by John Dysart
“Practically every town of any size has a Carrefour or a Leclerc or one of the others on the outskirts of town and, because of that, multiple stores have grown up around them. France has much more land than over here and the planning rules are not so strict, I don’t think.”
“I’ll bet they’re not,” said Keith. “That’s the biggest problem we have. All the bloody zone restrictions on buildable land drives me nuts. The consumers want supermarkets because we can offer cheaper prices and I’m blocked by local authorities who complain about us destroying the High Street. All I’m doing is trying to give the consumers what they want.”
“They’ve got a point though, haven’t they?” I said mildly.
“If they want to keep the wee shops in the High Street then they should give them subsidies or cut back the rates or find some other incentive. Where are the people going to park?” Keith was starting to get excited so I switched the conversation over to the upcoming Ryder Cup. I didn’t want him getting apoplectic.
Keith looked at his watch. “Tee off in fifteen minute, Jack. Would you guys like to join us?”
“Why not,” I said, “Are you up for it Pierre? It was decided and we went off to get our clubs and made our way over to the first tee.
It was sunny and warm, with just enough wind to make the game interesting. The fairways had been recently cut and the heather had not yet reached its full season’s growth. Getting out of the rough was going to be easier than it would be later on in the season.
Four drives, reasonably straight down the middle and Keith was waddling off after his ball in his usual aggressive manner – short bandy legs, feet splayed out at ninety degrees and shoulders hunched. His relationship with a golf ball was definitely unhealthy. For him the ball was the enemy and he was going to make damn sure it behaved itself and did what he wanted it to do. It never occurred to him that it was an inanimate object and was only reacting to the way he hit it.
In spite of Keith’s battle with the ball we had a good round and Pierre and I managed to win on the eighteenth.
Back to the bar for a beer. Jack had to leave fairly quickly and Pierre excused himself at the same time.
This was my opportunity to have a word with Keith. I suggested another drink and asked him if he had ten minutes to spare – there was something I wanted to ask him.
“Sure,” he replied.”How can I help you?” “You know Gavin Reid, don’t you? Wasn’t he the guy you introduced to me here a few weeks ago?”
Keith looked at me warily. “Yes,” he said. “Lawyer from Edinburgh. I use him from time to time. What about him?”
“Is he any good?” “I’ve had no problem with him. Why? Have you heard something?”
“Oh, no. it’s just that I have a friend who needs a lawyer in Edinburgh and he asked me if I knew anyone.”
“What’s it to do with?” asked Keith. “I don’t really know the details,” I said. “Something to do with investments and finance.”
“If that’s what you want Reid’s not the right guy. He’s much more of a specialist in property deals. But I’ll ask around for you if you want. I’ve got quite a lot of contacts over there.”
“That would be great,” I said. “There’s no rush but if you can get me a recommendation it would be much appreciated.”
We finished our drinks, took leave of each other and I drove back to Letham.
I got back to the house. I parked the hired car I had taken to replace my old Rover, which was now a jumble of burnt out metal. Must get it taken away, I thought but I had to wait for the insurance people to send in their report. It was already a week late. With the insurance money and the management fee I had extracted from Purdy I suddenly realised I could treat myself to something a bit more fitting for my station in life. That’s what I would do. As soon as I got the ok from the insurance company I’d treat myself to a bright red convertible Mercedes.
With that decided I called Mike. All was in hand. They had transported a very subdued Purdy back to Edinburgh and left him outside the car park of the squash club. I wondered how he had managed to explain his absence to his wife. Well that wasn’t my problem. I hoped I’d seen the last of him. Doug and Mac were now taking turns to watch Dewar.
Dad was still smiling at me from the wall as I went through to the kitchen to fix myself a coffee. I sat down to flick through the newspapers. The usual hyped-up nonsense about the goings on of some celebrity football player was splattered across the front page. Any intelligent comments on issues of note were hard to find. There was a short article on Alex Salmond’s latest pronouncement on independence for Scotland. That brought me back to our man Dewar again who was, if I remembered correctly, now an SNP member.
