Midnight Never Comes pc-4

by Jack Higgins

  'It's ruined, I suppose?'

  'Only partially, sir. Myself, I believe he's got someone living out there.'

  'I mentioned that in my report,' Craig said.

  Chavasse nodded and glanced up at George. 'Why do you think that?'

  'The rogue thought he'd have a try for a salmon one night,' Colonel Craig cut in and chuckled. 'With a gaff, you understand. Strictly illegal.'

  'I saw a light in the ruins, sir,' George said. 'No doubt about it. And I've seen it since on two other occasions.'

  Chavasse turned to Craig. 'What about you?'

  Craig shook his head. 'It would certainly explain Donner's anxiety to keep outsiders away.'

  Chavasse stood up, crossed to the fireplace and looked down into the flames, a frown on his face. 'But what could be out there, that's the thing?'

  Craig shrugged. 'The end of the pipe-line. Perhaps that's where he keeps them before shipping them out.'

  Chavasse looked up. 'You know about the latest one of course?'

  'This fella Souvorin, the rocket expert?' Craig nodded. 'Yes, there isn't much Mallory hasn't told me.'

  'Any sign of his arrival?'

  Craig shook his head. 'Impossible to tell. The plane's flown in and out on three separate occasions during the past four days, but it lands on a field behind Glenmore House and it's impossible to get close enough to see anything. Another thing, that damned dog of his roams around the place at will.'

  Chavasse nodded. 'It seems as if the island is the place to start, then. At least that was my immediate impression after reading your report.'

  'And, just how do you propose to do that?'

  'Simple enough with the right equipment. You did pick up my luggage at Lochailort?'

  Duncan Craig nodded. 'I was intrigued by that damned great cabin trunk. What have you got in there, for God's sake?'

  'Various bits of skin-diving equipment, an aqualung and a collapsible rubber boat.'

  'Commando stuff, eh? An assault by night?'

  'That's the general idea. But first, I think I'll put my head in the jaws of the tiger, just to see what happens. There's plenty of trout in Loch Dubh, I suppose?'

  'Quarter pounders-or occasional pounders-not much else.'

  'Good enough for my purpose. I'll borrow a rod if I may and give them a try after breakfast.'

  'The Munros will prove unpleasant if they catch you, especially after your bout with Fergus. They don't take kindly to being beaten at anything.'

  'Neither do I,' Chavasse said. 'At least I'll get a look at the island and there's nothing like stirring the pot a little. It'll suit me well enough to be dragged off to Glenmore House as a trespasser. I don't think Asta's going to like that. Donner's going to have to be very nice indeed to make up for the indignity. It might even clinch that dinner invitation you mentioned.'

  Craig knocked the ashes from his pipe into the hearth and hesitated. 'What about the girl, by the way? You're sure she isn't mixed up in this?'

  Chavasse nodded. 'It's like you said earlier, Colonel Craig. One develops an instinct for this sort of game. She's clean, I'll stake my life on it.'

  'No need to sound quite so fervent,' the old man said, 'or is there? Ah well, I'll be able to see her for myself perhaps before very much longer.' He got to his feet. 'Well, I'm for bed, my boy. If you take my advice, you won't be far behind.'

  'Ten minutes,' Chavasse said. 'I'm just going to have a last cigarette.'

  The door closed behind the old man as he went out and Chavasse got to his feet, crossed to the french windows and drew the curtain. A bare two miles away through the darkness was the loch. Within a few hours he might be in great danger. The rain hammered on the glass, driven by the wind and a sudden spark of excitement moved inside him. He smiled softly, turned and left the room.

  On the other side of the hill in his study at Glenmore House, Max Donner sat at his desk, the Admiralty Chart for the Western Isles spread before him. The door opened, and Murdoch came in, unbuttoning a black oilskin coat that streamed with rain.

  Donner looked up and leaned back in his chair. 'Well?'

  Murdoch shook his head. 'No luck, I'm afraid. That old bastard Hector was as immovable as a rock. Said Fergus had gone off on his evening rounds and they hadn't seen him since. He was lying of course.'

  'What did you do?'

