‘There’s your spot, Sam. Shoot anything that looks like a villain.’
‘I hope it’s Moira,’ she said with grim certainty.
There came two shots from the direction taken by Drummond. I gave Sam my Dixon. This was going to be close-quarter work. I reloaded the Webley and left her to man the barrier. I ran round the truck towards the gunfire.
Sam had been right. The door led nowhere except to a stone stairwell going down. I began to spiral my way down. Near the bottom, I could see light. I keeked round the corner and saw Drummond kneeling ahead of me at a junction of two corridors. He fired again, then turned to see me coming towards him. His manic grin turned his bloodied face into a Halloween mask of Auld Nick.
I got to his side. I looked round the corner and was just in time to see the flash of a shotgun. The pellets screamed past me at waist height. They’d been expecting Drummond’s head. My quick look told me we were in a main corridor with cross-branches left and right. A dozen ambush spots. I told Drummond what we were about to do. He nodded. For a fleeting second I wondered how far I could trust this lunatic. The previous times I’d done this was with men I’d personally trained and knew I could rely on. But I also knew that we had to attack or we’d lose momentum.
I nodded at Drummond then I charged out from my cover. I hit the far wall and kept running along the right-hand side. Drummond stayed where he was but blasting down the left-hand side to keep the enemy’s heads down. The sound of his Webley was like thunder going off in the echoing space. I made it, gasping, to the next crossing and flung myself into cover. We had to keep going, keep attacking. I moved my Webley into my left hand and tried not to worry about the recoil.
‘Now!’ I leaned out and got off a couple of shots. No chance of hitting anyone but the noise and ricochets were enough to keep Maxwell pinned down. Drummond took his chance and ran forward, screaming his new battle cry – ‘Bastards!’ – while firing away. The passing shots ripped the air near my head and made me hope he’d been aiming at Maxwell. He slammed into the wall of the cross corridor opposite me. We stood, backs against the wall, panting and staring at each other. I fumbled two shells into my Webley. Drummond swapped guns.
‘Again?’ I called, conscious of shouting above the ringing in my ears.
He nodded and got to his knees, facing forward, ready to cover me. I steeled myself to make a break – when the lights went out.
‘Shit!’ I said. ‘Wait!’ I weighed up the situation. There was one dim light back at the stairwell. In front of us was pitch dark. If I ran forward I’d be perfectly silhouetted. But this side corridor had to lead somewhere. A faint light stole round a distant corner.
‘Drummond, this way,’ I hissed. There was a brief moment of quiet then a figure dashed across the open corridor. A gun went off up ahead and we heard the ricochet of a bullet whining past. Without another word I darted off down the side corridor. Drummond came panting at my back. We reached the corner and peered round. Ahead, the narrow walls opened up into a room. The kitchen? A light flickered and kept flickering. A fire? I began creeping forward, ready to dive at any moment.
We got to the end of the corridor. I could see into the big kitchen. A pot was boiling on the range. The fire underneath threw its glittering glare round the room leaving shadowy corners and hidden gullies. It seemed deserted but there were too many hiding places to be certain. Drummond came up alongside me and flattened himself against the right-hand wall. Together we stuck our heads round. All was quiet. On the far side a door gaped open. Had they fled through it? We edged forward, guns at the ready.
I saw or heard a movement to my right, behind Drummond. Too late. A huge wooden rack of plates was falling towards us. Drummond went down, buried under it. I took the collateral hit of great china dishes smashing and shattering over and around me in a crescendo of sound. I was knocked flying and lost my grip on my pistol.
I tumbled among the debris with shards cutting into my hands and knees. I couldn’t see my gun and expected any moment to get a bullet in my back. I tore myself up from amidst the welter of china and utensils and struggled to my feet. Next thing, I took a huge hammer blow to my shoulder and I went down again. Curly was flailing at me with a shotgun held by the barrel. I rolled before the next strike, wincing as the splintered porcelain and glass sliced my body. I rolled under the kitchen table and staggered to my feet on the far side.