Pierre and I had discussed who the man might be that Purdy had been too afraid of to mention. We had come to the tentative conclusion that the arrows seemed to be pointing Dewar’s way. I wondered what Alex Salmond would feel about one of his members being at the bottom of a murder plot. I recalled what Pierre had said. Now that the Purdy fiasco was over and if that was the source of Dewar’s extra cash, then perhaps he might back off and leave me alone.
But I wasn’t at all sure and hoped that the boys were keeping a close eye on him.
The phone rang about nine thirty the next morning. I cursed, got up and went downstairs to answer it. It was Mike.
“Guess what,” he said triumphantly. ”It was worth our while to watch Dewar.”
“What do you mean?” I asked nervously. I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable whenever that man’s name was mentioned.
“Our friend Alan Purdy has not yet flown off to the Caribbean or wherever we hope he disappears to. After we dropped him late yesterday afternoon he didn’t go straight to his car and drive home as you might have thought he would.”
“What did he do then?” I asked. “In spite of the messy state he was in he went straight into the squash club, and presumably made a phone call because half an hour later Mr Bill Dewar drove up in a rather excited state and disappeared inside. Mac was watching at the time and, as neither of them had ever seen him before, he had the sense to go in and see what might be going on. They were both in the corner of the bar having a very heated discussion. Purdy was apparently ranting and raving, trying to tell Dewar something. Mac says that Dewar looked as if he was going to blow a gasket.
“They argued for about ten minutes then Purdy got up and stormed off. Doug picked him up outside and said that he drove straight home.”
“And Dewar?”
“He stayed for another five minutes or so and then he left as well. He was not looking a happy man according to Mac.”
“Did he go home?” “Presumably. It was quite late. We don’t actually know for sure because Mac lost him. By the time Mac got back to his car Dewar had already driven off. He says he’ll pick him up tomorrow from his house. He knows where he lives.”
“OK. How’s Sophie by the way? Why don’t you both come over tomorrow afternoon? I’ve got a few things I need to tell that lady.”
“We’ll come over but you won’t tell her anything,” retorted Mike. “I’ll tell her all she needs to know.”
I sat back and thought about the news I had just heard. We hadn’t anticipated that. Purdy had seemed so scared about the man who had apparently told him to get rid of me that we thought he would stay well clear of him. That maybe wasn’t Purdy’s smartest move. I suspected that he would definitely be wise to skip the country now, as fast as he could.
Having nothing much to do for the rest of the day I resigned myself to do the bit of gardening that I had been promising to do for a couple of weeks.
I went up and changed into old trousers, a tee shirt and a shirt, stuck on a cap and went outside to spend a couple of hours weeding. I was very soon completely engrossed in my task. Whatever part of my mind that was not being used to make decisions about what was a flower and what was a weed became occupied with thoughts about the relationship between Purdy and Dewar. What was the hold Dewa
r had on Purdy? Or was it the other way round? I was convinced that Dewar knew either all about the scam of AIM or the fact that Purdy had a mistress. Either of the reasons would be enough to milk hush money from him and that would explain the hold that Dewar had over him.
Suddenly I remembered something. I got up and went indoors to the work that Pierre and I had done for the trust. A quick look through the files. There it was, near the top. A name, age, eighty-two, fifty thousand pounds, exminer and a comment, “No problem – one son but estranged.”
The name was David Dewar and his address was in Linlithgow.
Could this be Bill Dewar’s father? I went back out to continue my weeding.
Chapter 16
Waking is a strange process – or I should say “returning to consciousness”.
I had thought that perhaps dreaming would become less prevalent as one aged but this is not the case.
I was being chased for some completely illogical reason in some place that was totally strange to me. I rushed into a tall building. People were looking strangely at me. I dashed for the lift and flung myself in it as soon as the door opened. I hit a button – any damn button and the lift started to move just as my attackers were running into the lobby, guns out and, for some reason, they were wearing masks.
