‘We should head for the hills, though. The Aberdeenshire ones. I’ve just had an idea.’
‘Here we go.’
‘Start driving, Barry.’
‘Where to?’
‘Lumphanan.’
The Clean Sheeters were scattered. Starkie and Erica Rawson had fled. But one horse, if Harry was any judge, would still be in his stable.
‘Stronach knows something,’ he said, as they sped west out of Aberdeen. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘He was just the castle handyman, Harry. What could he know?’
‘He kept his eyes peeled. He missed nothing.’
‘If you say so.’
‘He called the reunion risky.’
‘Anything seems risky to a man like him. He’s spent his whole miserable life in that village. Can you imagine how bloody narrow-minded that must make him? He’s probably never been to Edinburgh, let alone London.’
‘I’m not interested in his take on the zeitgeist, just his pin-sharp memories of Kilveen Castle fifty years ago.’
‘Sharper than ours, you think?’
‘I’m betting on it.’
‘Barnett,’ said Stronach by way of expressionless greeting when he opened the door of his cottage. ‘And Chipchase. A well-matched pair, if ever there was. What can I do for you?’
‘You can call this bloody dog off for a start,’ shouted Chipchase, who had retreated towards the gate in the face of the Jack Russell’s barking proximity to his ankles.
‘You canna keep a good ratter down.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t make such a fuss, man. He won’t bite, and, if he did, it’d only be a wee nip.’
‘Can we come in?’ Harry asked.
‘You’re no fugitives, are you?’
‘No, we are not.’
‘I just wondered. The P and J said the polis had taken in a couple of suspects for questioning after Dangerfield’s murder. You two came straight into my head.’
‘Did we really?’
‘I told you you shouldn’t have had any truck with a reunion.’
‘So you did.’
‘Och, well, come in, then, if you want. You’ll have to take me as you find me, though, I warn you. I’m not exactly geared up for entertaining.’
* * *
The degree of understatement in Stronach’s warning was evident as he led them into a kitchen equipped in an antique style the National Trust would be proud to preserve, but not maintained in a fashion they would be pleased with. Most of the metalwork of the range was invisible under a crust of dried spillages and the table looked to be permanently laid for one, with a drift of breadcrumbs, tea leaves, bacon rind and tobacco covering most of its surface. At one end a pipe, pungent even though unlit, was propped in a saucer next to an egg-smeared plate and a grease-stained copy of the Press and Journal.
Stronach poured himself a cup of some treacle-coloured liquid from a teapot on the range and sat down at the table. He did not offer his guests any refreshment, for which Harry for one was grateful. The dog followed them into the room, paying close attention to Chipchase but no longer barking at him and not seeming to pose an immediate threat.
‘What’s brought you out here, then?’ Stronach asked, eyeing them hardly less suspiciously than the dog.
‘Why was the reunion such a bad idea?’ Harry responded bluntly.
‘You tell me.’
‘We don’t know.’
‘What makes you think I do?’
‘You said it was risky. Why?’
‘I sensed it, you might say.’
‘How about saying a bit more?’
‘I know nothing, man.’ Stronach loaded some tobacco into his pipe. ‘For a fact.’
‘Forget facts. What do you sense?’
‘I’m not sure. I never have been.’ The pipe was lit in what seemed a deliberately protracted procedure. ‘But something wasn’a right up at Kilveen. You know that as well as I do. Probably better. Why were you there in the first place, for instance?’
‘An experiment in teaching techniques.’
‘Aye. Well, that was the story, wasn’t it?’
‘It was the bloody reality as well,’ said Chipchase. ‘We should know. We sat through it.’
‘Did you? Sure of that, are you now?’
‘Of course we’re bloody sure.’
‘Aye. I’d have said the same. I didn’a see so much of you, but Mrs Stronach cooked for you every day. Regular as clockwork. The whole time.’
‘Yeah. I still get indigestion thinking about it.’
‘What are you driving at, Stronach?’ Harry asked, trying not to become impatient.
