Breakfast in room
Accommodation of pet
Additional change of bed linen
Restocking of garden pond with fish
All of which inflated the final bill by a totally exorbitant amount. I’d have a lot of explaining to do when I submitted my expense sheet.
I thought it prudent to adopt a chastened and penitent exterior. ‘All very reasonable, Mrs Mackenzie,’ I mumbled.
With the public side of my business completed, I left The White Heather Hotel.
A superheated gust of air blasted through the half-open window. Outside, roofs and chimneys, rain-sodden on my previous visit, now baked in oven-hot temperatures. I cast yet another glance at the clock opposite DCI Macleod’s desk… I took three paces forward, three paces back… I’d been waiting 35 minutes 10 seconds for that call from headquarters… Before my drive to Police Headquarters, I’d spent a couple of hours killing time in Princes Street Gardens, and according to the locals laid out in lunch-hour indolence on the steep bankings, this was the hottest day for ten years, fifty, a lifetime.
Earlier, at Portobello, Edinburgh-by-the-Sea in Tourist Information speak, I had found an unobtrusive B&B with a fine sea view where they didn’t mind a well-behaved pet. And I’d given assurance that my cat was exactly that. Gorgonzola did her bit by purring loudly and wrapping herself ingratiatingly round the landlord’s legs. My cat knew a soft touch when she saw one.
The small fan on Macleod’s desk whirred and oscillated, but barely stirred the sultry air in the small office. I sat down on a chair near the desk, too hot to do anything but slump. In another minute I’d be nodding off. Macleod, in shirt-sleeves, looked equally heavy-eyed as he doodled aimlessly on a blank sheet of paper. Both of us willed the telephone to ring. And at last it did.
He listened briefly, then gave me the thumbs up sign. Cradling the receiver behind his ear, he scribbled little notes, interjecting the occasional ‘Yes’ and ‘Right’. With a final ‘Right. Understood’, he replaced the receiver and sat back, lazily stretching his arms and clasping his hands behind his head. ‘Looks like you’ve got what you wanted,’ he said, smiling.
Nearly midnight, and the blue-green northern sky was bleached old ivory above a thick dark layer of cloud on the horizon. Just enough light remained to distinguish features of nearby trees and buildings. Everything else was a blur of dark shapes and outlines.
The red glow of a cigarette showed that Spinks was already waiting, a black form against a deeper patch of darkness.
‘Over here,’ I called softly.
A silhouette for a brief moment against the light midsummer sky, the faintest whisper of a footfall on tarmac, and he was right beside me. Gone were the yellow cap, the loud jacket. Like me, he was professionally dressed in black.
I led him swiftly past a small cluster of houses with their sleeping occupants, one lighted window showing up starkly in the darkness. A low, padlocked gate barred a narrow road perilously close to the edge of the cliff, and a few paces to the right, broad wooden steps led steeply downwards. As if on cue, a three-quarters moon emerged from behind its bank of clouds, spotlighting the notice Warning. Dangerous Track. Use the Footpath. Sixty feet below, white parallel lines of breakers gnawed hungrily at the semi-submerged remains of eroded cliffs.
I leant over the protective handrail and pointed. ‘Most of the coast’s like this. Can’t get near with a boat.’
I manoeuvred him into the lead on our descent. I didn’t want a repeat of that Inchcolm ‘accident’. At the foot of the steps we were still high above a tiny harbour nestling in a fold of perpendicular cliffs. The path led round the headland and emerged on the opposite side of the harbour from the tiny jetty. I’d done a quick recce in daylight of Cove, the site selected by HQ for the dummy drop. Even at midday, the mini harbour with its couple of tumbledown fishermen’s cottages had been completely deserted, though Edinburgh was only an hour’s drive away. Towering cliffs and sparsely populated countryside ensured maximum secrecy. Ideal for smugglers.
