by Alan Hunter
‘Monsieur, it may be that we shall capture these terrorists.’
‘Maybe,’ Gently said. ‘And maybe alive.’
‘On that matter,’ Frénaye said, ‘you have not changed your opinion?’
‘For us,’ Gently said, ‘can there be two standards?’
Before dinner Gently rang Tate, but Guthrie had not returned from Aviemore. The case, which involved a hostel and its associated sports centre, had a ring of complex routine about it. Empton, Tate told him, was still working on Petrie; as yet he’d heard no whisper of a break-through.
‘Has Guthrie been on the line?’ Gently asked.
‘Yes, sir. A short time ago.’
‘You said something to him?’
‘Well . . . yes, sir. He said I was to give you every support.’
Gently hesitated, then hunched. ‘Stand by for a call at around ten p.m.’
Waiting: the onerous part. At first his mind had been absorbed by the plan, checking it move by move, the white house vivid before his eye. But came the moment when the details were definitive, the programme instinct in his brain; and then his brain turned its back on it and sought for the image of Gabrielle. Had she indeed been aware of his presence? She could have been on the watch, back in Invergarry. Yet would she have ignored him so completely, so casually, conscious of his closeness at every moment?
Several times he eyed the phone: something she must say to him, if he rang! It wasn’t possible that she would just slam the phone down, knowing he was there, feeling his nearness. And even to hear her voice, angry, repulsing, was still to hear the voice of Gabrielle: the voice that had told her love: voice in all the world hers. Yet each time he kept his hand from the phone. Until she wanted it . . . until she rang him! Only one thing was certain: he would never let her leave Scotland before, face to face, they had spoken together.
‘Monsieur, the rain has almost stopped.’
Frénaye had gone out to stretch his legs; his return marked the end of a blank spell when time had done its best to stand still.
‘No risk of the sky clearing?’
‘None, monsieur. I do not admire your Scottish weather.’
‘Let’s go in to dinner,’ Gently grunted.
‘Monsieur, I do not think they are yet serving.’
A drink at the bar bridged the gap, and while they ate light leaked from the drab evening. Lamps flicked on along the riverside, cars began passing with dipped lights. And she too would be at her table, in the hotel down the Great Glen: matching him, it might be, thought for thought – though more likely revolving some harebrain exploit. Her reconnaissance was made. At Hénault’s next call she would brief him on what to expect; possibly she knew, as they did not, an optimum moment for an attempt. When Hénault was watchdog; when the others slept . . . perhaps even some jiggery-pokery with drugs? To her, it must seem credible: worth the risk of staying silent.
Ought he to step in, whether or no? But Hénault’s next call could not be today. They had stocked up that morning for several days, would not soon be visiting the store again. Not today, not tomorrow; and the next day was Sunday. Unless Hénault had some other trick for getting to a phone, Monday was the earliest she could make her move . . .
‘Monsieur,’ Frénaye said.
Gently looked up: Empton had entered the dining room. He paused, eyes on their table; then came stalking across.
‘Well, well, old man,’ he said. He pulled up a chair and sat. ‘I’m sure you’d like a progress report,’ he said. ‘And then again, I’m wondering if you need one.’
Gently said nothing.
‘A mute witness,’ Empton said. ‘But this is the way of it, old man. I’ve just been looking through the reports coming in, and one puts you at Invergarry this morning.’
‘So,’ Gently said.
‘Oh quite,’ Empton said. ‘Delightful scenery and all that. But scarcely the weather for it, old man. And you do have such a keen ear for whispers.’ His eyes were tight on Gently’s. ‘So what’s at Invergarry, old man?’ he said. ‘Apart from the castle, that you know about, and I don’t know about, and don’t get told about?’
‘I heard you were rechecking the area,’ Gently said.
‘Charming,’ Empton said. ‘You were giving me a hand.’
‘That you had elicited a hint from Petrie.’
‘It brought you running,’ Empton said. ‘Keep on telling me.’
‘Not having any information of my own,’ Gently said, ‘I took a chance on yours.’
‘Oh brilliant,’ Empton said. ‘Homing in at once on Invergarry.’
