by Robin Flett
After an hour with no hint of fatigue setting in, he had decided he might as well make use of the opportunity to complete his journey in the quiet of the night. Inevitably lack of sleep would catch up with him in due course and he would probably crash out early the following night. But by then he would be in Orkney and the pressure would be off. For a while anyway.
Meantime the opportunity had been presented to get things back on schedule and that was an unexpected bonus.
The dashboard digital clock read 08.15, at least he had managed a few hours sleep after all. Outside the sky and sea were a uniform shade of gray and it was difficult to discern one from the other. The buffeting wind was flattening and tugging at the grass beside the small car park near to a glistening white lighthouse. Hollis watched a Black-backed Gull hovering in the air nearby, rocking slowly from side to side as it used wings and body weight together to balance the air currents sweeping across it. As he watched, the bird tilted one wing over and allowed the wind to carry it effortlessly round in a wide, graceful turn, disappearing from view below the cliff edge as if it had never existed.
Dunnet Head, between John O'Groats and Thurso, is Scotland's true northern-most point. Not Cape Wrath as popularly believed. A wild, wind-swept promontory stretching out into the hazardous Pentland Firth, it provides awesome views along the coast, and across the sea to the southernmost of the Orkney Islands.
Hollis rummaged in the glove box for his set of screwdrivers and picked up the new number-plate from the seat-well on the passenger side, where it had ended up in last night’s excitement. Muttering, he slipped out into the wind and spent a chilly few minutes replacing the broken one. Back inside, he folded and packed away the tartan rug, pulled the seats back into their proper position and started the engine. The first priority was a wash and some breakfast.
Frank Wedderman stood at his office window staring moodily down at the crowded street below. Jesus, I hate working Saturdays. But the way this thing was going he had better get a bed organised in here. Something caught his eye and he muttered, 'Pratt!' ‘under his breath.
Far below, the tiny figure of Greenside emerged from the building and wandered, seemingly at leisure, along the pavement. Wedderman experienced the sudden conviction that Greenside would look up and see he was being watched. He almost moved away guiltily before he caught himself with a grumbled curse. He would look out his bloody window if he bloody well wanted to!
Damn the man! Why did it have to be him, of all people? Wedderman considered all the approaches he had made: the pleas for help; the telephone calls; the faxes; the touts working the sewers armed with bribe money provided by Her Majesty's Government. And not a sniff of a lead anywhere. Christ alone knew what obligements he would be called to repay in future years after this business was over.
Then one fine day that Secret Service pratt walks into his office and hands him Hollis on a plate!
Well, Wedderman confessed to himself, not on a plate exactly. He returned to his desk and picked up the phone. 'Is Chief Inspector Durrant in today?'
The reply was negative.
'All right, it doesn't matter.' He replaced the phone and sat down, leaning his arms on the desk. Progress, of a sort. At last.
Scrabster is little more than a harbour, enlarged and developed in recent years. Towering above, the grassy cliffs soar to over fifty metres. On this upper level a small township has established itself. New house-building forever extending outward to the point where Scrabster is on the verge of becoming simply an extension of Thurso. In this quiet harbour has been established the roll-on roll-off ferry terminal connecting with Stromness in Orkney.
The white Vauxhall Astra turned off the main road at the Motel and started down the steep incline. 'Look, look!' Joanne Basker wriggled inside her seat belt, trying to see past her mother. 'Is that the boat?' Below them a large, blue-hulled ship lay alongside the pier, the bow oddly misshapen due to the raised visor giving access to the vehicle deck.
Alison looked back over her shoulder at her daughter. 'That's right,' she said, 'it's called the Hamnavoe.'
'Hammalo?'
'No. Ham-na-voe.'
Joanne thought about that. 'What's a hammavo?'
Alison didn't think this was the time for an Orkney history lesson––about which she knew little enough herself. 'It’s just the ship’s name, Joanne.'
'Oh.' That suggested about ten more questions, but Joanne had heard that tone of voice before. The hammer-whatever-it-was would keep until later.
