Iceline

by Martyn Taylor

Grey squally rain spattered the glass in the phone box on the harbour and the caller punched the buttons with deeply felt venom, Brock had been found and the news was not good. The call was answered promptly. "Bracknell?” Was the curt inquiry.

  "Yes, it's Bracknell." Steve Bracknell waited for the next challenge. "Where is he?"

  "Hospital."

  "Is the job done?"

  "No, the job did him instead."

  "Explain?" Never used two words where one would do.

  "The job wasn't alone they put him in hospital and took off."

  "Who are they?"

  "There was a woman with him, youngish, twenties and dark red hair."

  "Where are they now?" Bracknell listened to the voice; there was something hard in it, a metallic tone, like an electronic filter had been placed on the line.

  "They left within a couple of hours, taking the road north, at the same time a boat left the harbour, it may be coincidence, but I'm still checking it out."

  "That at least is good. Leave him where he is, he has outlasted his usefulness."

  "What are my instructions?" Bracknell asked.

  The line was quiet, silent except for the faintest hiss of white noise through the filter. "Find them, finish the job and isolate the boat."

  "Do you think there may be a connection?" Bracknell inquired.

  "Assume there is, until you know differently." Then the connection was broken. Bracknell replaced the receiver and stepped out into the rain. The clouds had shouldered their way in past the islands. Shading the sun to unload a cargo of heavy, sullen drops on the mainland; Bracknell looked across the low silhouette of Kerrera into the distance and saw the sky lightening along the horizon. It would blow over, but it upheld Scotland's reputation for a visiting Sassenach. Bloody rain and when that stopped the sodding midges tried to eat you alive. He trudged across the wet dockside and let himself into a dark blue Ford Sierra. Two morose figures huddled inside the steamed up rain spattered windows. The driver, a Londoner in his late twenties with a gold ring in his ear poured coffee from a Thermos and handed it over, Bracknell received it gratefully and sipped the liquid, inhaling the steam. "Thanks Jacko.”

  Jacko broke the tension. "Me an' Fred was thinking."

  Bracknell said. "Don't, don't think, it's safer that way."

  "But we was thinking, what do we do next, do we finish the job or what?"

  "We do what we're told."

  "Which is?" Demanded Fred from the rear seat of the car.

  "We finish the job, goes without saying and we watch for the boat." Bracknell spoke slowly, as if trying to emphasise the importance of his instructions. He wanted no confusion; everything had to be crystal clear.

  "They're connected, this boat and the job?" Said Fred.

  "They may be, but we don't know yet. That's part of the job now." Bracknell said and finished the coffee, handing the empty cup back. "For starters, we go with the argument that they are together then we have a rough idea which direction the car went, if you say the boat went straight across the water."

  Fred butted in. "The same way as the ferry, so we got a rough idea."

  Jacko poured cold water. "How do we know the boat and the job are connected, just 'cos they left about the same time there's no guarantee."

  Bracknell snapped. "I know there's no fucking guarantee, if we go for them being together, it gives us a place to start looking and what else have we got? We have to finish the job and we have to start somewhere, so if you've got any better ideas, come up with some, fucking twat."

  "Alright, don't bite me fucking head off, I just don't think we've got much to fucking go on, that's all." Jacko tried to calm Bracknell.

  Fred spoke up from the back. "So what happens to Brock?"

  "Leave him, he's been thrown to the wolves," Bracknell murmured, "We need to get his car back."

  "We’ll need it." Jacko said.

  "How do we do it, keys or nick it?"

  "Keys, trying to nick it might arouse suspicion, you know what these CCTV set ups are like. So make it look natural, just walk up and get in the car, like you just visited somebody in the hospital, call in and see if there's any news on Brock if you like."

  "So where are the keys?" Bracknell inquired.

  "There's a spare set back at the gaff, he must have the other set with him." Fred answered.

  Bracknell dragged the seat belt around his chest and buckled up. "Right, back to the gaff and we'll work it out from there, Jacko, you go with Fred and get the car. Then we're in business. For God's sake don't attract any attention; we've got plenty of worries already."