‘Invergarry,’ Gently said, ‘seemed a good place to start, being close to the spot where the trail went cold. But I may have been wasting my time. Perhaps Petrie’s hints are not to be trusted.’
‘Never mind Petrie,’ Empton said. ‘I’ve got Petrie’s welfare in hand.’
‘So sorry if I’m disappointing you,’ Gently said.
‘Yeah,’ Empton said. ‘I can imagine.’ He glared at Frénaye, then back to Gently. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Always the clever answer. If I wasn’t so naive I might think you were foxing me. Perhaps it is only the castle at Invergarry.’
‘Is Petrie talking yet?’ Gently said.
‘Don’t bother about him, old man,’ Empton said. ‘We’re being kind to him. He’s having his supper. Which could mean of course that he’s been singing for it. I see you’re having yours early.’
‘It’s the way the weather affects me,’ Gently said.
‘Joke,’ Empton said. ‘But stay loose, old man. And don’t get too busy around the scene.’
He laughed, got up and left them. They saw him collect a flask from the bar. Then, without another glance, he strode through reception and out into the night.
Frénaye eyed Gently with concern.
‘My soul, but that man has a strange effect on me! It is as though I am the rabbit and he the stoat. Monsieur, can it be that he divines our intentions?’
‘It can,’ Gently grunted. ‘By now he must know that his bugs have gone spare. We shall have to watch out for sticking-plasters.’
‘Monsieur, must we not also warn mademoiselle?’
After a pause Gently nodded. ‘She must leave. It means breaking contact, but after tonight that shouldn’t matter.’
‘I will phone her now.’
‘Not yet. Empton may be anticipating such a reaction.’
They finished dinner. Back in his room, Gently made a further precautionary check: the room was clean. Frénaye rang, but as he listened his expression changed to one of alarm. He hung up quickly.
‘Monsieur, she did not return to the hotel.’
‘What!’
‘They have not seen her since she went out after lunch.’
Gently stared at him blank-faced: he could feel the blood thump in his temples.
‘Then come on. Let’s get out there.’
‘Oh, monsieur! That we are not too late.’
But still a delay – they had to search the car. Frénaye took the inside, Gently the out. Two tracer bugs came to light, one tucked in the rear fender, one placed cunningly under a loose corner of the carpet. A van was parked by the Marina: Gently posted the bugs through its grille. Then they piled in and he wheeled the Marina out of the yard.
‘Monsieur, she must have made some arrangement this morning . . .’
‘Keep your eye open for a tail.’
Over the bridge he’d taken a chance, turned right and eliminated the one-way. Horns had serenaded behind him, but he was safe on the Dores road.
‘She would have issued Hénault with instructions . . .’
Yes, all that was plain enough now. No waiting till Monday! She’d had a plan simmering over, ready to spring it as soon as she heard from him. This afternoon had been no tentative reconnaissance but a final check for essential detail – then she’d drawn off to wait, like himself, till the fall of night.
And the plan?
He shuddered to think of it
, could take her no closer to that frightening peril. Let it not be yet, let it not be yet. Let there still be time to intercept it . . .
‘Monsieur, I perceive no tail.’
‘Keep watching. He may not rely on his bugs.’
He’d rushed through the suburbs, left the streetlights, was bucking into the pitchy cavern of the night. Not a road for speed! The car bounced and lurched as he forced the speedometer up to seventy. Nothing showed behind in his mirror, ahead lay only the unreaming road. At Dores they peeled off into the hills, and then the going became truly rough: the Marina banged and bottomed and drifted its tail on bad bends. Still he kept it shifting. They’d met no traffic all the way. They stormed down from Ashie Moor, passed the upper Wade road, soon were skirting crags by Loch Duntelchaig.
‘A turn left – watch out for it.’
But from this direction it was easier to spot. Once more he was charging through sheep droppings and slamming into the tiny stone bridge. Four wheels off! Here he had to ease up if he was to stay on the road at all. Swearing to himself, he wriggled and squirmed through the switchback bends among the trees. And then ahead – lights. On this narrowest of all roads, with passing places far to seek: another car dashing towards them, its haste apparent in the bouncing headlights. Fuming, Gently raced ahead. Tyres screeched, the two cars halted bumper to bumper. And suddenly, though its headlights were blinding him, he recognized the shape of a Deux-Chevaux.
