‘First Aid! Need to get through!’ I invested as much urgency into my voice as if a disaster of spectacular magnitude had occurred. Reluctantly, but instinctively, the crowd parted, and I slipped to the front.
Ginger Head or Adam, as I had privately named him after his most distinctive feature, acknowledged my arrival with a sideways glance and a conspiratorial wink. It seemed that I had arrived at a critical moment. With all the deference of an attentive butler, a caddy was handing a club to a harassed-looking player.
‘Sandwiches are no good.’ Adam’s voice was gloomy.
Sandwiches? I glanced at him, startled. Was this a password? Some sort of coded message to which I was expected to give the response, ‘Cake is better’?
Just before I opened my mouth to make a complete fool of myself, the Adam’s apple gave a convulsive jerk. ‘No, he shouldn’t be using a sand wedge. Much better with a long iron.’ The ginger head nodded sagely.
I choked back the phrase I’d been about to utter. Instead, I said, my tone heavy with meaning, ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
His attention remained riveted on the play. ‘Whatever it is, S, it’ll have to wait till he’s sorted this one out.’
A puff of sand spurted up. A sigh rose from the spectators as the ball did a jiggly little dance on the lip of the bunker, then trickled back, leaving a long flattened trail on the neatly raked sand. The player and his caddy went into a huddle. Another club was pulled out of the bag.
‘Told you!’ Adam said triumphantly.
A short smooth swing, an audible snick as the club made contact, and the ball soared from the sand and rejoined the fairway.
At the green, while we watched the putting, I tried again.
‘When I said I’d like to talk to you, I meant professionally.’
‘Shh!’ he hissed, bony finger on lips. I thought he was about to launch into cloak and dagger mode again, but he jerked his head towards the players. ‘Mustn’t speak while they’re concentrating on their putting. Bad form.’
The red-shirted golfer hunched over the ball. He made several trial putts. Then click. The ball rolled wide of the hole and finished up a yard or so behind it.
Adam sucked air noisily through his teeth. ‘Too much force and didn’t allow for the slope.’
Red-shirt launched into a repeat of the putting pantomime. A sympathetic sigh rose from the crowd as his next putt stopped well short of the hole.
‘Overcompensating.’ Adam sniffed disparagingly.
It wasn’t till red-shirt had lost the hole and we were regrouping round the players at hole 2 that I finally managed to corner my companion’s attention.
‘Your country needs you,’ I whispered, investing the stirring words with all the overblown drama of the spymaster in a cheap B movie.
His head snapped round.
‘Yes, the operation here has international implications, A.’ I paused and looked at him searchingly. ‘Can I call upon you, A?’
His eyes bulged. ‘How did you know my name was—?’
I placed a finger to my lips. ‘No names. We’re the Secret Service.’
The golf ball in his throat danced up and down.
‘Well, A?’
I held my breath, my stock of clichés almost exhausted.
‘I’m your man, S.’ His eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement. ‘Is it a Snatch?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say. But have a look at this.’ I whipped out the mug shot of Spinks. ‘Here’s the man we’re looking for. Tall, skinny. Favours loud checked caps. We’ve had a tip-off that he’s going to turn up here. He’s a very dangerous customer. On no account is he to be approached.’ I consulted the map. ‘I’ll nip across to hole 17 and from there I can cover holes 16 and 15. You work forward from hole 3. If you spot him,’ I glanced up at the sky, still deep blue with only the barest trace of cloud and no chance of rain, ‘signal with your umbrella. Raise your brolly and open and shut it two or three times.’
Adam took the photo of Spinks, devouring it with avid eyes. ‘Right, S. I’ve a good memory for faces. If he comes my way, he’ll not slip by.’
A man with a mission, his angular figure merged with the crowd now trooping off in the direction of the green at hole 2. I felt a prick of conscience. What if he should stumble across Spinks? What if he indulged in some flamboyant spy-catching behaviour that attracted unwelcome attention and perhaps a bullet? Had my little game of clichés from the world of 007 put him in mortal danger?
