by Jeff Gulvin
Imogen stared at the panther, then down at the slab of stone. Connla’s eyes were open and he was looking at her. The panther snarled again, then bounded away, racing across the amphitheatre and melting into the rock, black on black, as if she had been part of it all the time. Imogen looked at Connla and his eyes were still open. He was blinking. He half raised his head, dropped it again and closed his eyes once more.
McKewan had seen him, too, and was already on the radio.
‘Smitty, this is Andy. Get on to the RAF. We’ve found him, but we’re going to need a chopper.’
Twenty-Six
CONNLA WAS AIRLIFTED TO the emergency medical centre in Fort William. Imogen sat on the hillside watching as the RAF helicopter flew in and winched a stretcher down from some height to avoid the down draught blowing him off the rock. She could see he was only semi-conscious, muttering and groaning and lying still as the grave. McKewan organized everything and she admired him for it. For all his bar-room boorishness he knew what he was doing in a fishing boat, and he knew what he was doing on a mountain. She watched as Connla was hoisted to the hovering helicopter, feeling very small, very alone and very bitter. In an instant he was whisked away. McKewan rolled a cigarette and passed it to her, snapped his zippo in the sudden stillness and lit it for her. She looked up at him and smiled.
‘Shall we go down now?’ he said.
Connla lay unconscious for two days, dehydrated, half starved and suffering from hypothermia. Eventually he came round, though, and again he thought he had died. He didn’t mind so much, this time, because it was warmer and brighter, and then he realized he was in hospital. When he closed his eyes again he saw Imogen’s face, and then he remembered: the mountain; the panther suddenly snarling, shaking him from unconsciousness, and Imogen at the top of the ravine.
The doctor came by his room and told him that his left leg had been broken in two places, his right knee was sprained and badly bruised, and he had been lucky to get away without ligament damage. They had pinned the left leg and it was encased in light plaster. He looked down at Connla through squared half-moon glasses.
‘You were lucky that team of volunteers arrived when they did or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
Connla stared at him. ‘Volunteers?’
‘Aye. From Gaelloch.’
Connla thought for a moment. ‘Imogen must have organized it. Is she here?’
‘Who?’
‘Imogen Munro. She was on the mountain.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘No. Nobody’s been here. Except the police, that is.’
‘Police?’
‘Aye. They’re outside now. They’re waiting to speak to you.’
‘Why? What about?’
The doctor moved to the door of the single room. ‘I’ll let them tell you that.’
Two uniformed policemen came in, their faces stern and grave. ‘How’re you feeling?’ the older one asked him.
Connla tried to sit up, pulling on the cord above his head. ‘I’ve been better.’
‘I’m PC Soames, Dr McAdam. This is PC Gray. We want to know why you had a handgun in your hotel room in Tomintoul.’
Connla stared at him. ‘Excuse me?’
‘A Magnum pistol. Three five seven. Nasty weapon. While you were messing about on yon mountain we’ve been wanting to speak to you about it.’ Soames took a chair and sat down close to the bed. ‘You see, pistols have been illegal in the United Kingdom ever since sixteen children were murdered by a lunatic in a place called Dunblane. I don’t suppose the name means anything to you.’
Connla stared at him. ‘Of course it does. Everyone’s heard of Dunblane.’
‘We banned handguns after the massacre, Dr McAdam. Having one in your possession is a very serious offence.’
‘I can imagine. But I don’t know anything about any gun. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The policemen looked at one another and then Soames scratched his head.
‘Seriously,’ Connla went on. ‘I don’t. What’s been going on?’
Soames told him what had happened, how they had had a call from the hotel in Tomintoul and, when they’d investigated, they’d found the pistol in the room he had just vacated. Connla smiled thinly at him. ‘Cullen,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Harry Bird Dog Cullen. You must’ve heard of him. Everybody else has.’
The policemen looked briefly at one another.
‘You have heard of him then,’ Connla went on.
‘Let me ask you a question. Were my fingerprints on that gun?’
‘We don’t know. We haven’t taken them yet.’
