No Suspicious Circumstances

by The Mulgray Twins

  I found a good position on the hillside and set up my gear a couple of hundred yards above the castle, and slightly to the right. That way I would be out of the line of anybody coming along the path. One problem solved, but with the board balanced comfortably on my knee another one loomed. As I have said, my artistic skills are – to put it succinctly – nil, but if someone came along, I would need to have some sort of picture ready. People seem compelled to peer over the shoulders of artists, so I must be prepared for my efforts to be eyeballed by passers-by, innocent or not.

  When I’d first had the inspiration to disguise myself as an artist, I’d rushed enthusiastically to the nearest art shop, grabbed a brush or two, a drawing pad and board, a case of watercolour paints, and a small booklet entitled Watercolour Made Easy. I’d intended to read it up beforehand, but, as they say, the road to Hell… I skimmed the first page. Watercolour is perhaps the most difficult technique in painting. My heart sank. So much for becoming another Turner. But weren’t some of Turner’s later paintings a blend of wishy-washy (but admittedly glorious) colours? Indeed, oh heresy, nothing but smudge. I brightened. My painting would be in the style of the later Turner. There was no need to paint a photographic representation of the scene in front of me. With a few rough outlines, and some washes of paint, I could have a passable picture – Fast Castle in the Sunset, or Fast Castle in the Haar, if someone was curious enough to ask. Anyone who insensitively enquired where was the sunset, or where was the haar, would get a pitying look. I would inform him (or indeed her) with the unshakeable confidence of the born artist, that we do not restrict ourselves to what is actually there, if the scene before us is mundane. We improve it with a sunset, or a haar – much more romantic.

  Humming happily to myself, I sketched a few wobbly outlines of the ruins. A quick zigger-zagger of the pencil represented the cliff edge, and I was ready to begin painting. Impasse. Watercolours need water to mix them. I’d forgotten that elementary fact. The nearest water – salt at that – was a hundred feet or so down the cliff. Gloomily, I chewed the end of my newly purchased brush. Nothing for it but to sacrifice some of the can of lager I’d brought with my packed lunch…

  I was just getting into the swing of things, applying an artistic purple smudge over rather uninspiring grey and black smudges, when a shadow fell on the paper. Startled, I looked up. Surely I hadn’t been so engrossed that I’d missed someone coming along the path?

  ‘Got it wrong there. We thought you were painting the castle.’ The voice came from behind me. The tone was sarcastic, the transatlantic accent unmistakable. ‘Yeah, guess we got it wrong.’

  Slowly, I swivelled round. Not one face but two peered down at the paper. Though they were carrying fishing rods and a tackle box, I sensed the men weren’t fishermen. Bright tartan shirts seemed de rigueur for those pretending to be something they were not. I should know. I was wearing one myself.

  ‘Of course it’s the castle!’ Just in time I remembered to deepen my voice. ‘It’s Fast Castle and haar.’

  The more thuggish of the two frowned aggressively. ‘What’s with this her? Where’s the dame? You having me on, mister?’

  Gratified at the ‘mister’, I daubed on another splodge of purple. ‘Not her, haar. H-a-a-r. It’s a Scottish word meaning ‘sea mist’. I know there’s none at the moment, but mist adds that romantic touch to a picture, doesn’t it?’ My voice was deadpan with no trace of the amusement welling up inside. If I could get them to dismiss me as some sort of harmless crank, I’d become just part of the scenery, and they’d get on with whatever they’d come to do.

  ‘But where’s the goddamn castle?’ The aggressive one seemed to be spokesman for them both. The other remained silent and watchful. The more dangerous of the two.

  ‘How can you expect to see anything in a haar?’ The wisecrack was forming on my lips, when the instinct for self-preservation prevailed. ‘Well,’ I stroked my wispy beard earnestly, ‘I haven’t quite decided where I’m going to put the castle. Or how much of it’s going to be visible. These things take time, can’t be rushed, you know.’

  Head on one side, I made a tentative daub on the paper. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sneer of contempt replace the look of ready suspicion. With a shrug, he and the silent one turned away.