‘Monsieur – it is Hénault. It is Monsieur Barentin!’ They’d piled out of the Marina and run to the Citroën. The driver’s scared face, white in the headlights, was that of the photostat in Gently’s pocket, while lolling beside him, seemingly unconscious, was the slight figure of the French industrialist.
Gently’s hands were on Hénault’s collar.
‘Where is she – where is Mademoiselle Orbec?’
‘Monsieur, I do not know—’
‘We are police!’ Frénaye snapped. ‘You had better tell us quickly what has happened.’
‘Monsieur, we are in danger—’
‘Talk!’ Gently snarled. ‘Where is mademoiselle?’
‘Monsieur, I do not know! She is back at the house – and now – at any moment—’
‘You left her there?’
‘Monsieur, I could not help it. I had to get Monsieur Barentin away. He is helpless, he is drugged, I had to carry him in my arms—’
‘She is in their hands?’
‘I cannot say. They were hunting for her behind the house. She was screaming, throwing stones at the windows – first one and then the other went after her—’
Gently hauled him from the car. ‘Get in the back!’
‘But, monsieur, they are sure to follow—’
‘You’re under arrest – get in the back. You are the prisoner of Inspector Frénaye.’ To Frénaye he said: ‘Take the Citroën, drive to the farmhouse we passed near the junction, alert Inverness, then drive on to town.’
‘Oh, monsieur—!’
‘Do as I say!’
Gently jumped back into the Marina. He reversed savagely, sent it bounding forward over rock and bracken to clear the Citroën. He didn’t look back. Ahead were the hairpins, the level going by the loch. The Marina blundered, squealed and slammed at a speed he didn’t check. He reached the bend, didn’t cut his lights, went straight on in through the gates of the house. The house was unlit. The car had gone. He skidded to a halt, came out with his gun.
‘Gabrielle!’
Again, an open door. He rushed it, crouched, kicked it wide. He went in. Nothing: no sound. He swept on lights: empty rooms.
‘Gabrielle!’
He raced up the stairs. Nothing stirred in all the house. Below, his car lights lit the granite chippings where the Volvo had stood, but stood no longer.
EIGHT
‘AH, MONSIEUR, YOU are safe!’
And after all it was Frénaye who first arrived at the empty house. In obedience to instructions, he had driven to the farmhouse and made his call to Inverness; to be advised then by the farmer that a strapping son of his was himself a special constable. Authority enough: Frénaye had off-loaded his prisoner and charge to the son. Now he’d dumped the Deux-Chevaux below and come running up the drive, gun in hand.
‘They have gone, monsieur?’
‘Gone.’
‘You have searched . . .?’
‘Only the house.’
Though Gently was standing stock still by his car his breath was coming fast. In fact he’d been up on the moor, scrambling about there like one demented, feeling through heather, bracken, birch scrub and praying, praying . . .
At first his one thought had been pursuit and he’d actually leaped into the car and started the engine. But where? Which way? At the junction ahead, how could he tell? He might be following them, might be losing them, while somewhere up there, all the time . . . At once he’d switched off the engine, sprung out and charged up the steep bank. But he’d had no torch and the moor above was a black, wet nightmare, slowly defeating him . . .
‘They have taken mademoiselle, monsieur?’
Almost he was wishing they had: anything but what lights, daylight might reveal up there. Frénaye was shaking him.
‘Monsieur, monsieur! We must think now what to do. Fear not but that the police will be sealing the roads, that these men will be cornered. We must make some plan!’
‘And if she is dead?’
‘Oh no, monsieur, no. As yet your thoughts cannot be clear. They have lost their hostage, their danger is acute, mademoiselle is the one card in their hand.’
‘They may have shot her without thinking.’
‘A woman unarmed? Why should they?’
‘Then later, in anger . . .’
‘Oh, monsieur, no. If that, in the house you would have found her.’ He went on shaking Gently. ‘Listen, monsieur. These are men who plan, who calculate. They are not simple gangsters who shoot without purpose. At once their situation is plain and, without hesitating, they accept it. They have lost the game – they must think of their skins: they fly, and take a hostage with them.’
