The Temple Legacy

by D C Macey

  The phone rang in the empty study and after several rings, the answer phone machine kicked in. One of the passing forensic team paused in the hallway to listen.

  ‘Hello there, message for Helen Johnson. This is Suzie Dignan from the Museum. Sam said I could pass on a message via you if he’s unavailable. I can’t get him on his mobile phone, so perhaps you could pass this on, please? It’s about our old Templar artefact, the dagger that he was so interested in last week; I’ve found more information about it for him. I’m going away for a week on holiday, so if he wants the info quickly he’ll need to get in touch before the weekend. Give me a call here at the museum and we’ll make a plan. Bye for now.’

  The answer phone clicked off and silence returned to the room. The forensics man shrugged and headed back to the kitchen, just a message for the parish assistant, obviously it had nothing to do with John Dearly. If they pushed on, the team could get finished with the manse today.

  • • •

  Leaning forward at her desk, the rather sour faced receptionist gave a little smile that did nothing to improve her countenance. A headphone played back the audio in her left ear as experienced fingers edited it down to a single audio file; she saved it. Later she’d prepare a full transcription of the day’s recording from the manse; right now, she knew the highlights would be most welcome. Stretching across her desk, she jabbed the intercom button and waited for a reply.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve an audio recording from St Bernard’s manse that you might want to hear, sir.’

  ‘Right, let me have it now.’ Cassiter cut off the conversation and turned to his computer, waiting for the audio file to arrive.

  • • •

  Davy McBain drove his mother’s 4x4 slowly along Oban’s George Street. Through gaps in the oncoming traffic, he could make out one or two boats in the harbour. He had seen the same scene almost every day for the first eighteen years of his life and every time he came home, its beauty stirred a quiet thrill of pride inside him. Wherever he went in life this would always be home.

  Leaning back into the driver’s seat he stretched, relaxed, turned up the music and let the drivers round about him stress. Having stocked up on booze at the supermarket he had chosen to drive the longer way home, he was in no hurry. His parents were away for a short break, so he had taken the opportunity to return home, helping them out with a bit of dog sitting, and catching up with old school friends too.

  Barty, the family’s ageing and overweight black Labrador, watched him trustingly from inside the safety cage at the rear of the car, his tail beating out a constant welcome home against the cage sides. Between Davy and Barty was the beer, securely stacked on the rear passenger seat. His mother kept a well-stocked kitchen so there was always plenty to eat, that together with all the drink he had just picked up would ensure the old gang could have a proper catch up session. A boys’ night in. Drink, food, friends and films: great.

  There was no particular reason why Davy should have noticed the white transit van behind him, nor the slim man behind its steering wheel; he didn’t notice. Passing the railway station on his right hand side he entered the one-way system and lost sight of the boats as he cruised towards home. The white van allowed a discreet distance to open up between them and then matched his speed, tracking him, unnoticed.

  Davy took a left exit from the one-way system. Driving on, he wove a route up hill and moved into the popular Pulpit Hill residential district, its views across the water ensured it was always in demand. He slowed and pulled into his parents’ driveway. The van passed on by.

  A little way along the road, the van slowed and then stopped. Jim Barnett watched in his wing mirrors as Davy opened the rear hatch. An old black dog struggled down; it clearly had some hip problems. Satisfied, Barnett drove off, turned and cruised back past the house again. He followed the road away from the house, establishing an exit route as Davy lifted his beer stack from the back seat and headed for the house. Barty waddled behind, tail still wagging contentedly.

  Having loaded the beers into the fridge, Davy opened a bottle for himself and got busy grilling sausages for the gang’s tea. They would want to get something in their stomachs before the serious drinking started. Barty hovered, hopeful that a sausage might reach him. The front door was unlocked: while there is crime everywhere, local people in small towns are generally about as safe as you can get.