  Jacko leaned forward and rubbed a spot clear in the windscreen. The rain had slowed to drizzle, with slovenly drops dribbling down the glass and the damp fogged the interior. The sky lightened to the west as the cloud passed inland and as the wind shifted and tugged at the mass the trailing edge began to pull apart. He watched two men unload a battered Escort van, its white paint blistered and stained with rust patches and a pile of bags and boxes disappeared over the edge of the pier. He sneered disparagingly at the taller of the two men, who had his long hair dragged back to a pony tail and fixed in place with a rubber band, handing the bags down to his stocky companion on the boat and muttered something under his breath. Fred told him to shut up. Bracknell pushed open the door. "You sort out the car; I'll see you back at the gaff. I'm off to get some smokes." He said and stepped out. He slammed the door and the ponytail unloading the van gave a perfunctory glance in his direction, then went on shifting bags to the edge of the dock and handing them down. Bracknell wandered off in the direction of the town, ignoring the Sierra as Jacko drove past and out on to the street. The lad with the ponytail straightened, rubbing the nape of his neck just where the rubber band pulled his hair together. He rolled his shoulders, easing the tension in the muscles and watched as Bracknell turned the corner of the harbour buildings and disappeared from sight. He lifted the last bag and crouched to hand it down, the stocky figure on the boat reached up. "What's up Jonesy?"

  "Not sure Harry, radar twitching again."

  "They're moving?" Harry asked quietly.

  "It could be, but I think we might have a better chance tailing the ketch. It's definitely tied in with the bother at the hospital, the copper on duty said the guy they found on the hill was a wreck and he couldn't say what went through his head..."

  "Or wouldn't?"

  "Who knows, what would you do, the bastard smashed you up, sticks you in hospital, then walks in through the fucking door."

  "Me, oh fuck, not half, definitely want to right the balance, show off the old wounds and you should have seen the other geezer, you want to say it with a bit of a swagger don't you." Harry agreed, his face splitting to a grin.

  "You're incorrigible."

  "I don't need any encouraging." Harry said and climbed back up the ladder. He closed and locked the back doors of the van, slapped Jones on the shoulder and said. "See you on the other side, stay on the high road." He slipped into the van and started the engine, the belch of black smoke would have failed even the most lenient emissions test and the diesel clattered like a bucket of loose bolts. He drove off the dock and Jones finished loading the bags. Half an hour disappeared as he stowed everything and started the boat's engines, Mara was a functional 31feet Mitchell Sea Warrior, with the extended wheelhouse and bow cabin with V bunks forward leaving the stern an open deck space around the engine box, lockers lined the bulwarks from the transom forward for eight feet. The exhaust burbled contentedly as he slipped the moorings and took her out stern first until he had enough clearance to swing her around and put her nose out into the Oban roads. The ketch had a couple of hours start, but he had a reasonable idea where she was bound and he could easily close the distance with the engines he had tucked away below and radar would do the rest. He settled at the wheel and watched the sea, slipping out in the wake of the Oban to Craignure ferry as it shuttled holiday traffic out to Mull and back again. With divers for Tobe
rmory and pilgrims for Iona. Jones let the ferry pull ahead, giving it plenty of sea room to manoeuvre into the terminal at Craignure as Mara plied her way past, heading up the Sound and took the hood off the radar. Tweaked the range up to eighteen miles, the bright green image glowed and the heavy outline of the island and the mainland on either side of the channel and the occasional blip of a boat speckled the water. He watched the waters of the sound through powerful binoculars, checking the specks against the boats visible ahead of him, finally settling on a distant speck that fitted the colour and size of the ketch. He lowered the binoculars and rummaged around on top of the cramped chart table until he found a china-graph pencil, re-checked the boat against the blip on the screen and marked the glass. He repeated the process through the afternoon until it doubled back, around Auliston point into Loch Sunart, Jones sailed past the end of the loch and the radar's sweep picked up the blip again. Jones transferred the information gleaned from the screen and plotted the position of the ketch heading for the anchorage at Salen.

  Jacko waited in the car while Fred rummaged through the drawers in the flat, cursing at the delay as he tossed clothes aside, searching for the spare keys. The keys turned up under a pile of socks, some worn a couple of times and thrust back in the drawer, as if a couple of days rest would freshen them up. He dashed down the stairs, letting the door slam behind him and scrambling into the car. Jacko steered the car out into the traffic and headed for the hospital, dropping Fred outside the entrance to A & E. Jacko moved the car away and Fred walked through the door, heading for the desk, where he asked about the man who had been shot by another patient earlier. The girl on the desk tucked her ballpoint into her breast pocket and looked up; she smiled warmly, the corners of her mouth folding a little dimple in her cheek. Fred reckoned she was couple of stone over her ideal weight, but still looked pretty well on it; he gave her his best smile and listened as she said. "You really need to talk to someone up on the Ward, but if you like I'll ring them and see if they can tell me anything, is he a friend of yours?"

  Fred rolled his open hand, indicating an uncertainty; something a little bit, not quite a friend, sort of thing. "Well, not really, met him in the pub, seemed alright, just passing so I thought I'd pop in and wish him well."