‘She would not go willingly.’
‘Oh monsieur, with a gun pressed in her back! Let us use the logic. Does she not know that monsieur will soon be on their tracks? The big prize is won, time now to be meek, to bend with the wind. She is a woman of keen intelligence. She will not lose the last trick for a gesture.’
The logic! If only it counted, could still the anguish of heart and brain. But for all the logic, in the black, black night that lay in a pall beyond the house . . .
‘In the house, any signs of violence, monsieur?’
‘Broken windows. Stones.’
‘Let us go in.’
Why not? He let Frénaye urge him towards the door.
The broken windows were upstairs. Below, the rooms were in perfect order. Except for dirty dishes, a stock of food, there were few traces of occupation. What did Frénaye expect? The inmates had brought themselves, had inhabited the house for forty-eight hours . . . in the lounge there was a Scotsman, bought that morning, its principal news story the manhunt. Upstairs, Gently picked up a stone, stared at it, slipped it in his pocket . . .
‘Where have Guthrie’s lot got to?’
‘No doubt, monsieur, their first act will be to set up road blocks.’
‘There could have been a siege going on out here.’
But the first patrol cars arrived only a few minutes later.
Guthrie himself was there quarter of an hour later: he could scarcely keep the glee from his porridgy face.
‘My goodness, man, this is a turn up! When it’s over I must take that lassie’s hand.’
‘If that lassie is alive she’s in deadly peril.’
‘Ach man, never look on the black side. There’s no sign yet that violence was offered, and if she’s with them we’ll fetch her off.’
‘How long were you setting the road blocks?’
‘Within minutes, man, of ge
tting the call. I was fresh in, I’d just read your note. By now the whole barony is tight as a drum. Ach man, they’re on the run – the job is sewn up – they’ve been stymied by one wee French lassie.’
‘Has Empton been informed?’
Guthrie’s look was sly. ‘You know, I clean forgot to drop in and tell him . . .’
Lights were working on the moor now, slowly criss-crossing, moving outwards. Moment by moment the situation was clarifying, reaching definition. She wasn’t out there, must be alive. She’d been captured, dragged back to the house. The logic was sound; when they found they’d lost Barentin, they’d acted swiftly, knowing that time was against them. The brown Volvo had departed, turned left, reached the T-junction and made its decision, east or west: east to the A9 and its many feeders, west to Fort Augustus, the glens, Skye. Had it sprung the trap? Perhaps half-an-hour had elapsed before the first road block moved into position. By then the Volvo could have crossed the A9, be heading deep into country beyond. And McGash knew the country, that was evident: a third safe house was not improbable.
East: east was the quickest way out: west was a bottle-neck he might not clear . . .
Guthrie was in his car getting flashes from control. There were blocks at Fort Augustus, Daviot, the town approaches. Cars were sifting the roads of the back country, calling in as they cleared their threads of the skein. Time moving on! Unless he’d gone to earth, McGash must surely have broken through the net. He wouldn’t now be skulking about the back country roads, waiting for patrol cars to pick him up.
Gently got in beside Guthrie.
‘Has Dalcross been alerted?’
‘Surely he’d never head up that way!’
‘He’s got a hostage, may try to use her.’
Guthrie stared for a moment. ‘You think he’s clear, then?’
‘I think he’s made the A9,’ Gently said. ‘The other way we would have got him.’
‘Blast,’ Guthrie said. He grabbed the handset.
Men were coming in from the moor to stand aimlessly about the cars; Frénaye had retired to the Deux-Chevaux, where one caught the faint glow of his pipe. Suddenly meaning had drained out of that spot, out of the house, the operation; the house in particular was an empty shell, its broken windows insignificant. Gabrielle! With a handful of stones she’d solved the equation, set Barentin free. No guns, no grenades, no support: simply the sacrifice of herself. Barentin had been kind, at a terrible moment he had taken her into his protection, and now she’d paid the debt, substituting her life for his. Gabrielle . . .! And he was left helpless: a gun at his side but no target.