In the glow of the firelight I could see Curly charging round the table towards me, his shotgun held high, still by the barrel, aiming to take my head off. He had to be out of ammo. I looked around and grabbed the first thing that came to hand. I flung a colander filled with steaming greens at his face. He staggered back and I saw the glint on the table. So did Curly. He roared and swung at me, but I moved before he connected. His stock smashed on the table and broke in two. He staggered back and I lunged forward holding the foot-long kitchen knife in my hand. Like a bayonet.
I drove upwards into his stomach and kept going. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped like a fish. I yanked the knife out, feeling his hot blood pulse down my arm. He sank to his knees holding his guts, then keeled over to lie moaning and gasping. Behind me, I heard Drummond cursing as he wrestled his way out from under the rack and the smashed china. There was no sign of Maxwell or his lover. Curly gave a final groan and lost his grip on life. Donne was wrong. This was one man’s death that didn’t diminish me.
We gathered our weapons and caught our breath. I rinsed my bloody hand in the sink and began reloading. Drummond took his turn at the tap and stuck his head under it. The water again flowed red down the plughole. He rubbed his hair dry with a dish towel and patted his lacerated face. The flesh was weeping and raw. His hands were shaking as the adrenalin ebbed away but his eyes were bright. I’d seen this look many times.
‘Is this what it was like, Brodie?’
I shrugged. ‘Sometimes. But without the pots and pans.’
Distant shots rang out. From a Dixon. I sprang to the door we’d come through and vaulted over the debris. I skidded down the corridors, heedless of running into Maxwell’s guns. I belted up the staircase and ran breathless into the hall.
‘Sam! Sam! Are you all right!’ I raced across the hall to where I’d left her. I leaned over the table. She was sitting calmly reloading her shotgun. She looked up at me.
‘I missed. Sorry.’
I grinned. ‘As long as Maxwell did too!’
Then we heard a car start up. Moira’s car. Sam jumped to her feet. I grabbed the spare Dixon and sprinted for the door. I got there just as the car shot off in a stir of dust. I lifted my shotgun and fired. I hit the boot. I fired again but it went high over the bouncing roof. The car was revving away from us as fast as it could go. But instead of heading down the drive away from me and back towards the forest, it shot on to the grass and set off across the open field. Towards the hangar.
I turned. Sam and Drummond were skidding across the floor to join me at the torn portals.
‘Where are they?’ he asked.
‘There!’ I pointed away across the field at the car, now halfway to the hangar. Sam was clutching her Dixon and inspecting Drummond appraisingly. His face was a mess again, his hair wild, but his eyes held a steadiness that hadn’t been present before. It was a pity about his lost years. I could have done something with this man.
‘They’re not getting away,’ he stated as a matter of fact, and started down the steps.
‘Come on.’ I grabbed Sam’s arm and began running after him towards the grass. Drummond paused as he passed the abandoned pile of weapons. He grabbed one of the Stens and kept running. I hoped it was the loaded one.
I was on his heels and, as I ran, I broke open the Dixon and let the spent shells spin away. I grappled in my pocket for cartridges. I slammed in the fresh shells and closed the breech. Far ahead, I saw the car halt and two figures jump out and head into the hangar. A few seconds later came the noise of a stuttering engine. It caught and we heard the propeller chatter up
to speed. The nose of the plane emerged and then the rest of the fuselage. Painted red. A Cessna Airmaster. I’d seen them in a display at Prestwick before the war. I couldn’t tell what version it was but the engine noise suggested one of the more powerful. A trim little two-seater, it could fly at about 250 miles an hour with a range that would easily get them to France without refuelling. The perfect drug-smuggler’s machine. Maxwell was piloting and, alongside him, sat his white-faced lover.
We stumbled and ran over the rough grass towards the fleeing pair. The plane was trundling back past the hangar and then turning round to face into the prevailing westerly. Not that there was much of a breeze. For a moment the small plane sat poised, its wings quivering as the engine vibrations rose. Moira seemed to be shouting at her man to get going. Then he released the brakes. Its speed built up with every bouncing yard.