  "Give me a minute," she said, "and I'll see what I can do." She replaced a loose strand of hair that immediately tumbled free again, lifted the telephone and spoke for a couple of minutes, then replaced the receiver. She looked up at him, again repositioning the hair and said. "He's as comfortable as can be expected, they’ve stitched the wound and the Police are keeping an eye on him. I think that’s in case the attacker comes back. It’s really odd, the man who attacked him only came in a couple of days ago."

  Fred replayed his smile, "Thanks, you've been most helpful."

  "Would you like me to pass on a message?" She asked.

  "No thanks, I'll pop by another time." he waved and walked out, heading straight across the car park to Brock's car, a dark green Toyota Celica. Toying with the keys in his pocket, trying to select the door key by touch. He thumbed the button on the fob and the lights flashed and the alarm blipped off, the locks opened with a clunk as he walked around to the driver's door and climbed in. Fred drove the Celica from the car park and slowed down while Jacko slotted the Sierra into the traffic behind him. They drove in a loose convoy of two from the town towards the bridge at Connel, pulling in on the approach to get their heads together.

  Bracknell was fairly convinced and as he was running the show, what he said went, for now, until there was a change of plan, or management. "Keep it simple, we know what we're looking for, right, big Range Rover, two people, guy and a gal and we know she's got dark red hair." Fred opened the road atlas on the bonnet of the Sierra and ran his finger along the coast road north from Connel towards the ferry at Corran Narrows, then further north, to the road west of Fort William. "We try the ferry, ask around until we get something, then we quiz about the occupants. If we get more, then we split up, I'll take the ferry and you carry on to Fort William, this road here, just about everything coming back from this chunk of Scotland has to pass this corner," he swept his finger around the page.

  Jacko tugged at the ring in his ear, thinking. "So when I get there." He pointed to the junction outside Fort William, "I sit and wait, watching the traffic, pretending to be asleep."

  "Yeah, sounds about right, just so long as you don't fall asleep." Fred warned him, realising that the trouble would only just be starting if they lost this one. The bastard was supposed to be dead already, not swanning around the bloody highlands.

  Fred took the lead and they drove north across the bridge, taking the coast road, but seeing little of the scenery. Concentrating instead on the road and the traffic, watching every vehicle which came into view heading in the opposite direction, just in case they were doubling back, Jacko stayed back, his mobile on the passenger seat. Grumbling that for most of the time he couldn’t get a signal; so the bloody thing was worse than useless. The idea being that if he should see Fred coming back the other way, then he was to stop whatever was in front of him, Jacko drove on when Fred took the slip road down to the ferry at Corran Narrows. Fred parked the Celica and walked down to the water's edge, stepping back slightly as the ferry crunched against the foot of the slip and the ramp lowered itself into the shallows with a splash and a crunch. A tousle-haired ferryman walked ashore, the water lapping around his boots and Fred caught his attention, when he spoke his voice had lost its accent, the English more received than estuarine. "Excuse me I wonder if you can help. I was hoping to meet a few friends here, but they may have crossed over earlier. You haven't by any chance seen a dark coloured Range Rover, with two, possibly three people, have you?"

  "Dark Range Rover, we've had a couple, last one went across, two trips ago, only had one person in it."

  "They may have crossed earlier; the young lady had distinctive, dark red hair, very striking."

  "Oh, that one, yeah, won't forget her in a hurry. Very nice that one. Two, two and half hours ago. Very cosy, couldn't keep her hands off him. He'd been in the wars, probably glad to have him back." He waved the first car down the slip and on to the ramp as he spoke, Fred shifted out of the way, standing behind him.

  "Any idea which way they went?" He asked.

  "Ah, not sure, people generally go south from here, take the road to Lochaline and cross over to Mull." The deckhand explained. Fred smiled with genuine pleasure and the seaman read it as a good sign. It was, but not for the reasons he thought.

  "Thank you, you've been most helpful." Fred smiled and returned to the Celica and drove on to the ferry. Jacko would cover the junction near Fort William and he was heading for the ferry at Lochaline and a short hop across to the Isle of Mull, then they would be cornered.

  Bracknell stood on the dock, watching the ferry steaming in from Mull, its forward progress bluntly arrested by the swirling white water pushed out by the bow thrusters as the helmsman eased her against the buffers on the floating ramp. Cables snaked ashore and were drawn tight to hold her in a comfortable embrace against the dock. The bow doors swung open and the ramp unfolded to make the connection with the mainland. He watched carefully, checking the cars as they came off, watching for the double back, one option for the Range Rover was to take a trip around the highlands, then come back into Oban as another tourist, one more among a vast number of cars travelling across the country.

  *****

  Chapter Fifteen