‘Just this. You’re not the first of your Clean Sheet band to come here, asking me questions about your spell up at the castle. No, no. Not by a long chalk. Nor by a long time. It must be more than twenty year since the black boy called round to see me.’
‘The black boy? You mean Leroy Nixon came here?’
‘He did that.’
‘When?’
‘Like I say. More than twenty year ago.’
‘It’d have to be. He died in 1983.’
‘And how did that happen?’
‘He drowned.’
‘Did he now? Do they have that down as suicide, accident – or another murder?’
‘We don’t know the circumstances.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it, anyhow. He was a good lad. Though far from a lad when I last saw him.’
‘Do you think that was the year he died? Or earlier?’
‘I canna say. He mentioned he was living in Brixton. There’d been race riots reported there. I asked him about them. You could place it from that, I dare say. It was this time of year, though. Spring. I’m sure of that.’
‘What did he want to know?’
‘It was … vague stuff. Like with yourselves. Something niggling at him. Some … doubts that wouldn’a go away.’
‘He came all the way here from bloody Brixton to share a few doubts with you?’ snapped Chipchase. ‘Pull the other one.’
‘It wasn’a just that.’ Stronach paused for a puff at his pipe. ‘Maybe I shouldn’a tell you. It could get us all into a lot of trouble. It might have got him drowned. And these other men killed. But at my age …’ He smiled crookedly. ‘I’m risking death every night just by going to sleep.’
‘What did he want to know?’ Harry repeated.
‘Whether any of you had ever left the castle. Whether there were times I went up there and some of – or even all of – you were gone.’
‘We were stuck there for the bloody duration,’ said Chipchase. ‘Bar a fortnightly booze-up in Aberdeen.’
‘Aye. I know. That’s what I told him.’
‘How did he react?’ Harry asked.
‘He seemed pleased at first. Relieved, I suppose you’d say. But I don’t know that he wasn’a just … acting that way … for my sake. It’s a strange thing, but, looking back, I don’t think he really believed me. I don’t think I told him what he wanted to hear.’
Chapter Thirty
‘YES, OK … WELL, like you say, it’s fair enough … No, no. It’s quite clear … Yes, we’ll make sure of it … Without fail … OK … See you then … Thanks. ’Bye.’
Chipchase ended the call and slipped his mobile into his pocket. He picked up his pint of beer, still three-quarters full, whereas Harry’s was nearly empty, and downed several large gulps.
They had been in the front bar of the Boat Inn at Aboyne for an hour or more, hoping food and drink would aid their analysis of what Stronach had told them. So far, little progress had been made, other than in depleting the landlord’s stock of Thrappledouser bitter. Even Chipchase’s call to Kylie Sinclair had been born of necessity rather than inspiration.
‘Well?’ prompted Harry.
‘Oh yeah.’ Chipchase set down his glass. ‘It seems Ferguson has no objection to us decamping to Swindon. According to Smiley Kylie, he’s act
ually in no position to stop us. But he does insist on us registering with the local Plod. She wants us to let her know when we plan to leave.’
‘The sooner the better.’
‘So we can stop en route and quiz Nixon’s widow?’
‘Don’t you think we should?’
‘I think Coker was off his head. That’s probably why he managed to drown himself. You know, I know, Stronach knows, that none of us left Kilveen during Operation Clean Sheet. Even if my grandmother really had died while I was there, I’m not sure they’d have let me off to go to her funeral. So, all we’re likely to accomplish by visiting the widow Nixon is to drag up a lot of sad memories for the poor woman.’
‘But remember what Lloyd was looking for? A “connection with the other deaths”. Nixon’s is one of them. And he was clearly preoccupied with Operation Clean Sheet. It’s only logical to follow it up.’
‘It’s over twenty years ago, Harry. If you’re seriously suggesting Nixon was knocked off by the same ruthless bloody killer who did for Askew, Lloyd and Dangerfield – assuming they were all murdered – perhaps you’d like to explain to me why he waited a cool couple of decades to tick off some more names on his death list. And, just to be generous, I’ll give you time to think about it. A few minutes, anyway. I’m off to splash my boots.’