  Reaction set in. I watched their retreating backs, and knew with a cold certainty that if the slightest of doubts had crossed their minds, my body would have been tossed into the fissure beside the remains of the dead sheep. For a moment, I saw my own body crumpled there, eyes staring sightlessly up at the changing sky. Death by misadventure, no suspicious circumstances.

  In keeping with my mood, I splashed a sombre grey wash all over the paper. An inherent characteristic of watercolour (later confirmed in my artist’s book, Chapter 4, Wet on Wet) is that wet colours run untidily into one another. I made this fascinating discovery for myself when I added a few impressionistic black squiggles to represent the outline of the castle. I picked up the paper and, holding it at arm’s length, studied the effect. Not at all what I had intended, but definitely intriguing.

  Spinks’s minions had disappeared behind the spectacularly ruined remnants of the castle, but I could track their position by the bobbing tips of their rods. They now seemed to be somewhere near the cliff edge, right above the little beach. Even to one who knew little about the sport of angling, those rods had seemed unusually long and strongly constructed. I resisted any temptation to find out what they were doing. A move like that could be fatal for the mission – and myself. So, no creeping forward on hands and knees to spy upon them from behind a rock. No slinking up to the castle wall and straining to hear their conversation. At all costs I must appear totally absorbed in my painting. My life depended on it. With luck, I might get a clue from something they said or did on their next visit to check on me. For they would come back to check me out. For them, it would be routine security. It’s what I would have done myself.

  When they came, I was ready. I’d changed my position, and was now facing westward, sitting half-turned away from the castle, as if no longer interested in it. Fast Castle in the Sunset was three-quarters completed, ready for their inspection. Using my newly acquired wet-on-wet technique, glorious yellows, oranges and reds had replaced the muted purples and greys of my first masterpiece.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw them approach. The line of conversation ‘Good catch today, guys?’ was definitely a no-go area.

  I heard a soft footfall, laboured breathing, and once again the shadow fell across the page. I barely acknowledged their presence.

  The aggressive one peered over my shoulder. ‘What’s it this time, fella? Exploding Cheeseburger over Fast Castle?’ the words were accompanied by an unpleasant snigger. ‘Yeah, you got it made. You play your cards right and maybe McDonald’s will use it for promoting their quarter pounders.’

  The Silent One’s tight lips relaxed a fraction. His eyes remained watchful.

  Exploding Cheeseburger. Wounding words to the genuine artist, but to me a source of satisfaction, carefully concealed. It seemed I’d passed the scrutiny test.

  I donned an injured expression. ‘Actually, it’s Fast Castle in the Sunset,’ I whined.

  The aggressive one picked up the tackle box that he’d deposited on the ground while he insulted my masterpiece. It was only then that I noticed it was dripping wet. As if it had been immersed in water. Sea water. In a flash, I knew exactly why. They’d been doing a trial run, using that box as a substitute floating package.

  I averted my eyes hurriedly from the evidence and pointed upwards. ‘You see that sky?’

  Both heads tilted up. A bank of grey-edged clouds now stretched as far as the eye could see. Only random patches of blue remained.

  ‘There’s not enough impact in that for a picture. Stronger colours are needed – like you get at sunset.’ I waved my brush knowledgeably. A splatter of almazarin crimson fell from it onto the aggressive one’s buff trousers. Fortunately, he didn�
��t notice.

  The two exchanged meaningful looks. ‘You mean you’re going to hang around till sunset, fella?’ On the surface it was a casual, innocent question, in reality heavy with danger. It was, after all, only mid-afternoon.

  ‘Oh no, I’m never out painting that late. The light’s just not good enough. The imagination is so much better.’ I stuck the crimson-tipped brush into the water substitute and swirled it briskly round. ‘I’ll be packing up soon. Looks like rain. That’s fatal for watercolour.’

  Another unspoken message passed between them. ‘Loada crap,’ drifted back towards me on the wind as they turned their backs and trudged off.

  I finished off Fast Castle in the Sunset and signed it with a flourish. Two masterpieces in one day. Gorgonzola Van Gogh would have to look to her laurels.

  Even without the beard, my spiky yellow hair was a bit of a shock to Macleod, but he was suitably impressed with what I’d found out.

