Gently Heartbroken

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Another hotel.’

  But it yielded no more intelligence than its predecessor. At Altnaharra however information was vital to be had. Beyond the houses the Strathnaver road could be seen snaking away along the loch shore, while opposite it, Gently noticed with concern, another minor track departed. Three ways to choose from . . . was it just possible for a miracle to happen again?

  He pulled up beside a house, a hut in the garden of which was ambitiously signed: Post Office.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said to Frénaye. ‘We must search those verges. But first I wish to contact Superintendent Sinclair.’

  ‘I will begin the search, monsieur,’ Frénaye assured him. ‘By good fortune the rain has slackened.’

  He set out for the junction, Gently for the hut. Inside it he found a simple counter; a smiling woman in an apron came forward to greet him in soft Scots. On a chance Gently showed her the photographs, but she merely shook her head. Then, having pushed the phone across the counter, she retired into the house. Gently rang.

  ‘Sinclair? I’m at Altnaharra post office.’

  Is that so, man?’ Sinclair said. ‘And have you anything to report?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Gently said. ‘And you?’

  ‘About the same,’ Sinclair said. ‘I’ve had reports from Tongue and the patrols, but no one’s caught a glim of McGash. What’ll we do?’

  ‘Information,’ Gently said. ‘Have the roads been patrolled in this area today?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sinclair said. ‘From Tongue to Altna’ and up Strathnaver to Bettyhill. Then there’d be a rendezvous in Strathnaver with a patrol coming in from Helmsdale. But all’s one, man, they’ve reported nothing. Either he was through there or still coming.’

  ‘And – the third road?’

  ‘Ach, that’s a weary one, you will not find it on every map. I doubt if it sees a patrol more than once or twice a summer.’

  ‘But it’s driveable.’

  ‘Aye, about. Are you thinking McGash may have gone that way?’

  ‘I’m thinking it’s possible,’ Gently said. ‘McGash has been orienteering in these parts.’

  At Sinclair’s end, a pause. ‘I would not just be putting you off it,’ he said. ‘It’s a driveable road – that’s fair, though a trifle overgrown in places. But, man, it’s lonesome. It runs up by Loch Hope and joins the coast road near Eriboll. That’s to say it’s going nowhere from nowhere, with nothing on the way but a Pictish fort. Let me put cars in.’

  ‘No cars,’ Gently said. ‘But station a patrol at the other end.’

  ‘Jings, but you’re an obstinate laddie,’ Sinclair said. ‘Well, if that’s your will, I’ll do it.’

  Gently said: ‘Did you speak to Tate?’

  ‘I spoke to him for quite a while,’ Sinclair said.

  Gently hung up and paid. Stepping from the hut, he saw Frénaye waving to him from a distance. The Frenchman came running:

  ‘Monsieur – monsieur!’

  In his hand he held a leaf from the little diary.

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Monsieur, along the road without a signpost.’

  Gently half turned back towards the post office; then he shrugged.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  TEN

  ‘HAND ME THE map.’

  With engine running he glanced over the lie of the unposted road. Represented by hatched lines, it wound a way westward to turn north by Glen Golly. Then it passed under Ben Hope, one of two major peaks of the furthest north, before reaching the long finger of Loch Hope and connecting with the coast road where it left A’Mhoine. About twenty miles. A midway place name probably marked the Pictish broch; for the rest brown contours, burns and lochans signed in unpronounceable names. He gave the map to Frénaye and let in his clutch. Surely the trail was ending here! McGash could have chosen no retreat more favourable to his needs than the unposted road by Loch Hope.

  The rain had eased but low cloud wrack clung to the strath and hills ahead. Narrow, bumpy and contorted, the little road defied any attempt to speed. The few roofs of Altnaharra were soon lost; a farm followed, reached by a track, then they were creeping along by a burn with gloomy heights peaking on their left. Grass grew along the centre of the road and heather bush encroached from the verges. It seemed a road that even Sutherland had surrendered, was tacitly allowing to vanish into history.

  Yet:

  ‘Monsieur, a vehicle has been along here. One is seeing broken twigs of heather.’

  ‘But on both sides, monsieur – a wide vehicle, perhaps the Land Rover of a farmer.’