In front of one of the cottages, white trumpets of convolvulus shone palely among a pile of lobster creels piled against wind-sculpted red sandstone, and over the wall to the rear, the gentlest of breezes ruffled the moonlit surface of the water, tarnishing its silvered smoothness. The night was warm, yet I felt cold. In the daylight it had seemed a holiday postcard scene, but now it had an indefinable air of menace. Not the place to be standing beside a murderer. Would the staged drug drop be convincing enough? I was under no illusions. If he detected something phoney in the staged drop, I would look into the face of Hiram J Spinks, and, like Hinburger before me, see Death.
It was a matter of keeping my nerve. I pressed a button on the side of my watch and peered at the illuminated dial. 23.56. His eyes were on me, assessing, watchful.
‘Four minutes.’ I said a silent prayer that everything would run to plan.
I moved over to a lower section of the high sandstone wall that curled a protective arm round the still, dark waters of the harbour. Out to sea, the lights of a distant tanker glittered on the horizon. Waiting. Waiting. The regular shush of the waves counted down the seconds.
Beep. Beeeep. I cut the timer alarm on my watch and signalled with my flashlight. An answering pinpoint of light flickered briefly beyond the entrance to the harbour. With the faintest putter of engine, a dark shape glided towards the jetty. Beside me Spinks stirred. Good sign or bad?
‘You guys don’t use radio?’ his voice held more than a hint of a sneer.
‘Old ways. Less likely to be intercepted,’ I grunted. ‘We know for a fact that the Coastguard scan the frequencies with a tracer.’ That at least was true.
Dark figures had materialised on the jetty to receive the crates handed up by other dark figures on the boat. A faint hum came from the darkness at the top of the cliffs, and a huge loading-net on a hook thumped down. With conveyor-belt precision, the crates were passed from hand to hand and piled into it. Another faint hum, and net, men and cargo rose to be swallowed up by the night. Even before the loading was finished, the boat had slipped silently away and melted into the darkness. It was fast, efficient, slick. The whole business had taken no more than four minutes.
‘Neat operation,’ Spinks grunted.
I was pretty much impressed myself.
‘Just one more thing,’ he laid a restraining hand on my arm.
I turned to face him. ‘Yes?’
‘Guess I’ll have to check on the quality. I deal only in uncut powder.’
I could feel his eyes on me, assessing my reaction, ready to pick up on any hesitation.
‘Why, of course, Mr Spinks,’ I said smoothly. We had expected that. ‘They can’t hang around up there on the road, so I gave instructions for a crate to be broken open. A sample will be left under your car.’
In silence we climbed the wooden steps, the only sound the occasional scuff of our rubber soles on the wood and the whisper of the wind through the long grasses. When we reached the top, I let him move ahead. That way, I’d be clear of any suspicions that I’d taken the packet out of my pocket and shoved it under his car.
‘Here, you said?’
‘On the front axle. Nearside.’
He knelt and felt underneath. I held my breath. This would be the final clincher. I heard a grunt of satisfaction. When he rose and turned towards me, he was holding a small tightly wrapped package.
‘Let me,’ I stepped forward with a penknife.
Carefully, I made a tiny slit in the plastic. He moistened his finger and touched the powder to his lips.
‘Uncut,’ I assured him.
For a few nerve-racking seconds he said nothing. I tried to read his expression but in the darkness his face was just a shadow.
‘OK, it’s a deal. Get yourself to a place called Cramond. You know it, ma’am? Just beside that famous iron rail bridge. There’s a kinda walkway over to the island. Two days from now I’ll meet you across there at 2300 hours.’
�
�Can I ask you to be a bit more precise as to location, Mr Spinks?’
He turned away. ‘Don’t worry about where to find me, ma’am. I’ll find you.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cramond. I leant on the fence and looked at the Roman excavations. Somehow I had expected something more… I struggled to find the right word…more groomed. Weeds flourished – purple weeds, bindweed, white convolvulus, all competing to cover up what man had uncovered. Please Keep Out. The notice seemed a plaintively futile request to the encroaching tide of untamed undergrowth.
My appointment with Spinks was a full two hours ahead. If everything went according to plan, the net would close on him tonight. The small radio transmitter nestling in my pocket was disguised as an innocent pen. All I had to do was pull off the top to unobtrusively activate it, and the Customs launches would move in.