Harry did his best to apply his mind to the problem during Chipchase’s absence, but found himself unable to focus his thoughts, thanks in part to the sudden activation of the Boat Inn’s special attraction for children: a model steam train that chugged and whistled its way round the bar on a shelf above the picture rail. Harry watched its progress, knowing Daisy would have called it ‘silly’ but would have enjoyed the spectacle nonetheless. If he could only climb on a train now that would bear him straight back to her and Donna, he surely—
‘Bloody hell,’ said Chipchase, returning to the table. ‘You look as if you’ve cooked up some hare-brained theory you think I might actually swallow.’
‘’Fraid not, I was just …’
‘Daydreaming?’
‘Home thoughts from abroad. You know?’
Chipchase sat down and grimaced. ‘If I had a home in this country or any other, I suppose I’d know what you mean.’
‘I can’t give you the explanation you want, Barry.’
‘Thought not.’
‘But there is a link between Nixon’s death and the others. Not much of one. But it is a link. Nixon was asking whether he – or anyone else – had left Kilveen during Operation Clean Sheet. On the train up here, Askew was questioning the purpose of Professor Mac’s experiment. Then Lloyd had his fit of déjà vu on the castle roof. They were all, in different ways … querying the record.’
‘What about Danger? What was he querying?’
‘Well … nothing …’
‘Exactly.’
‘He must have known Erica Rawson wasn’t on the University staff, though. Which means he must have known what she and Starkie were really up to.’
‘One up on us, then.’
‘Except that he’s dead.’
‘Too bloody true. Which is not what I want to be in the near future.’
‘Nothing ventured …’
‘Nothing lost.’
‘Unless you count our passports. And perhaps our liberty, if we leave Ferguson to concoct a case against us.’
‘Harry, Harry. Listen to yourself, will you? It’s all so … bloody half-cocked. You seem to have conveniently forgotten, for instance, that Lloyd only died because Wiseman’s car was sabotaged.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes. Ah.’
‘I have thought about that, actually.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Why couldn’t it have been sabotaged at Braemar? While they were in the pub, collecting Magister’s fancy fountain pen and no doubt toasting its recovery with a drink or two. They could have been followed there from Lumphanan. The steering took a long time to fail if it was tampered with at the castle. Not so long if Braemar is where it was got at. In which case, Lloyd could have been the target.’
‘OK. Say I give you that. Provisionally. But who targeted him? Who was the saboteur?’
‘I don’t know. The killer isn’t one of us. He wasn’t at the reunion. He can’t be in two places at once: Braemar and the pub where we all had lunch. But I suppose he has to be working with one of us. To be tipped off about what Askew said on the train so that he could get on later in the journey and deal with him. To—’
‘Who heard what Askew said on the train?’
‘Who? Well, me, Lloyd, Fripp, Judd, Tancred. We were all there. Not Gregson, though. He stayed behind when we went to the restaurant car.’
‘Right. And we can rule you and Lloyd out as suspects. Which leaves …’
‘Fripp, Judd and Tancred.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Chipchase rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m getting as bad as you. I have to believe one of those is a party to multiple murder?’
‘If my theory’s right, then …’ Harry felt surprised by the unavoidability of the conclusion. ‘Yes.’
‘But it’s a bloody big if. And there’s an even bigger hole where their motive should be.’
‘There’ll be a motive. We just have to find it.’
‘Starting with Mrs Leroy Nixon?’
‘Well, unless you have a better suggestion …’ Harry spread his hands. ‘Yes.’
He phoned Donna from Shona’s house late that afternoon – breakfast-time in Vancouver – to console her with the news that (a) he was all right and (b) he was about to leave Aberdeen.
‘We’re catching the sleeper. Next time I call we’ll be in Swindon.’
‘Well, that’s something. I’ll feel happier knowing you’re out of harm’s way.’
‘Me too.’