It was too late to call him back now. In any case, there was only a snowball’s chance in hell of Spinks being around. No, I’d never see that blue and green umbrella raised as a signal.
But I did. On the edge of my vision, a way off at the 5th tee. Held aloft and opening and closing three times.
If I was still talking in clichés, I’d say that my heart missed a beat. Could he be mistaken? ‘I’ve a good memory for faces. If he comes my way, he’ll not slip by,’ he’d said. My throat felt suddenly dry. It looked like mission accomplished. I’d have to make sure, of course, before I called out Macleod and his boys.
It was easy enough to get to tee 5 from the hole at 14, easy enough, but it took time. I had to wait till the players at hole 3 were on the green so that I could pass behind the encircling crowd. Then it was a case of darting round the unoccupied tee 4, before trotting the hundred yards to where the umbrella had signalled discreetly above the shoulders of the crowd. I arrived just as the players were preparing to drive off.
What I hadn’t taken into account, if I tracked down Spinks, was the scaffolding erected for the television coverage of the event. Bulky black cameras perched vulture-like on tall platforms, ready to swoop on their prey. And everywhere, men with shoulder-mounted cameras accompanied bands of commentators roaming the ground like cartoon Martians, each sporting a cap sprouting a mini-aerial, and earnestly, urgently, murmuring into their microphones. The commotion accompanying an arrest, a mob of armed police rushing onto the course interrupting play, would all be on live television. The thought brought me out in a cold sweat. I took a deep breath. First things first. Establish beyond doubt the identity of the man fingered by the brolly.
Adam’s head was swivelling like a meerkat on lookout as he kept tabs on his quarry and at the same time searched for me. When he saw me, he raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes, inclining his head and the brolly to the left, holding that position as a gun dog points at a downed pheasant. It was sheer bad luck that at that moment play was held up for some golfing technicality or other. Eyes, that a minute before had been riveted on the competitors, now roved around for some other point of interest. And what was more interesting than a man with a crick in his neck looking as if he was auditioning for a living statue competition? I was the only one approaching the tee across the rough, in direct line with Adam. Anybody looking at him couldn’t fail to see me.
There was nothing I could do about it. I scanned the faces. And there Spinks was, shock in his eyes. A jolt like an electric current ran through me as our gaze met. Away to the right in the direction of hole 12, a burst of applause broke out for someone bringing off a difficult shot or winning the hole. Around me, another world away, voices murmured, faint, indistinct.
‘Mission accomplished, S.’ Adam swung his brolly off his shoulder and planted the tip firmly in the ground in a symbolic gesture of victory.
At precisely the same moment, I leapt forward. I don’t know what I had in mind. Place a heavy hand on Spinks’s shoulder shouting, ‘You’re under arrest’? Wrestle him to the ground then sit on his head? I never found out. My spring turned into an inelegant nose-dive as my foot executed a fancy tango with Adam’s umbrella. With a cry he crashed to the turf, landing on top of me with bone-jarring impact. Groggily, I tottered to my feet. Spinks hadn’t stood around politely waiting for us to disentangle ourselves. He had disappeared.
The thwack of club meeting ball caused the crowd to lose interest in us. They pressed forward round the tee, heads craning for a b
etter view. I tried to elbow my way through. Not a hope. The detour round their backs cost valuable seconds. I glanced to right and left. A couple of yards of grass separated the fairway from a stony path running parallel with the course. Of Hiram J Spinks there was no sign at all.
Heavy breathing behind me heralded the arrival of a chastened Adam. Before he could launch into a long-winded apology, I scribbled Macleod’s number on the back of my Championship booklet and thrust it into his hands.
‘Get to a phone and call reinforcements, A.’ I slipped into B movie mode, knowing that this would be guaranteed to galvanise him into action. ‘Give them the code words Operation Scotch Mist. Tell them to bring dogs and set up roadblocks.’
‘Got it, S.’ He scurried off. When it came to a choice between golf and espionage, there was no contest.
To the right, the path provided no cover for a couple of hundred yards. If Spinks had gone that way, he would still be in sight. But to the left, a smaller grassy track branched off through a dense clump of sea buckthorn and conifers. A weather-beaten notice indicated Path to Gullane village. He’d have to get back to his car. And that would be parked near the village. I broke into a run.