  Music covered the sound of the front door opening and the quiet steps of a slim man coming down the hall. Barty heard nothing since he was pretty well deaf anyway and right now he was intent on demolishing the large meaty sausage that Mrs McBain would never have allowed to reach him. Davy was busy turning sausages and listening to music, but he heard the kitchen door opening.

  ‘You guys are early, come on in. Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourselves,’ said Davy, his back to the door as he kept his concentration on the grilling sausages. He looked round to see which of his friends had arrived and was puzzled to see a strange man dressed in a white forensic suit. The man was moving very quickly across the room towards him. Davy raised the turning tongs in the man’s direction and challenged him. ‘Who the hell are you? Get out of here before I call the police.’

  The man did not stop, closing the gap between them in an instant. He brushed aside Davy’s tong wielding hand, gripping the wrist and twisted it violently. Davy’s body turned in an automatic response that sought to relieve the impossibly painful stress on elbow and shoulder joints. Jim Barnett kept the twisting pressure on and Davy’s whole body continued its involuntary turn until he was again facing the cooker. Then Barnett applied simple forward pressure to the wrist and with a cry, Davy found himself propelled against and then bent double over the worktop beside the cooker.

  In a single, seamless movement, a hand slid round Davy’s waist and patted his crotch, feeling for a phone. Found, the hand slipped into Davy’s trouser pocket, removed the phone and Barnett pocketed it just as Barty caught up with proceedings.

  It had taken the old dog a few moments to realise that the man in the kitchen was unwelcome and a few moments more to waddle across the room. He growled fiercely and ignored the pain in his ageing hips to lurch up onto his hind legs. Placing his forepaws on the intruder’s back, Barty leant in to worry at the intruder’s neck. Had Barty been two or three years younger, the outcome might have been very different, but he just didn’t have the speed or body strength needed anymore. Barnett pulled his hand out of the pocket into which he had just deposited Davy’s phone. The hand now clutched a knife, and a metallic click rang out as the blade sprang open and locked.

  The knife swung up over his shoulder then down, plunging the blade into Barty’s neck, then slicing down and embedding into the dog’s shoulder. Barty howled and tried valiantly to bite at the attacking hand, but the agony in his hips and his bloodied neck and shoulder forced him down. As Barty slipped off the assailant’s back towards the floor, Barnett kicked back hard, catching the dog’s muzzle. Canine teeth bounced down on the floor tiles, unheard in the commotion of music, shouts and howls. A second kick that the dog was too old and too shocked to avoid sent Barty sprawling into oblivion.

  Barnett turned his attention back to Davy, who remained pinned against the worktop by his twisted arm. The target needed to be disposed of now while he was trapped. But the knife was out of reach, embedded in the stupid dog. It was necessary to improvise; he glanced around to see what could be used. One of Mrs McBain’s heavy copper pans was sitting on the top of the cooker. Clean, shiny, brutal, lethal. Not his favoured technique, but a solid bludgeoning did generally deliver the goods. Barnett stretched his free hand across the cooker, clawing with his fingers he coaxed the pan handle into range and then gripped it firmly; he swung it up in a great arc over his own head and back down on to Davy’s.

  Davy gasped then groaned, stunned, and dazed. With the second blow he slipped into unconsciousness, the resistance eased from his muscles and he dropped to the floor. Barnett
stood over him and gave a wry smile; sweets from a child, he thought, just like taking sweets from a child. He raised the pan to deliver the third blow, the killing stroke. The doorbell rang, the front door opened and the voices of several young men called out as they spilled into the hall.

  Barnett was already out of the back door, had sprinted away round the house, down the drive and into the road before the boys discovered the kitchen chaos. By the time anyone had set off down the drive in pursuit, Barnett was in the van and driving calmly away, heading for the car park at the cemetery on the A85 road just outside town.