  ‘So you think they use these long rods to fish packets out of the sea?’ He twirled a pen thoughtfully between his fingers.

  ‘Yes. And that was the trial run, using their tackle boxes for practice. I’m pretty sure the real thing’s going to be tonight. They were quite uptight at the thought that I might still be there after sunset. That reminds me. What do you think of these?’ Proudly, I placed my two masterpieces on his desk.

  I regret to say that his reaction was rather similar to that of Spinks’s two thugs, only more tactful.

  There was a long pause while he studied them. He picked up Fast Castle in the Haar and turned it upside down. ‘Er…’

  Mutely, I pointed at the signature and he flipped it the right way up.

  ‘I know I’m a detective but…is this meant to be Fast Castle?’

  ‘That’s Fast Castle in the Haar,’ I said a little defensively.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Macleod struggled to be diplomatic. ‘A companion piece to Fast Castle…er…’

  ‘…in the Sunset,’ I finished modestly.

  Fast Castle in the real sunset was no match for my painting. To be honest, there wasn’t much of a sunset. Only the faintest of pink tinged the tiny area of sky visible behind the lowering clouds. Macleod and I had agreed on a one-person reconnaissance – me – to watch Spinks’s men, and follow them discreetly from a distance. Two watchers would be twice as difficult to conceal, half a dozen, impossible. What I hadn’t mentioned was that I intended my role to be a little more active. I would try to intercept any packages that floated my way. Macleod would have tried to talk me out of it. That’s why I didn’t tell him. From a study of the tide tables, I’d calculated the narrow window of opportunity when a vessel could drop its illicit cargo close to the cliff and count on it washing up onto that little beach. The pick-up party would have done their homework too, but to avoid arousing comment would leave their arrival till after dark. I was counting on that. My life in fact depended on it.

  To get hold of a package and be able to analyse the contents was worth the risk. But it wouldn’t be too much of one, I told myself. Spinks’s mob couldn’t be certain that all his contraband cargo would arrive safely at the beach beneath the castle, so one package missing would go unremarked.

  After that apology for a sunset, all colour had drained from sky, sea, and land. I had perhaps an hour before it would be difficult to distinguish one object from another. And soon after that would come the dark. I shook myself free from the clump of spiny gorse. For the last couple of hours I’d shifted and turned as the needle spikes impaled different parts of my anatomy. In all that time, nobody had come along the path. As far as I could tell, I was the only human being on this lonely stretch of coast.

  I myself had now become a creature of the night, clad in black jacket, trousers, and gloves. A black silk balaclava concealed my spiky yellow hair and any tell-tale pallor from my face. In my hand I carried an extendable and strong carbon fibre rod, purchased from a fish-tackle shop near my Portobello B&B. My intention was to slip down to the ruins, fish up a package, and return to my prickly hidey-hole long before the arrival of Spinks’s gang. I had it all worked out.

  At first, everything went according to plan. Without incident I negotiated the wooden plank bridge that crossed the chasm, skirted round the forlorn remnant of wall pointing jaggedly skyward, and stretched myself out full length on the short springy turf of the cliff top. When I peered over the edge, a hundred feet straight down, there they were. Ten dripping, black-wrapped bundles lay half off, half on the shingle beach, lifting and falling in the swell, their shapes already camouflaged by the dusk and the dark sea.

  But the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley. Robert Burns was right. My big miscalculation was the skill required to hook up a package. I’d forgotten the formula: Difficulty of task multiplied by Degree of Inexperience in handling fishing rods adds up to Time Spent. A long time. Too much time.

  For a vital five minutes, I made clumsy attempts to assemble the extending rod and the purpose-made grappling hook, a special one with opening jaws, designed to retrieve small items from unlikely places. It was a larger version of those infuriating amusement arcade grabs where you struggle to pick up a soft toy and drop it into a hole before the time runs out.

  At last, my giant fishing rod was ready, and I lowered the hook steadily downwards. With a spurt of white it splashed into the water, just to the right of one of the packages. I reeled in and tried again. And again. The third time, the hook landed squarely on top of a package that had been nudged up the beach by the rest. I raised the tip of the rod a fraction. One of the claws slipped over. I held my breath. The techniques honed in those misspent youthful years at the arcades flooded back. No movement must be hurried. I eased and joggled the jaws. A fraction here, an infinitesimal amount there. How long had I been desperately fishing? No idea. Just concentrate.