A chill gust of wind whipped across the car park. I shrugged on my coat, one of those light reversible jackets that was black on one side, white on the other, and not much protection from the cold of a Scottish summer. I put it on black side out, and set off down a path that led in the general direction of the sea, at present screened from view by a belt of scrubby trees. A sharp turn to the left, and there was a vast expanse of grey water heaving sullenly under a lowering sky. I hunched deeper into my jacket.
Across a wide expanse of promenade, causeway markers stuck up like black jagged teeth above the sand. Cramond Island turned out to be a low-lying grassy mound far bigger than I had expected. According to the guidebook, no one lived there now. The couple of buildings perched on a mini-cliff near the far end of the causeway were relics of World War II. Disused and derelict, like the Roman excavations, they belonged to the past.
On such a blustery evening there was little pleasure to be gained from a stroll along the seashore. I didn’t stroll. I jogged down to the stone jetty where a restive sea licked hungrily at the crust of barnacles and long, brown ribbons of seaweed. Apart from the seagulls, I had the place to myself. A blue board with white lettering warned,
DANGER! WATER COVERS THE CAUSEWAY
AT HIGH TIDE
A smaller notice advised the safe times for crossing, four hours either side of low tide at Leith. I stood on tiptoe to peer at the tide tables, positioned well above normal head height and printed in the tiniest of tiny print. The tide was on the turn, but the tables showed that there was still plenty of time to cross. In about an hour, however, the causeway would be impassable, and anyone on the island would be unable to leave for several hours. I brushed aside a feeling of unease.
I should have known by now to trust my instinct.
The uneven surface of the causeway made for slow progress. The incoming tide sent angry little rushes of water slapping against the stones, swirling aggressively between markers in the shape of tapered pillars like strange elongated pyramids, encrusted well above head height with grey barnacles and dark brown bladderwrack – another grim reminder that at high tide there would be no escape from the island. If Spinks was intending to arrange one of his little ‘accidents’ for me, I’d—
My heel caught on a stone, loosened from its setting by the hammer blows of winter storms. I struggled to keep my balance, in real danger of falling off the causeway into three feet of cold water. I’d be better to concentrate on avoiding potholes in the crumbling concrete, rather than speculating on Spinks and his intentions.
From the promenade, the island had looked so near, but the crossing was taking far longer than I’d estimated. I still had a couple of hundred yards of causeway to negotiate before I reached the little beach on the island. I was cutting it fine if I was to familiarise myself with the terrain before the rendezvous time. If he wasn’t lying in wait already, that is…
At last, the eroded surface changed to a short stretch of smoother causeway edged by protective sleepers. Now I was making faster progress. In a couple of minutes I stood on the island’s shingle beach gazing up at the low brick building perched uncomfortably on sharp-edged grey rock.
He’d said he’d find me. I stared at the brick walls, searching for any tell-tale movement. He’d make his presence known soon enough. I’d just have to be ready. I mustn’t be paranoid. I took a steadying breath and turned away.
No big decisions were called for. I could see only one path, and I took it. It led over a rise too small to call a hill, but high enough to conceal the interior of the island. On either side of the path, patches of waist-high grass swayed and rippled as if a crouching figure was moving stealthily towards me. I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder.
Like one that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
I could hear Miss Greeson’s prim voice from long ago. ‘Commit to memory words like these, my dear, and they will be an inspiration, a comfort to you in Life.’ (Always a capital L). Well, I had remembered them, and what I felt was not comfort but fear.
On the other side of the rise, bushes trussed by barbed ropes of bramble crowded in on the path. No lurking assailants there, but no way of escape in an emergency, either. I hurried on. The scrubby undergrowth retreated. Boulders pushed their way through earth and grass like bare knees through ragged trousers.
Ahead, the path twisted sharply round an outcrop. It was the acrid smell of wood smoke that alerted me to another human presence. I sniffed the air, then moved forward cautiously. I was standing on the lip of a small tree-fringed depression. In front of me was a gloomy clump of trees, and mossy green stones smothered by ivy and brambles. Grey wisps of smoke curled lazily up from the doorway of a small ruin. There was no other sign of life. The blustery wind in the trees was the only sound.