  ‘Monsieur, it may be that McGash has a Land Rover. For this country such a vehicle would be a wise choice.’

  ‘In that case, monsieur, we must double our vigilance, since McGash will not be restricted to the road.’

  A worrying thought. With four-wheel drive McGash could truly take off into nowhere: into the wilds of Glen Golly, for example, which his previous visit may have made known to him.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Frénaye said. ‘He will still need food.’

  ‘He could have stocked up,’ Gently said.

  ‘It would have occasioned him delay, monsieur. I do not think he waited for a shop to open.’

  But they were dealing with a planner. If McGash had known his goal he would have taken steps to provide what was necessary: not waiting patiently for shutters to come down, but going in with a brick or a jemmy. Perhaps even now the store at Lairg was counting the cost and ringing their insurance . . .

  ‘Watch for signs of a vehicle having left the road.’

  ‘I will do so,’ Frénaye said.

  The smudge of a road was slowly climbing, fretting its way into hills. To the north they could see the high hump of Ben Hope appearing and disappearing in wrack. Then they rumbled over a primitive bridge to open a prospect of Glen Golly. Gently halted, got out and went to make an inspection of the approaches.

  No tracks. He put glasses on the glen. At the far end rose a peak of ghostly white. Presumably cased in quartzite, it appeared to have been whitewashed in some ancient freak and then abandoned to weather. The glen itself was smoking with mist, a wide strath hemmed by peaks. Mentally Gently tossed a coin, shrugged and got back in the car.

  So on again, with the neglected surface bringing out the worst in the Marina’s suspension. Now they were tracking beside a rock-strewn river that rambled capriciously, a hundred feet below. Ashes, alders, hazels tufted its banks; here and there trees clung to the roadside. Ahead the high walls of Ben Hope were beginning to press closer, as though barring access. Then suddenly, like a giant potsherd, the ruin of the broch appeared before them, occupying a natural platform above the river; and parked beside it, a motor caravan.

  ‘Monsieur . . .!’

  His reactions were too slow. For a moment the motor caravan had merely surprised him: a vehicle so unexpected, so seemingly innocent, standing apparently deserted by the uncouth ruin. Then he braked furiously, snatched at reverse. Above the rev of the engine he heard a scream. Instantly the screen shattered and something white hot seared his cheek. The car lurched backwards. Hammers struck it: the nearside tyre exploded. The car wobbled backwards a few yards, dropped a wheel over the verge, stopped.

  ‘Out . . .!’

  He sprawled through his door, raced round the car and dived for cover. A few yards away Frénaye crashed down the bank, rolled himself into the cover of hazels. They tugged out guns. Moments later came the sound of slammed doors, an engine firing. With a cry Frénaye broke cover and scrambled back up the bank.

  ‘Stay down!’ Gently snarled, but Frénaye ignored him. Swearing, Gently scrambled up too. He was just in time to strike Frénaye’s gun aside as the Frenchman aimed after the departing motor caravan.

  ‘Monsieur – I can hit a tyre—!’

  ‘Monsieur, in that vehicle is an innocent person.’

  ‘But we cannot let them go.’

  ‘We shall let them go. At the end of this road the police hav
e a trap.’

  ‘But, monsieur, will the police recognize them? I saw a man who was not like the one in the picture.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘But no,’ Frénaye said. ‘This one is clean-shaven and wears shoulder-length hair.’

  ‘Let’s get this car back on the road.’

  The poor Marina looked a mess. Besides the burst tyre and shattered screen steam was coming from a punctured radiator. Together they heaved it on an even keel and Gently raised the bonnet lid: a bullet had penetrated the top of the radiator and buried itself in the air filter.

  ‘We can plug it – but we’ll need water.’

  ‘I can fetch some in the beer cans, monsieur.’

  Frénaye charged off down to the river while Gently cut plugs from a hazel and hammered them home. Then a wheel change: by chance the spare tyre was soft as a sausage. Finally, using the jack handle, Gently got rid of the fragments of the screen.

  ‘Now . . . if she’ll start.’