With an impenetrable barrier of head-high buckthorn on either side, I raced along. He couldn’t be far ahead. After a couple of minutes, I was faced with a decision – take the narrow twisting path through the buckthorn, or the broader track through a dense growth of conifers? I hesitated. There was no point in plunging on in the wrong direction. The thump of my feet on the hard ground had drowned out any other sound. Now, off to my right, above my laboured breathing, I could make out the distant soft swish of waves on the shore. I listened for the sound of running footsteps ahead. Nothing. Through the buckthorn, or through the conifers? Which? Speed was the priority, for both of us… I turned down the broader track.
My feet sank into a soft carpet of old pine needles, fallen cones crunching underfoot, in my nostrils the earthy smell of damp soil overlaid by the scent of pine resin. In the struggle for light, the trees had shed all greenery except for their topmost branches. Black cones hung from their dead limbs in funereal decoration, and the occasional splotch of pale filtering sunlight only accentuated the gloom. Even at midday, under that thick canopy, it was perpetual twilight. Spooky, definitely spooky. The path twisted, turned, so that I could see only a few yards ahead. Reluctantly, I slowed my pace. A twisted ankle would put paid to any pursuit.
At last the trees thinned out. Here and there, where the light was stronger, patches of moss, startlingly green on the bare ground, had gained a precarious foothold. Now there was a perceptible incline to the path. The trees ended abruptly, and I found myself staring at the top of a low hill, its flanks clothed in impenetrable scrub.
The narrowing path zigzagged its way upward, the scrub giving way to thick-leaved grasses studded with thistles. Sand under my feet indicated that I’d reached the dune barrier behind the beach. The sound of the unseen sea was very close. At the top of the dune I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. I’d have the best chance of spotting him from this vantage point, but there was still no sign of a fleeing figure. Shit. Had I chosen the wrong path?
Another row of grassy sand-hills stretched ahead. A way off to the left, some kind of hunting bird hovered near the ground. Below me was a valley of blue-green buckthorn laced by a network of paths, any of which could have been his escape route. It was impossible to tell where any of those paths led. They might just circle and peter out. I tried to put myself in his shoes. I’d make for the shore and a sure line of escape.
I plunged downward into the valley, then on faltering legs panted to the top of the next thirty-foot dune. Out at sea, a bright red oil tanker snailed its way up the Forth past the blue-grey hills of Fife. Then, behind me, chkk chkk chkk chkk. With a chattering cry, a bird fluttered up from a clump of stunted pines just visible over the shoulder of a neighbouring dune.
If Spinks had gone to ground there, it would be fatal to make a direct approach. I’d have to use the buckthorn as cover and infiltrate from the rear. I slithered down a narrow sandy gully, digging my heels deep into the soft sand. Wincing as fierce thorns tore at my clothes and hands, I fought my way through the bushes. On the edge of the thicket, I lay flat and squinted through the tangle of twiggy branches.
In my battle through the buckthorn I’d overshot my target. The pines were still on my right, but behind me. I’d come out high above a large bay of greenish blue water. White waves curled crisply onto golden sand, a dream scene from a holiday brochure.
I sucked at a long scratch oozing blood on the back of my hand. I couldn’t face the torture of the buckthorn again. A few yards away, a sandy path twisted and turned through some scrubby bushes. I’d follow that track down and cut along the narrow beach where it would be easy going. Any figure hurrying along the beach would be visible for miles in either direction.
Halfway down the track, I slowed to manoeuvre past an overhanging bramble. A defiant tendril whipped out and latched onto my sock. I bent down to unhook it, and froze, hand outstretched. In the smooth powdery sand were deep impressions. Impressions of footprints, sand still trickling into the hollows.