‘If you really will be. There’s nothing going on you’re not telling me about, is there, Harry?’
‘Absolutely not. Come next week the police will have to give up hounding us. We’ll be free to go. And I’ll be heading straight home.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘Until then, try not to worry.’
‘Are you serious? Of course I’ll worry.’
‘I only said try.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you, hon?’
‘As careful as can be.’
‘Don’t let Barry talk you into anything … stupid.’
‘No chance.’
‘Really and truly?’
‘None at all.’
He had not told Donna the real reason for travelling by sleeper was to speed their arrival in London and give them a day in the capital to pursue the truth about Leroy Nixon’s death back in 1983. But nor had he lied by insisting he would not be persuaded by Chipchase to take any risks, simply because it was he who had done the arm-twisting on this occasion. Chipchase had told Kylie Sinclair at his instigation that they would be travelling to Swindon tomorrow. They were thus not expected to register with the local police until Friday. Their stopover in London was a scheduling sleight of hand. The credit for whatever came of it – or the blame – would be solely Harry’s.
Shona drove them to the station that evening. She too was concerned for their welfare, though perhaps more for Chipchase’s than for Harry’s. The farewell kiss she gave Chipchase was certainly more than a friendly peck.
‘You’ll look after yourselves, won’t you?’ she called to them as they headed for the train.
‘Like cats with only one of their nine lives left,’ Chipchase called back. ‘Don’t worry about us.’
‘“Cats with only one of their nine lives left”,’ Harry said to him under his breath. ‘Is that supposed to be reassuring?’
‘No. It’s supposed to be an all too bloody accurate description of you and me, Harry old cock. I intend to keep a firm grip on that ninth life. And I advise you to do the same.’
Chapter Thirty-one
NOT HAVING BOOKED sleeping berths in advance, Harry and Barry were banished to the seated
coach on the train. Chipchase’s response to this hardship was to stock up with enough tins of lager to ensure oblivion, failing genuine slumber, for at least part of the journey. Harry was manoeuvred into paying for them, despite having already been obliged to buy both their tickets, Chipchase pleading an unspecified difficulty with his credit card.
In the circumstances, Harry felt drinking his fair share was a point of principle. The predictable result was a raddled, hungover arrival in London the following morning. Breakfast at Euston station after the indignity of washing and shaving in the underground loo failed to redeem their start to the day. Nor did a Tube journey at the fag end of the rush hour fill their hearts with glee.
They emerged at Stockwell into a muggy, drizzly morning and headed towards Brixton, navigating by an A–Z bought at Euston. Their destination, Colsham House, was one of several drably similar blocks of flats in an area that prompted various chunterings by Chipchase suggestive of a lack of enthusiasm for the concept of a multiracial Britain.
‘Can you see any other white faces around here, Harry?’ he muttered as they waited at a pelican crossing with a group of local residents. ‘’Cos I can’t. Not a single one.’
‘Now you know how Coker felt all the time.’
‘Yeah. Foreign.’
‘We’re from a foreign country, Barry. Didn’t you know? It’s called the past.’
Colsham House boasted a ramshackle but evidently functioning entryphone system. Harry pressed the button for number 112 and braced himself for a tortuous, static-fuzzed conversation with Mrs Nixon. But the only response was the decisive buzz of the door release. They went in and made for the lift.
The door of flat 112 was a short step along an open landing on the fifth floor. Somewhat to their surprise, it stood ajar, in readiness for their arrival.
‘Hello?’ Harry called as he stepped cautiously into the flat, Chipchase lagging even more cautiously behind.
Empty white spaces met Harry’s gaze. More accurately, empty primrose-yellow spaces, accompanied by the distinctive smell of fresh paint. ‘You’re early for once, Chris,’ came a lilting female voice. Then a bustling, sturdily built young woman in blue jeans and a red T-shirt emerged into the passage from an adjoining room. A mass of dreadlocked hair framed her broad, smiling face. But her smile was fading fast. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Who are you guys?’
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