I noticed that I had hit the button for the fourteenth floor. The lift started to accelerate, passing floor seven, eight, nine. It showed thirteen on the LED display above the door but I could feel no sense of it slowing down. It accelerated past fourteen and carried on upwards. At twenty-five it suddenly stopped and immediately proceeded to go back down again, picking up speed as it went. I started to panic as it plunged earthwards, past fourteen again. It arrived at zero and restarted its climb upwards. I was scared rigid, sweating with fear as the bloody thing went up and down several times. Nothing I could do would stop it. I hit every button I could see but it continued inexorably doing its imitation of a yoyo, getting faster and faster while I felt more and more claustrophobic.
Through the glass doors of each floor I could see faces in a kind of a blur. Faces pressed to the glass jeering. As the lift passed every floor there they were – hands, noses, chins pressed to the glass, laughing at me.
Then I woke up. I was shaking and sweating and my heart was definitely pounding, yet I had been asleep. I realised this as soon as I was aware of my real surroundings, lying on my own bed in my own house.
That had been a few weeks ago. However, on this particular occasion, the awakening was different. It was gradual. Consciousness came to me slowly. First my brain started to operate. I lay totally still because it was telling me that something was unusual. I was not lying in my own bed in my own house. I was somewhere else but I had no idea where.
It was cold. That was the first sensation. My mind then did a quick inventory. It flicked round my body. Everything seemed to be in the right place. Feet, legs, arms, hands, head. No pain. No obvious disorders.
I was outside. That was for sure. I was lying uncomfortably and definitely not on a bed.
The whole process of coming to my senses must have only taken a split second but there is no sense of time when you crawl out into the real world.
The five senses kicked in immediately. Touch. I was lying on my front, face resting on something uncomfortable, my right arm and hand stretched out above my head. My hand was resting on a hard, uneven surface. It felt like rock. I moved my fingers gently and this confirmed the impression.
Sight. I wasn’t about to open my eyes. I don’t think I wanted to see where I was.
Sound. All I could hear was the wind. I must be outside my brain told me. Then there was the sound of a seagull, cawing raucously. Was I by the sea? Perhaps, but not for sure. Seagulls do fly a long way inland in Scotland.
Taste. Nothing. My mouth was dry. Smell. Again the smell was of the outdoors – a musty earthy smell, mixed with a slight trace of chloroform in my nostrils.
I flicked my eyes open, not daring, as yet, to move any other muscles in my body. I looked and listened. I could only see about a foot in front of my face. There was dirt and rock just in front of my eyes and some kind of foliage was obstructing my view.
Slowly I raised my head. My field of vision was limited but it was enough to observe a rolling expanse of heather and rocks with the sight of blue grey mountains in the distance.
I checked that my feet and legs were functioning. I could feel that they were there and was relieved to find that I could move them. The same with my arms and hands.
Being now more or less fully conscious, I levered myself up into a kneeling position on all fours and moved my head slowly around the horizon.
I was out in the wilds, apparently in the middle of nowhere. Was I, in fact, dreaming?
I manoeuvered myself into a sitting position for a second and, as no one or nothing seemed to be around to prevent me, I slowly clambered to my feet, completely at a loss. So far there was no sense of fear – rather one of total bewilderment.
I felt no particular pain anywhere but I seemed to ache all over. Once on my feet the effect of the wind was greatly increased and I shivered violently. I realised how cold I was. Where the hell was I? I looked around for shelter. There was none. Only shallow dips in the ground or the customary boulders that you find out on the mountains in the wilder parts of the country.
I decided to risk the cold for a minute or two on the grounds that it was more important to try and establish where I was. I stepped over to the nearest rock and sat down and did a three hundred and sixty degree survey.
I learned nothing. All I could tell was that I was somewhere high up in the mountains and there were no obvious signs of civilization. Not a house or a road of any description.