  Defeated, the chasing boys turned back towards the house and then the quiet street burst into life. Ambulance and police sirens wailed as emergency vehicles raced up towards the house in response to an emergency call from one of the boys. Two more boys emerged from the house carrying Barty between them. They held Barty wrapped tight in his own bed blanket; their progress was marked by a trail of red blood drops along the pavement as they hurried for the local vet’s.

  Turning gently into the empty car park opposite the cemetery, Barnett came to a controlled halt; he pulled the handbrake on but left the engine running. He got out of the van, calmly walked to the back and swung the doors open. Without hesitation, he slid out a long plank, allowing one end to rest on the van floor while he lowered the other to the ground, forming a simple ramp. Then he jumped into the back of the van, peeled off his bloodied forensic suit and shoes and threw them down. He pulled on leathers, boots and a helmet, then rolled a motorbike down the makeshift ramp and stood it a little away from the van.

  Having kicked the motorbike engine into life he left it ticking over and returned to the rear of the van where he pushed the plank back inside. He jumped back in to retrieve a petrol container and started pouring petrol all around the cargo bay, being careful to soak the four other plastic containers of petrol that were stowed inside. Then he moved round to the cab and soaked the front seats. Stepping back, he splashed it across the exterior too, particularly the driver’s side door. From a safe distance, he fixed a cloth wick into the nozzle of the nearly empty petrol can and lit it, then threw it into the van. The petrol soaked interior ignited with a whoosh and flames spread rapidly throughout the van.

  A little over three minutes after driving the white transit van into the car park, Barnett was riding out on a motorbike. Careful to stick to the speed limits, just another unremarkable tourist biker on the road south. Helmet on, engine running, he heard nothing of the explosion, but his wing mirror did show the flash behind him as the forty gallons of petrol stored in the back of the burning van exploded.

  • • •

  Helen stood in the middle of her living room. Her phone call over, she stared pensively at the handset, tapping her fingers on its display screen. Finally, she threw a worried look across the room towards Sam, pushed the phone into her pocket and sank down on to the sofa beside him.

  He had been listening to the one-sided phone conversation with growing alarm, and now put a comforting arm around her. ‘Go on then, tell me.’

  Helen twisted on the sofa to look him directly in the eye. ‘That was Julie, your student, you know? Davy’s friend.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Yeah, of course. What’s up? What’s her problem?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘It’s not her with the problem, it’s Davy - he’s been mugged. No, he’s been beaten to within an inch of his life. They think the attacker did try to kill him, but he was interrupted. Julie’s frantic, has no one to turn to, most of the class are away for the summer now and she has no close family. She’s getting a train up to Oban in the morning to be with Davy, but doesn’t want to be alone tonight. I’ve told her just to come round, she’s welcome here.’

  ‘Of course she should come and stay, but tell me the details before she arrives,’ said Sam.

  Helen recounted the whole story that ended with the police and everyone else being puzzled why the thief seemed only interested in his phone, not his wallet or anything else of value. After she had finished, both sat in silence for a moment. They knew exactly why the phone had value; it held the only surviving photos of the dunes dagger, for which it seemed the MacPhersons had already been killed. It must have been why they targeted Davy. The question was who were they? And what really made the information so valuable?

  ‘What I can’t get to grips with is how did they know Davy had the pictures? Davy and Julie knew, and we did too. Nobody else,’ said Sam. He looked at Helen for inspiration.

  She shrugged. ‘And he only went up to Oban first thing this morning, how would anyone even know he was there?’ She paused and gave a slightly despairing grin. ‘Somebody is a hell of a lot better tuned in than we are, that’s for sure.’

  They lapsed into silence again, puzzling, trying to understand what had happened and why. Suddenly Sam leapt up from the sofa. ‘Of course, you’re right. You’re absolutely right!’

  ‘What do you mean I’m right? I haven’t said anything,’ Helen said.