  'Searched the caravans.' His face wrinkled in distaste at the memory. 'God, if I could only get the stench of them out of my nostrils.'

  Donner's hand slammed down hard on the desk. 'I want Fergus, Jack. I want him here where I can get my hands on him, do you understand? My God, when I think of that filthy animal putting his hands on Asta …'

  His face became congested and he wrenched at his collar as if he found difficulty in breathing. Murdoch moved to the sideboard, poured whisky into a glass quickly and returned to the desk.

  Donner took it down in one easy swallow, then he hurled the glass into the fireplace. 'Right, Jack, you know what to do.'

  He leaned over the map again and Murdoch turned towards the door and then hesitated. 'What about Asta, Mr. Donner?'

  Donner looked up with a slight frown. 'What do you mean?'

  'I should have thought this was just about the worst possible time she could have picked to turn up,' Murdoch said awkwardly. 'I mean, what happens if she notices things she shouldn't?'

  'You mind your own damned business,' Donner said coldly. 'I'll look after Asta personally. Now get to hell out of here.'

  The door closed softly and Donner sat there at the desk for a moment before getting to his feet and crossing to the fire. He took a cigar from a box on the mantelpiece and lit it carefully, staring down into the flames, thinking about her.

  The door clicked open again and the man who entered carrying a tray was taller even than Donner with a scarred, hairless head and a great flat-boned face whose slanted eyes and open nostrils gave him an almost Mongolian cast.

  He placed the tray on the desk and turned enquiringly. 'Coffee, Mr. Donner?'

  Donner shook his head. 'No, I don't think so, Stavrou. I'll go straight to bed.' He moved to the door, opened it, then he turned and said in Russian: 'Not long now, old friend. Not long.'

  He closed the door, crossed the hall and mounted the great staircase. As he turned along the landing, a door opened and Ruth Murray came out. She stood waiting for him, the door behind her slightly ajar.

  'How is she?' Donner said eagerly.

  'Sleeping like a baby. She'll be fine in the morning.' She put a hand on his sleeve. 'Are you coming to bed?'

  He brushed her hand away impatiently. 'Not tonight, Ruth. I've got work to do.' She started to turn and he added quickly, 'Just a minute, there's something I want you to do for me. This man Chavasse. Get on to Essex University. See what you can find out about him.'

  'You think he might be an agent?' she said.

  'I'm not sure, but one thing's for certain. He handled Fergus too damned competently for any university lecturer. Go on, off you go to bed. I'll see you in the morning.'

  Ruth Murray hurried away, filled with a sudden aching fury and when she reached her room, flung herself facedown on the bed in an agony of rage and frustration. The girl-that damned girl. It was just as it always was-the moment she appeared, everything else faded into insignificance. It was as if he had forgotten her very existence.

  And Asta, having heard every word of the conversation outside her door, lay very still in her own bed, eyes closed, aware of Donner peering in. And when at last the door closed and his footsteps faded, she reached out to switch on the lamp and sat up, a frown on her face. Suddenly, and for no accountable reason, she was afraid.

  8

  The broken men

  The waters of Loch Dubh were as dark as the name suggested, still and calm in the pale, early morning sunshine and on the island in the centre, the grey, broken ramparts of the castle walls lifted above its trees through a faint, pearly mist that drifted across the surface.

  There was no sig
n of life on the island, not that he had expected to see any and he lit a cigarette and took his time over fitting the fishing rod together. Behind him, the heather followed the slope waist-deep to meet the dark line of the trees above him and somewhere a plover called as it lifted into the sky.

  A small wind stirred the surface of the water and within moments, small black fins appeared in the shallows where the flies danced. Suddenly, a trout came out of the deep water beyond the sand bar, a good foot into the air and disappeared again.

  For the moment forgetting everything else, Chavasse tied the fly Duncan Craig had recommended, apparently one of the old man's own manufacture, and went to work.

  Lacking practice, his first dozen casts were poor and inexpert affairs, but gradually, as some of the old skill returned, he had better luck and hooked a couple of quarter-pounders.

  The sun was up now and warm on his back. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip and cast and, out by the end of the sandbank, a triangular black fin sliced through the water.