Still no fear. More curiosity. How the hell did I get here? Because here was definitely where I was.
My memory brought back the last picture I had in my mind which was of being in my garden that afternoon where I had been pruning my roses. Or was it that afternoon? I had no sense of time. Then it came back. I had been kneeling down at the edge of the flower bed, secateurs in hand, when I had suddenly been grabbed from behind. Someone had grabbed me by both ankles and a hand had seized me by the back of my neck and forced my face down into the soil.
I touched my face. It was still covered in dirt. It had happened so quickly that there had been nothing I could do. It must have been two people. I had been completely immobilised and then a cloth covered in some chemical had been thrust over my nose and mouth. That was all I could recall.
Who and why? I would have to work that out later. My immediately problem was to get out of these mountains and get home. I considered my position. It was not very encouraging. Even in summer, Scotland’s mountains can be very dangerous places. Practically every year there were one or two people who lost their lives up here. The weather can change in an instant and it is very easy to lose all sense of orientation. The rain can come on suddenly. The wind can get up and also the mist can appear from nowhere. Hypothermia is the big danger. I knew this and reviewed the state of my belongings. I was still dressed as I had been when I had gone out into the garden. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might need a survival kit just to prune the roses. This meant thin cotton trousers, ordinary shoes and a denim shirt. Not much protection if the weather turned nasty.
I checked my pockets. Not much there either, apart from a handkerchief, some loose change and piece of string that I had taken for tying up any plants that needed it. The only positive thing was that I still had my cap which would at least keep my head warm.
Ever the optimist, I got up and tried to work out which way I should go, because the only way I was going to get out of here was by walking.
Don’t blunder off in any old direction I told myself. Think it out first. First work out where north was. That was easy because the sun was right in front of me low on the horizon. I looked at my watch. Eight o’clock. The sun sets in the west. Let’s watch it for a while to check that it is indeed going
down. Then I can determine the points of the compass.
Observing that the sun was indeed setting enabled me to establish direction but it also meant that I was probably facing a night up here. What the temperature drop would be I had no idea but with the wind and the damp it wasn’t going to be funny.
In all directions I was surrounded by mountains. Great, craggy, grey forbidding chunks of rock. They look lovely on the postcards but, right then, it felt to me that I was surrounded by enormous evil monsters, implacable, immovable, laughing at me.
What could I see in the landscape that might help me? For a start there were no trees visible. A stick therefore was unlikely to be available.
Not a house in sight. No smoke on the horizon. There were no roads or paths that I could see, which made me wonder how they had got me up here. The only thing I could think of was that they had dumped me from a helicopter. Even two strong men couldn’t have lugged me up here and then wandered off.
I figured I was not likely to be more than ten miles from somewhere – but in which direction? If I picked the wrong one and had to trek for twenty miles then I knew I was going to be in trouble. There was also the problem of food and water. Maybe there was a burn but I couldn’t see one.
I had to decide – and quickly. I had to get as far as I could before dark set in.
No matter which direction I chose I was going to have to do a bit of climbing. I didn’t much look forward to this but I reckoned that, at least from higher up, I might be able to have a wider view.
I decided on east. The mountains looked slightly less forbidding and I’d be walking towards the rising sun. That seemed to have some kind of sense. Whichever half of Scotland I was in there was either the coast or the A9 which sliced the country in two. A maximum of twenty miles ought to see me safe. At this point I was more angry than frightened.
It wasn’t going to be long before that changed. Disaster struck after about an hour and a half of laboriously trudging through the heather. It had been slow going because I was walking carefully. The last thing I wanted was to turn an ankle and be immobilised. The sun behind me was down on the horizon by now and dusk was setting in. But far worse than that the wind had died down and an infamous Scottish mist was descending on the whole landscape. The mountain tops had disappeared and visibility was down to about fifty yards. How was I going to be sure I was progressing in a straight line? I had heard of people getting lost in the mist and ending up walking round and round in circles.