  Sam shushed her and disappeared, returning with their coats. ‘Grab your toothbrush, we’re going out,’ he said, chivvying Helen along, neither allowing questions nor giving answers. Something in Sam’s military intelligence training was waving a red flag to his concerns, triggering latent thought patterns, bringing old cautions back to light. In moments, he had her out of the tenement flat and heading down stairs. ‘Text Julie, tell her to go to my place, we’ll meet her there. Come on, let’s go.’

  Once in the street, they walked quickly away from Helen’s home in Causewayside. Round two street corners and they were skirting the south side of the Meadows, the wide green expanse of public park that separates the city’s cramped Old Town from its more spacious neighbours in Marchmont, an ever-popular area for academics.

  They hurried on. Overtaking courting couples who strolled arm in arm in the warm evening light; being overtaken by joggers running the tree lined length of Melville Drive, the arterial road that cuts right through the heart of the Meadows. A chorus of voices rolled across the road as footballers called encouragement to one another in half a dozen impromptu games scattered the length of the park.

  As they walked, Sam outlined his idea that perhaps somebody really was, just as she had said, ‘better tuned in’. In fact, was really listening in. As ludicrous as it sounded, her flat and the manse might be bugged. It also explained how whoever was involved would have known that MacPherson was keeping the dunes dagger in his home. Helen had been incredulous at the thought of being bugged. She had nothing of value or interest to anybody, but as they walked on and she thought it through her feelings turned to outrage that anyone might bug her home or the manse.

  Then she surrendered to a growing sense of guilt. If her conversation with John had told them where to find the dunes dagger then she had unintentionally signed the MacPhersons’ death warrant. They would also have known that John Dearly was alone in the manse. And of course, they would have heard that Davy had pictures and was going to his family home in Oban.

  Pressing on through the park, Sam suddenly darted off and stooped to gather up a tatty old tennis ball that was rolling by. It had been thumped long from some distant game that looked like a cross between rounders and baseball. He threw the ball back to a chorus of thanks from the grateful teenage players.

  Helen reached for her phone and called the only person she could think of. Elaine. On hearing the suggestion, Elaine had been far less circumspect than Helen had expected. In fact, Elaine agreed with Sam’s analysis, told her to stay away from her home, the manse and the church until she had sorted something out. She would get back in touch as soon as possible, when they could make a plan for the morning. Her parting was rueful; if only she had thought of it herself earlier, people might still be alive, including John Dearly.

  Julie arrived at Sam’s flat just after they did, so there was no opportunity to speculate further about the wider issues. To support the girl, all the conversation revolved around Davy’s awful experience. Late
r in the evening, Elaine phoned Helen back; a member of the parish had worked for the police as a civilian IT and surveillance technician before becoming a private security consultant. He was going to scan all the properties in the morning, off the record. They arranged that Helen would take Julie to Waverley Station and see her on to the morning train to Oban and Sam was to meet Elaine outside Helen’s home at ten o’clock sharp.

  CHAPTER 19 - THURSDAY 13th JUNE

  Morning found Sam’s flat with a slightly less fraught atmosphere than the night before. True, no one had slept well and all three woke early, but at least they were showered, dressed and breakfasted ahead of time. Julie was now calmer, having had the opportunity to process the incident overnight, and perhaps more importantly, she had received an early morning call from Davy’s mother, who gave a health update and shared a long and reassuring conversation. Overnight, Davy had been transferred to hospital in Glasgow and having cut short their trip away, his mother and father were there at his bedside. They were looking forward to meeting Julie there.

  With Julie in the passenger seat, Helen drove Sam’s car off in the direction of Waverley. They planned to stop off at Julie’s student flat on the way. She needed to collect some things to take with her. The previous evening she had been too upset to think about anything as mundane as a change of clothes.

  • • •

  Sam retraced his route of the evening before. Now the Meadows were quieter. Just a scattering of dog walkers and a few late starting office workers cutting across the grass towards the city centre. A great green space left largely vacant for the birds that strutted to and fro, searching for whatever treats and treasures they could find.