  The Marina started; but the affair had lost them twenty-five minutes. By now, even at the speed the road imposed, the motor caravan would be half a dozen miles ahead. McGash had changed appearance, that was certain; at the least he had shaved and donned a wig; and that, along with the unlikely vehicle he was driving, might well get him by the lurking patrol car. ‘Ah monsieur, if we could find a telephone!’

  ‘The nearest phone is at Altnaharra.’

  ‘Would it not perhaps be better to turn about?’

  Gently set his mouth tight and trundled on.

  Straight after the ruined broch they had sighted another building, but this also was ruinous, an unroofed shieling. Then the steep side of Ben Hope closed in and they were gnawing along at its foot. Draughty, with glass crunching under heel, the Marina was likewise beginning to overheat: the odds were that they wouldn’t reach the coast road. Already, the engine sounded lumpy.

  ‘Monsieur . . . we come to a lake.’

  They had struggled on to the toe of Loch Hope. Cursing silently, Gently stopped the car and Frénaye scrambled through scrub to fill the beer cans. To have been so near, and still to lose out! Her scream was still sounding in his ear. A scream of warning. Had she seen who it was, knew now that her desperate trail had not been in vain? He felt suddenly near to tears. What had been her reward for that reckless cry?

  They poured water into the hissing radiator, climbed back in and limped off again. Having reached the loch shore the road levelled out to pace along it in short, grass-choked stretches. Another five miles? Six? One glimpsed the grey water progressing endlessly. On the far shore, a dismal low strath backed by low, featureless hills. A single bright spot: McGash had been flushed and could no longer lie low in this desolate sector. He would have to think again: and his first move now must be to get rid of the identified van . . .

  And Gabrielle?

  If McGash’s motive was to vanish, Gabrielle could only be a nuisance to him: a useless hostage. How would he deal with it? To give himself time . . . maximize his chances?

  ‘Monsieur – halt, halt!’

  This time he was quicker – in fact they both ducked towards the gap above the dash! Surmounting a switchback they had brought into view an extended reach of the loch shore. Also a house, old, weathered, with boards nailed to several of its windows: also – parked before it, with doors yawning wide – the van that should have been many miles away.

  ‘Let’s get out of sight!’

  He sent the car down the switchback until the house and the van disappeared behind trees. Then he lammed the car as far as it would go into an overgrown remnant of passing-place.

  ‘Can they have run short of petrol, monsieur?’

  Gently shook his head. ‘Unlike McGash.’

  ‘Then that house is perhaps his hideout?’

  ‘If that was the idea it’s busted now.’

  Seizing glasses, he hurried back up the slope, with Frénaye close behind. An apron of grey sandstone made a lookout from which he could study the house unseen. A house too evidently abandoned; plaster was slipping from rough stone walls; the garden was a tangle of grass in which, however, a few flowers still struggled. No movement. All the van doors were open, as though the occupants had left in haste. A big timber wood shed was built on to the house and, down at the shore, one could see a boat shelter.

  ‘Take a look.’

  He gave Frénaye the glasses, himself studied the lie of the land. Trees, mainly oak and ash, formed cover almost up to the garden fence. Beyond the house was a heathery knoll, across the road opposite moor and scrub: a nearer approach was possible . . . but where were McGash and colleague?

  ‘Monsieur, I have a feeling that our caution is superfluous.’

  ‘I can’t see McGash taking off on foot,’ Gently said.

  ‘Monsieur, he would wish to change vehicles, and here he may have stumbled on an opportunity.’

  ‘A car – down there?’

  ‘It is possible. The property, though old, may be sometimes visited. The van would appear to have been unloaded, and I observe no sign of any persons.’

  Gently brooded: the explanation was credible. That house could no longer represent a hideout. Yet if McGash had indeed swopped vehicles, would he not have taken pains to conceal the van? It could well have been hidden behind the house – had he really been in such a hurry? And . . . if the explanation was correct . . . what were they going to find down there?

  Something was wrong. The boarded house, the abandoned van had a sinister air . . .

  ‘We’ll approach from cover.’

  ‘Very good, monsieur.’

  They went back down the road and past the car. A gap gave them entry to the trees, among which bush hazel grew thickly. They approached the fence.

  ‘Guns.’