Like a small flock of starlings we changed tack as one, and started running at right angles to the grass airfield, aiming to intersect with the plane near the end of the runway. The roar of the engine grew. Suddenly the Cessna was in the air and climbing fast. We were about one hundred feet from the last marker on the field. The plane was rising and gathering speed with every yard. It would be past us in ten seconds.
Eight seconds.
Seven.
I halted and lifted the gun to my shoulder. Drummond held his Sten one-handed, above his hip.
Six seconds.
Alongside me, Sam stood already poised, right leg braced behind her, Dixon tucked neatly into her shoulder. Head tilted and aiming along the line of the twin barrels. All three of our bodies were angled to the airfield, our guns slightly aimed to the left, ready for the game birds to be flushed across our sights.
Five seconds.
‘Wait for it. Wait!’ I called. Our best target would be as the aircraft exposed its entire flank to us.
The plane came into the left corner of our peripheral vision about thirty feet up and climbing, its engine straining for height. Faster than a flushed grouse but a whole lot bigger. I sensed Sam’s gun track in unison with mine and pick up the plane. She would do it. I reached over and pushed her arm down.
‘No, Sam. Not you.’
She blinked and the trance was broken. I took up my aim again.
Two seconds. The plane came squarely into the left corner of our firing field, reaching higher and higher into the air. I tracked it with a steady swing of my gun.
‘Just like a clay shoot, Douglas. Squeeze, don’t jerk. Keep it smooth,’ she said in a calm echo of her father.
Drummond waved his Sten hopefully in the general direction of the plane. We were so close that Maxwell’s face was now perfectly visible through the screen. It was contorted with fury. He was screaming and cursing at us. I focused on the cowling and propeller.
‘Fire!’
I squeezed and took the recoil. Drummond’s Sten joined in with a rapid stutter. I saw my shot blast a fist-sized hole in the engine casing. Amazingly, a line of dots appeared in a rough zigzag alongside. Drummond raked away. The plane kept climbing and was now in the right of my field. Drummond fired again and perforated the tail.
Sam’s voice sounded gently in my ear. ‘Again. Steady. Squeeze.’
I pulled again. Another hole in the engine casing. Nearer the propeller. A shudder from the nose? Neither Drummond nor I had time to reload. I started regretting being chivalrous with Sam.
We could only watch as the red fuselage sailed above the trees and kept climbing. But the engine noise was different. A black plume flared from the nose. The engine stuttered, picked up, and then continued.
The craft held its height for a while, about two hundred feet above the treetops, aiming for the pass between Ben Uird and Ben Lomond that Sam and I had climbed earlier. The pilot seemed to realise he wasn’t going to have enough height, and swung the stick over. The plane dipped its wings to the right and heeled over. The engine coughed, and then cut out completely. The plane had become a glider. But without its power and with no altitude to work with, it couldn’t manoeuvre. We watched as it swung further right in silent slow motion.
Sam had her hand to her mouth.
Slowly, inexorably, the small red craft banked and banked and finally dived into the flank of Ben Lomond. It cartwheeled; bits flew off, then the fuel tank burst into flame. A moment later the sound of its passing echoed down the mountain.
I put my arm round Sam and held her close. We watched the wreckage until the flames died out. We looked at each other. Her eyes were glistening. I gave her a big hug. She squeezed my hand.
‘That’ll annoy the tourist board. Come on. Wullie needs us.’
I released her, broke the Dixon and ejected the spent shells. Drummond fell in alongside us. We trudged back to the castle and the mayhem.
FIFTY-EIGHT
The three of us walked through the carnage, double-checking for signs of life. There was none. But at least there was no barbed wire for the fallen Marshals this time. Drummond was drained, his face old and pained, as he knelt by each of his men. I knew exactly how he was feeling. An experience I’d known too often.
I said quietly, ‘The police are on their way, Drummond.’
He looked up at me and nodded. ‘Will you help me get my men on the truck?’
‘To do what?’
‘Bury them, of course. They’re my men.’