‘Take them.’ Connla held out a hand. ‘Let me ask you another question. If I was packing a three fifty seven around Scotland with me, would I just go off and leave it in my hotel room?’
They looked at each other again.
‘Cullen was my guide,’ Connla explained. ‘I’m a zoologist. I was up there trying to track down a panther. I found it: a female with at least one cub. Cullen had a pitbull which went after the cub, and the mother killed it. Natural thing to do. But Cullen tried to shoot the mother, so I stopped him. Guess he musta been more pissed than I thought.’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘Any of this making sense?’
‘Cullen was in the bar when we arrived,’ Soames told him.
‘There you go.’
‘Are you saying that Cullen set you up?’
‘No. But I am saying it’s possible. Look.’ Connla pulled himself still higher up the pillows. ‘My pack got stamped on. Imogen Munro’ll tell you. I had plaster casts of the panther’s paw prints in the pack, together with some from her cubs. The pack was in my room in Tomintoul. Somebody came in and crushed them, stomped on my pack. I didn’t discover it till the following day, but I can tell you my room was unlocked all night. I was so dog-tired I didn’t hear a thing.’ He shook his head again. ‘Ask Imogen; she’ll tell you.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on that.’ Gray twisted his mouth down at the corners.
‘Why not?’
‘Because for the last week and a half she’s had her name plastered over every newspaper in the country.’ He leaned forward. ‘Why did you call yourself John Brady when you checked into the hotel at Loch Duich?’
Connla stared at him for a moment.
‘You can see why we’re upset about the gun, Dr McAdam. Add a false name to the equation and we’re really scratching our heads.’
Connla looked beyond him then, and his heart slowly sank. ‘This has been in the papers?’
‘Of course it has. The papers, television. You’re big news, Dr McAdam. We’ve even spoken to your ex-wife in America.’
‘Holly?’ Connla looked back at him. ‘You spoke to Holly?’
Soames nodded.
‘Does she know I’m all right?’
‘The rescue was on TV.’
Connla closed his eyes and thought for a long moment. ‘Is it illegal to use a different name at a hotel?’ he said, looking at Soames again. ‘I figure people do it all the time—businessmen with their secretaries, that kinda thing. I paid for everything, didn’t I. I stole nothing from anyone.’
‘It’s not illegal, no. Not in itself. But the gun, you see.’
Connla sighed. ‘I used a different name because I didn’t want Imogen to know who I was. Not right away, anyway. You see, I knew her when I was a kid in Wyoming. There was stuff to think about, to figure out; stuff from the past.’ He looked from one policeman to the other. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that until I’ve spoken to her. Look, I can understand about the gun, but it isn’t mine. Believe me. I think Bird Dog came into my room in the night when I was asleep. If he broke my casts, he could’ve planted the gun on me. He was a slaughterman, wasn’t he. I don’t suppose he had trouble getting access to weapons. He has a helluva hunting rifle, that’s for sure. He also had every reason to stiff me because his dog got killed, and I guess I messed up a big payday for him. Think h
ow much his story would’ve been worth if he had shot that panther.’ He broke off for a moment. ‘Take my fingerprints and do whatever else you have to. But I’ll ask you both a question. Who’s more likely to be packing an illegal firearm, me or Harry Cullen?’
They left him then and he lay back, head pressed deep into the pillows. Imogen knew everything. It had all fallen down around his ears, as it had been bound to do. You spin a yarn like that and what d’you expect, he told himself. At least the police would ultimately believe him; he was pretty confident of that. They wouldn’t find his fingerprints on the gun, so he doubted they could link him to it. It could’ve been in the hotel room long before he even got there, but he was more than sure Cullen had planted it and he hoped there was some way they could link him to it. But, Imogen; she had been there on the hill. He had seen her; that bit had not been a hallucination. He pressed the bell on the cabinet and a young nurse wearing a crisp powder-blue uniform came in.
‘Can I get a telephone in here?’ he asked her.