  I closed the jaws and slowly, slowly, started to reel in. As the line took the strain, the package lurched and one corner rose in the air. Careful now, careful. I mustn’t lose my nerve. Pressure, pressure of time. If time ran out, the price of failure was not money, but a life. Mine. The package shifted, rose slightly, snagged. I tugged. The jaws slid off the shiny waterproof covering and the package crunched back onto the shingle. I should have quit at this point. But you know how it is, there’s always the temptation to make just one more attempt. I reeled in a little, and opening the jaws wide, swung the tip of the rod sideways. The grab landed with a faint thump and this time the jaws took a secure grip. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply for a couple of seconds to steady myself. This was my last chance. I was already pushing my luck. By just how much, I was about to find out.

  I tentatively tightened the line. The jaws held. Apply steady pressure…no jerks. The package trembled, then rose cleanly into the air. I nursed it upwards as quickly as I dared. Steadily, but agonisingly slowly, the rectangular shape rose to meet me. At last, it came level with the cliff top. I drew the rod towards me and reached out for my prize. My gloved fingers touched it.

  It was at that precise moment of triumph that I heard the metallic rattle of the chain handrail. Faint but unmistakable. Someone was crossing the bridge. Spinks’s men, it could only be them. I had about thirty seconds before they came round the ruins and spotted me. If they hadn’t already.

  There was no time for me to rise to my feet. In one fluid movement, I clutched the package, jettisoned the rod over the side of the cliff, and rolled towards the sole piece of cover on that exposed cliff top. The cleft with its rotting carcass. To find it, all I had to do was follow my nose.

  A split second before the first dark figures rounded the castle wall, I curled into a ball and dropped over the edge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  My mouth tasted foul, full of something unspeakably awful. What a hell of a headache! Some hangover, I thought muzzily. And the smell. Surely I hadn’t passed out on some ghastly rubbish tip. I forced an eye open. Ouch. Green and white flashes shot across my vision. I hastily closed the eye and re
sted for a minute. Till that foul smell again jolted me into wakefulness.

  I was aware of hushed voices, soft footsteps padding to and fro, a thump from somewhere above my head.

  ‘Be careful with that!’ the low voice was impatient.

  ‘It’s slippery. I can’t get a grip…’ I’d know that apologetic whine anywhere. It was Mackenzie.

  Memory flooded back. And with it fear. Fear of discovery. Fear of death. Fear more powerful than the stench that surrounded me. It was that alone that prevented me from vomiting. Even in my fuzzled state I knew that the sound of retching would draw unwelcome attention.

  Disjointed words floated my way. ‘…only nine…must have…can’t spend…search…’

  More grumbles from Mackenzie. Suddenly, closer and loud, his whine, ‘What’s that stink?’ A dark shape blotted out part of the night sky above my head.

  I shut my eyes. Cats’ eyes reflect light, so would mine. If he shone a torch down here, I’d be done for.

  A distant ‘…only a goddam dead sheep…get your butt over here…’ An American voice, but not Spinks’s.

  I opened my eyes. Mackenzie had gone. I could breathe again, but that’s about all I could do. My left arm was trapped under me as I lay wedged in the bottom of the cleft. Something sharp was digging into my arm, hurting like hell. If I shifted position, I might dislodge something that would betray me to the killers above. A rock on my head, that was all it would take to finish me off. But I’d have to move. The pain was now excruciating. No, I mustn’t. OK, I’d count up to a hundred, then move.

  I made it as far as forty before the pain became unbearable. If I could just ease the weight off my arm a fraction… I tried to twist onto my right hip, but I was wedged too tightly into the bottom of the cleft. A little leverage…my free hand felt for something on which to get a purchase. A stone dislodged by my scrabbling fingers rustled through the nettles and long grass. Another bounded down and hit me square between the eyes. The groan that escaped from between my tightly compressed lips sounded frighteningly loud.