‘Where? In the forest? They deserve better. Leave them with me. I’ll see they’re taken care of. I’ll have a word with Jamie Frew, the police doctor.’
He stared at me with his one open eye, the other clouded with congealed blood. ‘And I just slope off?’
‘You surrender. You face the law.’
‘Oh, that’s a fine plan! They’ll stretch my neck. Either for this’ – he swept his hand round the blood-stained forecourt – ‘or the homo killings.’
I glanced over at Sam. She shrugged in agreement.
‘So what’ll you do?’
He looked beyond me at the towering hills. He grinned. ‘Take to the heather.’ Then his grin shut off. ‘Will you tell them?’
‘That you’re at large?’
He nodded.
‘That depends. Is this over? Your search for justice, redemption, whatever it was?’
‘You make it sound like I went a bit doolally for a while and now I’m better. It was more than that. It needed doing. It still does. The law stinks.’
‘The law’s OK. Enforcing it is the problem. But it’s not your problem.’
‘Is it yours, Brodie? It needs to be somebody’s.’
‘I’m just a reporter.’
He looked around. ‘Oh aye?’ He shrugged. ‘But yes. It’s over for me. Enough blood. And you’ll take care of them?’
I straightened my back. ‘From one brother officer to another.’
He held my gaze, then he walked over to the small pile of arms still lying in the gravel. He swapped his Sten for a shotgun and filled his pockets with cartridges. He loaded both revolvers and tucked them into his waistband. He turned, nodded once to Sam and me, and marched off towards the north, his shotgun at the ready, his shoulders back.
Sam and I climbed the front steps and stepped through the shattered doors. A man was waiting for us, standing tall in a kilt and jacket in front of the intruding truck. He stared at the guns broken across our arms, then beyond us to the bodies lying on the drive. He didn’t seem panicked.
‘Sir?’ he asked.
‘What’s your name?’
‘McGregor, sir. Is that you, Miss Campbell?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Hello, Andrew.’
‘Army, McGregor?’
‘Gordon Highlanders, sir. Sergeant.’
‘Good man. We need a hand. But first, how’s Sir Colin? Is he with you?’
‘He’s fine, thank you, sir. I have him in the library. Away from the noise. He thinks we’ve had a shooting party. Asking how many were bagged.’
We both looked back at the ‘bag’ and did our own short sums.
/> ‘Look, first thing. Where’s the nearest ambulance station?’
‘That would be Aberfoyle, sir.’
‘Call one. We need it fast. I don’t suppose you have a stretcher?’
‘Yes, sir. In case of accidents on the estate.’
‘Bring it to the stables. Bring any first-aid box you have. Any other staff?’
‘A boy, two chambermaids, and the kitchen staff.’
‘Is he a good boy? Tough?’
‘He’s my son.’
‘Have him bring out some old sheets. If you think he can face it, have him cover the bodies. I’ll leave it to you, McGregor.’
‘He’s fourteen. He’ll be fine.’
We lifted McAllister on to the canvas stretcher and McGregor and I carried him into the house. I had more time to admire the scenery. Sam hadn’t understated the baronial trappings. A vast echoing space, walls filled with the bloody detritus of battles and hunts. It seemed fitting. Sam emerged from the library, shaking her head.
‘Colin seems to be coming and going. At the moment he doesn’t know what day of the week it is, far less what’s been happening. Best to leave him alone. His nurse is sitting with him.’
‘A nurse? Get her. Wullie has more urgent need of her.’
We carried him into a side room, a pretty lounge, and laid him on cushions dragged from chairs and couches. He moaned as we laid him down. The nurse bustled in and knelt to feel his pulse.
‘He’s in a bad way,’ she said superfluously.
McGregor said, ‘An ambulance is on its way. It’ll take a good hour, mind.’
‘We need to elevate his head. Help me.’
Sam and I stood back and watched her administer first aid. I looked round the room and walked over to the drinks table. I poured two large measures and gave Sam one. She shook her head at first, then accepted. We clinked glasses, nodded at each other and drank. Suddenly I was starving.
Bitter Water Page 31