He had no coins, but his wallet was in the cabinet and he scooped out a credit card and dialled. Imogen’s phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. He put down the receiver and lay back again, thinking hard. He called the nurse back a second time and asked her how long he was likely to be kept in hospital.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to ask the doctor.’
Connla had to wait till the doctor came back, so he picked up the phone again and dialled Imogen a second time. There was still no answer, but he hung up and tried again. Nothing. He lay back in the bed, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched in frustration.
The doctors kept him in hospital until the beginning of September. The police came back, reinterviewed him and informed him that his fingerprints were not on the gun and they had decided not to take the matter any further. That was one relief at least, but he had phoned and phoned Imogen and never got a reply. She didn’t visit him and she didn’t call. He lay there in solitude and nearly drove himself crazy.
On 2 September he struggled through the hospital doors on crutches, got a taxi to Fort William and took a bus to the Kyle of Lochalsh. He had grown a beard and it hung about his face like some throwback to his student campus days. His hair was overlong and kept falling across his eyes, but he could do nothing about it because both his hands were needed for the crutches. The bus dropped him at the castle and he wondered how he could get out to Imogen’s house. In the end he hobbled into the hotel and Billy, the Irish barman, smiled at him. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Dr McAdam, I presume.’
‘Hello, Billy. Look, I’m sorry about the John Brady bullshit, but there was a good reason. It’s just a helluva long story.’
Billy was already pouring him a pint. ‘Another time, maybe.’
‘Right. When you’ve got about a year to spare.’ Connla drank the beer and waited to see who would come in, but the season was winding down and nobody did. ‘Billy,’ he said, ‘do you own a car?’
‘A battered one, aye.’
‘You think you could do me a favour?’
After the bar closed, Billy drove him out to Loch Gael, but Imogen’s Land-Rover wasn’t there. Connla cursed silently, then persuaded Billy to drive him up to Keira’s field. The horse was gone but the Land-Rover was there, and Connla told Billy just to leave him.
‘How will you get back again?’ Billy asked him.
‘Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll figure it.’
Billy frowned into the rear-view mirror. ‘Do you want a little advice, Dr McAdam?’
‘Not really. But I figure you’re gonna give it me anyway.’
‘If I were you, I’d go home. Go back to the States and forget any of this ever happened.’
‘You know, Billy, I’d like to.’ Connla looked sideways at him. ‘But it’s not as easy as that. I’ve got unfinished business to take care of first.’
Billy leaned across him and opened the passenger door. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I think you’re going to need it.’
Connla hobbled and stumbled up to the stable, which was open and warm and dry. The sun was high over the loch, bouncing back off the water so that half of Skye was obscured. He made his way to the window, rested his crutches against the flat stone wall and perched on the ledge to wait.
Imogen rode Keira across the River Leum and passed the Seer Stone, and as she did she heard Redynvre bellow at her from the hillside. She reined in the horse and shifted round in the saddle. He stood tall and grey, his antlers a headdress of fraying velvet against the skyline. He was alone, having dispensed with his bachelor band already, as if he wanted that extra bit of time to prepare himself for the rut. He was getting older and his supremacy on the mountain would not last much longer. He stretched his neck, pawed at the ground like a horse and roared at her once again. She sat and watched him; he stood for a long moment, then disappeared over the crest of the hill. She heard him bellow one more time, long and low and drawn out, echoing the emptiness in her soul.
She rode back through the gap in the hills at the top of Keira’s field just as twilight was falling. The sun was low in the west, casting shadows across the twin lochs, which ended in darkness where hillside met the horizon. For a moment Imogen paused and wondered and felt a pinprick of pain in her breast, then she squeezed her knees and Keira cut through the gap in the fence. Dismounting, she let the horse go, refixed the fence, then followed her down to the stable. Keira stood patiently outside, one hoof cocked, waiting to be unsaddled.
‘You’re a good girl.’ Imogen came alongside her, smoothing one hand through the tangles of her mane. Then she glanced into the shadows of the stable and saw Connla McAdam asleep against the wall.