  He sent Frénaye wide, crept forward to observe. Still no movement, no sound: the van stood only twenty yards from the fence.

  ‘Cover me.’

  He rose quickly, jumped the fence, ran fast for the van. Nothing happened. The van was quite empty. The house stayed silent, blind windowed, still.

  ‘Come . . .’

  Frénaye joined him. Like Gently, he peered into the van. ‘What do you make of it?’

  Frénaye’s shoulders moved. ‘Precisely what I did before monsieur. They have secured a fresh vehicle.’

  ‘So where is the driver?’

  ‘Is it not possible they took him with them?’

  ‘Why do that?’

  ‘To render him harmless.’

  ‘McGash has quicker ways of doing it.’

  ‘In that case, monsieur—’ Frénaye was beginning, when a sudden clamour jerked them about. It came from the wood shed: someone appeared to be hammering on the door with a heavy instrument. Then a muffled voice cried out:

  ‘Messieurs . . . messieurs . . . I am a prisoner!’

  ‘Gabrielle!’ Gently exclaimed.

  At once they were pounding over the tangled grass. The wood shed door, heavy, paintless, was secured by a hasp in which a peg had been jammed.

  ‘Gabrielle!’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur George!’

  He threw down his gun to struggle with the hasp. The peg was wet and swollen: Frénaye grabbed a nugget of rock and handed it to him.

  ‘Oh, monsieur – please be quick!’

  ‘A moment!’ Gently cried.

  ‘Take your time, laddie,’ a voice said behind him. ‘You’ll be in there with her before you can blink.’

  Gently swung round. He was staring at the clean-shaven, long-haired man of Frénaye’s description. In his hand the man held a Czech M52: a door at the end of the house stood ajar.

  ‘Drop that rock.’

  Slowly, Gently let it fall. Frénaye’s hands were already clutching air. A black haired, narrow-faced man stood beside Frénaye. He’d come round the wood shed. He also held an M52.

  The long-haired man motioned with his gun.

  ‘Flat on the ground, the pair of you.’

  There was nothing
for it; they got down and stretched out on the wet grass.

  ‘Frisk them, Dusty.’

  Busy fingers explored them, collecting their wallets, a knife of Frénaye’s. The long-haired man took them, jammed them in his pocket. From the wood shed came no sound.

  ‘Up and through that door.’

  Dusty backed in first behind his gun. They entered a dank, dark room, a kitchen, still with a few sticks of furniture. The window was blocked; there were two inner doors, one of which would give access to the wood shed. Sunk into a wall was a big kitchen range where rust and black lead contended.

  ‘Sit over there – on the floor.’

  They sat down on grubby concrete. Dusty lounged by them with his gun. The long-haired man took out the wallets, went through them, tossed them down on a table. He sat.

  ‘So you’re Gently.’

  ‘And you’re McGash,’ Gently said.

  They stared at each other. McGash had smoky grey eyes, broad features, a heavy chin. The eyes were deep set, narrowed. He had a thin-lipped, straight-lined mouth. He looked strong, had deep shoulders; he was dressed in blue jeans.

  The Arab Yousef was of slighter, more wiry build and had a glitter in his coal black eyes. His gun was very solid in his hand. He wore a bomber jacket over black jean slacks.

  ‘Gently,’ McGash said. ‘I’m getting lucky. I hadn’t hoped for the likes of you, man.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘I’m telling you, laddie, this opens up new lines of thought.’

  ‘So you can let the girl go,’ Gently said.

  ‘Can I now,’ McGash said. ‘And what’s she to you?’

  ‘She’s nobody,’ Gently said. ‘A useless hostage. You’ll have to make a deal now, and the girl’s no part of it.’

  ‘Listen to him telling me,’ McGash said. ‘You’re in no position to talk deals, Geordie.’

  ‘You’ll have to deal.’

  ‘And what for should I, when I can clean the slate and be on my way?’ He laughed again. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Geordie. If you’re a professional, so am I. And I will not be turning a hair, man, when I’m squaring accounts with the like of you.’

  ‘Without a hostage, McGash, you’re dead meat.’

  ‘Just hear who’s talking,’ McGash said.