  Two pounds if it was an ounce. His cast, when it came, was the most accurate he had ever made in his life, the fly skimming the surface no more than a couple of feet in front of that black fin. The tail flicked out of the water, the tip of the rod bent over and his line went taut.

  His reel whined as the hooked fish made for deep water and he stumbled along the sandbank, playing it carefully. Suddenly, the line went slack and he thought he had lost it, but it was only resting and a moment later, the reel spun again.

  He played it for all of ten minutes, moving up and down the sand bar, and in spite of the fact that he wasn't wearing waders, stumbled knee-deep into the water at the end to bring his fish to the landing net.

  He turned to wade back on shore, an involuntary smile on his face and a harsh voice said, 'Well and good, me bucko, and a fine dinner we'll make of that.'

  The man who had spoken was old-at least seventy, but he stood there in the heather like a rock, a shotgun crooked in his left arm. He wore an old tweed suit, patched many times and white hair showed beneath the dark green glengarry bonnet. His face was the colour of oak, seamed with a thousand wrinkles and covered with an ugly stubble of grey beard.

  Behind him, the heather stirred and two men rose to stand at his shoulder. One of them was a tall, well-built lad with ragged black hair and a wild reckless face, his mouth twisted in a perpetual smile. The other was Fergus Munro, still clearly recognisable in spite of the livid bruise down one side of his face, the smashed and swollen mouth.

  'That's him, Da, that's him!' he cried, his eyes wild, raising his shotgun waist-high.

  'Easy now, Fergus. Easy,' Hector Munro said and moved down the bank to the shore. He paused a couple of feet away from Chavasse and looked him up and down. 'He doesn't look much to me, Fergus,' he said calmly and his right fist swung suddenly.

  Chavasse was already turning and it connected in a glancing blow, high on his left cheekbone, the force half spent, but still sufficient to send him flat on his back into the shallows.

  He came up on his feet with a rush and the old man's shotgun lifted menacingly. 'Not now, my brave wee mannie. Ye'll get your chance, but not here. Just walk slow and easy before me and mind how ye go or this thing might go off.'

  Chavasse held his gaze calmly for a moment, then he shrugged and moved up out of the water and across the beach. 'Have you ever seen the like of that now?' Rory Munro demanded and burst into a gale of laughter.

  'Nothing to how he'll look when I've done with him,' Fergus said and as Chavasse passed him, he gave a violent shove that sent him staggering along the path through the heather.

  As they topped the hill, Chavasse saw smoke rising on the far side of the trees and heard the voices of children calling to one another at play. So-they weren't taking him to Donner, so much was evident and he realised that he had made a grave miscalculation. At the very least he could expect a bad beating and from the looks of them, neither Rory nor Fergus Munro was the type who knew when to stop.

  They skirted the trees and moved down into the hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old and battered with patched canvas tilts and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything, from the ragged clothes worn by the four women who squatted round the fire drinking tea from old cans, to the bare feet of the half dozen children who played in the far meadow where three bony horses grazed.

  Fergus gave Chavasse a push that sent him staggering down the hill into the hollow and the women scattered quickly. Chavasse came to his feet and turned to meet the three men as they followed him.

  Hector Munro sat himself on an old box vacated by one of the women, placed his shotgun across his knees and took out a clay pipe. Fergus and Rory moved in to stand on either side of Chavasse.

  'An attack on the one of us is an attack on all, Mr. Chavasse, or whatever your name is,' Old Hector began. 'The great pity you weren't knowing that before, now, isn't it?'

  'It is indeed,' Chavasse said.

  His right elbow sank into Fergus's stomach and he swung to the left, chopping Rory across the right forearm so that he dropped his shotgun with a startled cry of pain. In the same moment, Chavasse turned to run and stumbled headlong as one of the women stuck out her foot.

  He rolled desperately to avoid the stamping feet, aware of the women's voices, the stink of their unwashed bodies, old Hector's roar rising above all. And then another voice, strangely familiar, high and clear like a bugle call, lifted into the morning and hooves drummed across the turf.