For a long silent moment she stared at him, pale and bearded now, with lines around his eyes. She let go a little breath and he woke up, looked at her and his face seemed to twist in pain.
Imogen could feel the blood in her ears and she stood, one hand on the girth strap, the other resting on the bow of the saddle.
‘Hello,’ he said.
She just stared at him.
Connla struggled to get up, one crutch sliding in the gathered sawdust. He rooted it, applied his weight and stood up. Imogen turned her back on him, undid the girth strap and laid it across the top of the saddle. Connla stood and watched her. He said nothing. She was silent and just carried on with Keira till the saddle was off, together with the reins and bridle, and she humped it all over to the pegs fixed on the wall. Connla moved outside to let her fasten the hay net and stood in the twilight, with the mountains of Skye against his back.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘Really, I’m so very, very sorry.’
She finished up, dusted her palms on her thighs and hooked her hair behind her ears. She closed the stable door, her back to him, stiff and cold.
‘Imogen.’
Still she ignored him.
‘Imogen, please.’
‘What?’ She rounded on him then. ‘Imogen what? Sorry I came into your life. Sorry it’s been thirty years. Sorry I lied through my teeth.’
Connla stood like a helpless child, leaning on his crutch. She stepped past him and halted; the sun was sinking into the sea, a silent ball of fire against the sky. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly he had no words. He sucked in breath, exhaled heavily and looked at the set of her shoulders, shunted into her neck as she stared across the loch.
‘Do you want to hear something funny?’ She spoke without looking at him. ‘I mean really tragically stupid. I loved you, Connla. Or I thought I did. When you were John Brady, like a dumb unthinking idiot, I fell in love with you.’
Connla just stood there. He moistened his lips, but when he spoke his voice sounded cracked and broken. ‘Would you please let me try to explain?’
She looked sharply at him. ‘Explain? What? Why you lied, why you spun me the yarn of the century and made me look like a fool.’
‘Imogen. Please.’
She drew breath through her nose and looked coldl
y at him. ‘Is it worth hearing?’
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘Well, I tell you what, if you can get to my house I’ll listen.’ She stalked down the path, leaving him where he was.
Connla watched her for a moment, his throat dry, and then he called out, ‘You’ve every right to be angry, Imogen. Every right in the world. But I can’t make it to your house unless you take me.’
She stopped by the Land-Rover and stared through the gathering twilight. She seemed to consider for a long time, then she yanked open the passenger door.
They drove back to her house in silence, Connla’s left leg thrust stiffly in front of him. The cab was cramped and his bones seemed to ache. At the house, she didn’t offer to help him down and he had to work himself round in the seat. She was already inside with the kitchen door closed when he got to the ground. He thought for a moment, looked back along the rough track and almost turned and shuffled away. But she opened the door and looked him in the eye, and there was a darkness in her gaze that he hadn’t seen for thirty years.
She sat in the lounge smoking a cigarette. He stood, leaning on his crutches, at the window and picked up the carved Indian. ‘I saw a picture of this,’ he said. ‘In the store in Dunkeld. I didn’t recognize the scene outside, but I recognized this.’ He set it down on the window sill once more. ‘You picked it up on that cliff, didn’t you?’
‘It was lying in a pinion bush.’ She looked at the floor. ‘I took it home. I kept it, Connla. And every time I looked at it, it reminded me of the day my brother died. I wasn’t sure it was a good thing at first, keeping it so visible, but you know what, in a way it was a comfort. It helped me get over the tragedy.’ She paused for a moment, drawing heavily on her cigarette. ‘Those are the kind of memories that normally haunt you for ever, but as I grew up I really thought I’d dealt with it. Then, all of a sudden, you show up and bring it all back again.’ She stared coldly at him now. ‘I want to know what happened, Connla. What really happened that day. And I don’t want any more lies. You hear me? No more lies. You tell me the truth or get out of here.’ She broke off, looked at the floor, then back into his eyes. ‘You knew, didn’t you. Back then. You knew all the time. You knew what had happened, yet you sent the search party the wrong way.’