‘Spinks!’ I called tentatively.
A reply would have been unnerving. The silence was even more so. After a few long moments, I took a deep breath and moved closer. Set in the crumbling gable-end was a window curtained with ivy. A gust of air sent smoke spiralling upwards from the smouldering ashes like some secret signal.
‘Spinks! Spinks! Spinks!’ I called again into the oppressive silence. My shouts exploded round the little hollow, shattering the stillness.
Nothing. Not a rustle. Not a whirr of wings from a startled bird. Just my quickened breathing. My fists, thrust deep into my pockets, clenched into tight balls. Why was I letting him spook me like this? He had fallen for my role as middleman in a drug syndicate, hadn’t he? So when we met, all we were going to do was clinch a business deal. I rolled this about in my mind for a bit, but was not reassured. The trouble was, I couldn’t forget that little way he had of silencing business associates. Waldo’s contorted face floated before me. Gina’s scream rang in my ears. My fingers closed round the sleek cylinder of the pen-transmitter, my insurance policy. Slowly the wave of panic threatening to engulf me receded. Time to keep that appointment…
The old army buildings huddling on the cliff top seemed a likely place for our meeting, but, closer to, the brick huts were derelict. I scanned the buildings. In the stiff breeze, a shutter hanging drunkenly by one hinge banged noisily. At this very moment, Spinks could be watching me through one of those dark gun slits. Again, my fingers lightly touched the little transmitter.
Now to reassume the role of hoodlum, a hoodlum chafing at being forced to wait. I aimed a vicious kick at one of the battered cans littering the ground, sending it clattering across the cracked and broken tarmac till it came to rest against a clump of nettles.
‘Spinks, you bastard, where the hell are you?’ I howled into the wind.
Behind me, creak. I swung round, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling, a sure sign that I was under scrutiny from watching eyes. A rusty door stood slightly ajar at the bottom of some steps. A tough guy wouldn’t just stand there. I charged down the steps and flung my shoulder against the door, sending it crashing
back against the brickwork.
The room was empty. Completely empty. There was no furniture, only a rubble-strewn floor and peeling walls splashed and scratched with ugly graffiti. Messages of love, defiance, and death.
Sharon luvs Chaz. True!!!
Independence for Scotland. Revenge Culloden!
Have a good day. Kill yourself!
But from Hiram J Spinks, no message.
Seaview, some wit had scrawled in blue paint above one of the glassless windows. I scrunched my way over and peered out at an expanse of sea. Not much of a view, just cliffs dropping down to slimy green rocks. Useless as a landing site for a drug drop.
Clunk. I whirled round. A white stone bounced across the floor. It came to rest in the shaft of light from the doorway. Round it was wrapped a torn scrap of paper. I stared at the raw splinter it had left in the wooden door. He was playing cat and mouse, trying to manipulate me like a puppeteer controlling his marionette. I’d have to show him I wasn’t intimidated, was still in control.
I scooped up the message-wrapped rock and in a couple of strides was standing framed in the doorway.
‘You playing silly buggers then, Spinks?’ I yelled.
I waited, but he didn’t answer. I hadn’t really expected he would. To hit the door, the stone could only have come from one direction.
‘I don’t read messages delivered like this.’ I hurled it and its message away off to my right. ‘If you want to talk to me, do it face to face, Spinks,’ I shouted. ‘You’ve got five minutes before I call the whole deal off.’
I made a big show of looking at my watch, then hunched deep in my jacket, did some serious thinking. All this cat and mouse stuff could only mean that there would be no drug consignment arriving tonight. It never had been on the cards. So why had he brought me here? I knew the answer. Another little accident. Should I use the transmitter? Not yet. I’d no proof of anything. I’d only blow my cover and achieve nothing. There was still a chance of infiltrating his set-up, and while the tiniest chance remained… There was nothing else I could do here, though. My priority must be to get off the island alive.
No Suspicious Circumstances Page 15