  The women broke and ran and Chavasse staggered to his feet backing against the steps of one of the caravans as Asta Svensson and Max Donner rode down into the hollow. Chavasse was aware of Fergus slipping under one of the caravans, disappearing into the heather like a wraith and then Donner arrived like a descending angel, his face dark with wrath.

  The hooves of his horse scattered the fire and he kicked the shotgun from Hector Munro's grasp, a blow from his mount's hindquarters sending the old man staggering. He continued across the hollow and up the other side, reining in sharply, but of Fergus there was no sign.

  Asta swung to the ground and ran to Chavasse. She wore cream jodhpurs, leather jacket and white blouse, open at the neck and her hair was plaited into two short pigtails.

  'Are you all right, Paul?' she said anxiously, unaware in the excitement of the moment that she had used his first name.

  He grinned and held her hands. 'Just fine. I do this sort of thing most mornings. Gives me an appetite for lunch.'

  Donner rode into the hollow and reined in his horse. When he looked down at Hector Munro, his face was dark and threatening. 'I told you I wanted that son of yours.'

  The old man returned his stare impassively and Donner turned to Chavasse. 'I'm damned sorry about this.'

  'He was fishing in the loch,' the old man interrupted. 'Trespassing. We were only obeying your orders.'

  'Shut your damned mouth, you rogue,' Donner cried and his riding crop fell across the old man's face.

  Munro staggered slightly and looked up with the same calm expression. 'I will remember that, big man.'

  'Any more of your damned insolence and I'll have you off my land,' Donner shouted.

  'I do not think so, Mr. Donner,' Hector Munro replied.

  The riding crop rose again and faltered. For a moment, Donner held the old man's gaze and then he turned his horse, hauling on the bridle viciously.

  'For God's sake let's get out of this kennel,' he said and spurred forward.

  Chavasse gave Asta a push into the saddle and vaulted up behind her. 'Ready when you are,' he said and she laughed and urged the horse up out of the hollow and across the meadow, passing the children who were chasing each other back towards the camp in full cry.

  Donner was waiting for them on the other side of the wood, standing beside his horse smoking a cigarette, the reins looped over his arm.

  'Sorry about that,' he said as they rode up. 'If I'd stayed, I might have gone too far. I'
m afraid that old goat really had me annoyed.'

  Chavasse slid to the ground and moved to meet him. 'My fault, really. If I hadn't gone fishing where I shouldn't, none of this would have happened. Actually my uncle did tell me to stick to the stream, but I didn't think it was all that important.'

  Donner looked him over and frowned. 'You're wet through. Better come back to the house with us. I'll fix you up with a change of clothes. You could stay to lunch.'

  'That's nice of you,' Chavasse said. 'But I'd rather get back to the lodge. My uncle's promised to introduce me to the finer points of deer stalking this afternoon.'

  Donner shrugged. 'All right, make it dinner tonight. Seven-thirty suit you? Of course I'll expect Colonel Craig as well.'

  'Fine by me,' Chavasse said.

  Donner climbed back into the saddle and Asta said suddenly, 'Deer stalking-that sounds simply marvellous, I don't suppose your uncle would have room for another novice this afternoon, would he?'

  Chavasse hesitated, knowing that she would be in the way, and Donner grinned suddenly, as if perfectly aware of his dilemma.

  'A good idea, angel. I'm sure Colonel Craig won't mind and I've lots of paper work to get through this afternoon.'

  And looking up into her shining face, Chavasse was trapped. 'One o'clock on the dot,' he said, 'and we'll be leaving the lodge on foot.'

  'One o'clock it is,' she replied and turned to follow Donner who was already cantering away along the track.

  Chavasse reached for a cigarette, but his hand found only a soggy, waterlogged mass. He sighed heavily, turned and started to walk back towards Ardmurchan Lodge. Ah, well, he could still do all that needed to be done that afternoon without her being any the wiser as long as he was careful.

  And for a while that afternoon he almost forgot what he had come to this wild, remote place for as they climbed the glen away from the lodge, cutting deep into the hills.

  The colonel and George Gunn followed in their own good time and Chavasse and the girl forged ahead, leaving them far behind as they pushed through the heather towards the first great shoulder of the mountain.