom was suddenly furious with himself for being so stupid.
‘There’s an ice cream van parked over near the big house.’ He started towards the path that led around the bay to Dowthwaite House. ‘I’ll start walking. You can catch me up when you’ve changed. My treat.’
The van was alone in the desolate car park. Tom’s body stiffened with apprehension, as he recognized the profile of ponytail man immediately, now hunched over a laptop.
The man turned and saw Tom staring through the window. He blinked, then slammed the laptop shut, a flash of annoyance in his eyes.
He slid the window open as the others were arriving, and forced a smile. ‘What can I get you?’
Maggie pondered the stickers on the window. ‘I’d like a Magnum, please.’
The man didn’t move. ‘Sorry, sold out of those.’
‘OK, I’ll have a Twister, then, please.’
‘Out of those too, I’m afraid.’ He scratched the back of his neck impatiently, and as he raised his arm, Tom felt a cold shiver of fear sweep over him. A small, faded tattoo was visible on the back of his wrist. It was the same as the one Tom had seen on the helicopter pilot’s wrist: a winged running man – or maybe some sort of angel – with a golden bird under his arm.
‘I know,’ said Joel reasonably, ‘why don’t you tell us what you do have, then we can decide?’
‘How about a 99?’
He began to fill three cones from the tap, and shot them an apologetic smile, as if he’d suddenly remembered his lines in a play. ‘You can have the flakes for nothing, to make up for the lack of choice. I’m a bit new to all this.’
They walked back to the beach, their ice creams dripping on to their hands.
‘Urgh,’ said Maggie. ‘This is the most melty ice cream ever.’
‘Well, it is hot today,’ said Joel, trying to catch the white liquid that was oozing from his cone in his mouth. ‘About twenty-five degrees, I’d say.’
Maggie glanced around the empty car park. ‘No, that’s not it. There was something odd about that man. He just didn’t – you know – look like an ice cream man.’
‘Weird,’ agreed Joel. ‘And how can he have “sold out”? There’s no one around.’
‘Anyway, what is this place?’ asked Maggie.
‘It’s called Dowthwaite House,’ said Tom. ‘It’s been empty for years but it’s been converted into some kind of study centre. I think there’s a grand opening happening on Wednesday.’
‘Well,’ said Joel. ‘Somebody very important is coming to open it.’
Tom stopped. ‘How do you know that?’
Joel pointed to a manhole cover in the ground. ‘It’s been sealed,’ he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
They all bent down to examine the rusty iron plate, and now Tom could see that several flat pieces of black rubber had recently been stuck on to the ground over the edges of the metal cover.
‘When someone very important is about to arrive somewhere,’ Joel explained, ‘the police go around checking drains and manholes along the route a few days before, in case some terrorist tries to plant a bomb in one of them
. Then they seal them with these rubber seals, so they know they haven’t been tampered with. But they only do this for real VIPs. We’re not talking TV celebrities or football players. I mean proper big guns – prime ministers and presidents and popes, that sort of thing.’
‘How do you know about this stuff?’ Tom said.
Maggie put her hands on her hips. ‘Basically, he’s a sponge. He just absorbs stuff. Infuriating when it comes to exams – he barely has to try.’
‘I wonder . . .’ Joel was looking back at the ice cream van. ‘I’m sure Maggie’s right about that guy. He’s not here to sell ice creams. Maybe he’s an undercover policeman – keeping an eye on things before the VIP arrives?’
Tom looked at his watch, suddenly desperate to get home. This was all getting too big. He needed to think. He tossed his remaining ice cream into a bin. ‘I think it’s time we headed back.’
While Maggot bounced through the wavelets, Tom thought how pleased Aunt Emily would be when she heard he’d taken them swimming and bought them an ice cream. But then he felt a surge of guilt that he hadn’t told them about Heron Holme, which he knew was the best place to camp. The least he could do was let them know about SBS. If they got in the way of Snakey, Noyley and Podge there would be real trouble.
He looked at Maggie, who was dipping her wrist in the water, letting it bounce along the surface like an aerofoil. ‘I suppose I should warn you about something.’
‘Yes?’
‘Watch out for a ski boat called Stingray. If you see it, stay away. Some of the local boys think that island – the one you want to camp on – belongs to them.’
‘What’s it called?’ asked Maggie.
‘Ransome Holme.’
Maggie’s face lit up. ‘Is that named after Arthur Ransome?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Dunno. Suppose it might be.’
‘You do know who I’m talking about, don’t you? Arthur Ransome? He wrote the Swallows and Amazons books?’
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