Something hard thudded onto the nape of my neck. The blue sky turned black, my knees buckled and I felt myself falling…sinking into the soft sand. A sensation of sliding, sliding…
Perhaps if I opened my eyes I could… I could what? Can’t remember…it doesn’t matter. Yes it does. Why? Don’t know…sliding…floating on my back down a sandy river just like Ophelia. She sang as she drowned, didn’t she? What should I sing? Can’t think of any…
A jab of pain as my back and shoulders bumped on riverbed… My clothes were wet now. Wet clothes are – heavy, aren’t they?
…garments, heavy with their drink
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death…
Muddy water…no, salty water…floating, floating…sun warm on my face…
I was aware of a flickering shadow against my closed eyelids. A voice thick with menace grated, ‘Those who try to get one over on Hiram J Spinks don’t live to regret it. You’ve messed with me once too often, sucker.’
Hands were beneath me, lifting, rolling me over onto my face. I was swallowing water…choking…choking…
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia
Alas, then she is drown’d
Drown’d, drown’d…
EPILOGUE
The Lazarus syndrome, I think they call it, better known as the Near Death or Out of Body Experience. Black void. A long dark tunnel. A bright light at the end. Warmth, peace, quiet. The sensation of looking down from a great height…I had it all.
Quite interesting, really.
A body is floating face down and wearing my clothes. I think I remember watching Adam splashing through the waves towards it. He seemed to be shouting, but no sound…
Nausea was welling up. I couldn’t raise my head from the pillow without the room whirling and spinning in a stomach-churning gyration. I’d been here a week in the Royal Infirmary Edinburgh, though I don’t remember much about the first couple of days. I had a room to myself, must be kept quiet, they say, the blinds drawn against the light. Actually, I didn’t feel too bad, apart from a dull headache – as long as I lay back against the pillows. There was nothing to do but look at the walls and study the sheets embroidered RIE in spidery red thread. I wondered what they did in the Royal Infirmary Perth… I dozed off.
‘Feel like a visitor?’ asked Macleod’s voice.
Cautiously, I opened my eyes, careful not to move my head. I groaned feebly. ‘No, I feel like a seasick sailor with a hangover.’
‘Serves you right,’ Macleod was unsympathetic. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing chasing after Spinks without backup? If that chap you’d recruited hadn’t commandeered somebody’s mobile, then followed you, we’d have had another ‘accident’ to bury. While he was dragging you out of the surf, he
saw a man leaving the scene. From the description it could have been Spinks.’
Adam splashing through the surf…
I must have looked uncharacteristically contrite and repentant, because he sat down by the bed and patted my hand, in a definitely avuncular manner.
‘He might not have got away with it, of course,’ he said consolingly. ‘We’re always suspicious when a healthy adult drowns in shallow water. And then there’s the bruise on the back of your neck.’
I thought it time to steer the conversation round to a less embarrassing subject. ‘Thanks for your message that Gorgonzola’s being looked after by Jim Ewing.’
He nodded. ‘I knew when we found the car that she would be somewhere near. I remembered that you’d said the B&B man had taken a special interest in her.’ He plonked a cardboard tube on the bed. ‘I nearly forgot to give you this. It seems that your cat has taken to vandalising the walls. Strangely enough, Ewing is delighted. He says she’s an artist.’ A twitch at the corner of his mouth was at odds with his deadpan expression.
I made an attempt to lean forward, then thought better of it as the room swirled alarmingly. ‘I can’t raise my head off the pillow,’ I said apologetically.
He up-ended the tube and drew out a rolled-up sheet of A3 cartridge paper.
‘What was I saying?’ He looked thoughtfully at the paper, and turned it 180 degrees. ‘Spinks has slipped through our road blocks. I think we’ve lost him. He’s a tricky customer. If you’d drowned, it would have been difficult to charge him with murder. All we had to go on was your recruit’s somewhat sketchy description of the man leaving the scene.’ He turned the painting a further 90 degrees. ‘Your chap seemed to think he had been enlisted by MI6 for some reason.’
‘I expect he called you M.’ I reached towards Gorgonzola’s work of art.
‘Dead right, S.’ He ignored my outstretched hand. ‘You know, this artist, Picatso, has a certain flair. I’ve seen worse in exhibitions at the Academy.’
‘Perhaps if I could see it…’ I made a grab, only to sink back with a groan.
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