The car park outside the ferry terminal was crowded. At the entrance their tickets were checked and boarding passes issued. Then Ken was directed to join the third lane of vehicles. Alison noted that there were still spaces in other rows.
'How do they decide which lane to put us in?' she asked. 'And why does it matter?'
Ken halted behind a Renault bearing French number plates. It was impossible to see in its rear window for camping gear. He switched off the engine and sat back with a sigh. More used to motorway driving, he had found the A9’s convoluted route up the north-east coast particularly tiring. Especially the terrifyingly steep hill at Berriedale. 'Size, I expect,' he answered, 'and weight. They'll have to keep the weight evenly distributed for stability.'
Alison didn't want to hear about stability problems. A sailor she wasn't.
'Mummy, can we go out and look at the boat?'
'No. It's far too busy, Joanne. We'll be on the ship in a little while. Wait until then.'
Eric looked at his sister with an I told you so expression. Joanne sighed, such a waste of exploration time. She looked about her, vehicles were still arriving and she watched a light blue Range Rover being directed into the last space on lane one. Something else occurred to her and she turned back to her mother. 'What's the difference between a boat and a ship...?'
Mike Hollis turned the key and the Range Rover's diesel engine rattled into silence. 'Another new experience, Michael!' he mumbled to himself ironically. He had never before been to the Orkney Islands––or Shetland, yet further to the north. Normally, Hollis spent his rare holidays driving the nooks and crannies of northern Scotland, and indulging his passion for fishing. So this, indeed, promised to be a new experience in more ways than one.
He felt better now with some breakfast inside him. Sitting idly in the ferry queue, he watched the loading preparations going on around him while his mind worked through the events of the last twenty four hours for the umpteenth time.
There had been no option at all.
What worried him was that he didn't know how long the Germans had been trailing him. The number-plate had led them to Inverness, but it seemed unlikely that they had picked him up in Ireland by pure coincidence. If not, where then? Glasgow? The Exhibition Centre? London? Amsterdam?
That brought the sweat out. What did they know?
The boarding marshal came into view, carrying a portable radio transceiver and waving his arms. At the head of Hollis' lane the cars began to move.
Hollis rapidly went back over his earlier conclusions after the shock of recognizing the young blond mugger he had encountered in Wexford. Not that he had been a mugger at all if Hollis' analysis was correct. However, the fact remained that there was no actual proof of the Neo-Nazi organisation being involved––just a conclusion based on logic. What if it was something else entirely? Was there an opposition cell in the field trying to stop him?
Politics was a dirty business, and there were a lot of factions even within individual political parties––not to mention governments. And then there was the bloody EC itself …
Hollis knew he could be almost paranoid at this stage of an operation. Nerves strung up to breaking point didn’t make for easy peace of mind. Didn’t make, you might say, for rational analysis.
However, if something was going on it had to be unofficial, because if the authorities knew that Charles was in danger of his life there would be the most monumental upheaval in progress. And Mike Hollis would have dumped the p
roject long since. It was all very unsettling.
An arm beckoning.
Too many questions: not enough answers.
Hollis turned the key again and drove down the pier, over the steel ramp and into the car deck of the Hamnavoe. Parking where directed, he collected his jacket from the seat alongside him and locked the car.
Alison Basker leaned on the rail and surveyed the tiny port of Scrabster from the upper deck of the ferry. She felt very hemmed-in by the closeness of the cliffs. The ship, though, was larger than she had imagined. On the quay the last few vehicles, HGV's mostly, were moving now and she could feel the ship settle as their weight came aboard.
'How long does this take?' Ken asked. He had his prized video camera hanging over one shoulder.
'What? The trip across? Less than two hours.'
'Might as well get something eat on the way, then.' They had passed through the cafeteria on the way up from the car deck and the smells had been appetizing––even though it wasn't yet open for business.
'Let's wait and see how rough it is.' Alison cautioned. 'If Eric becomes seasick it'll be hell getting him back on here again when it's time to go home.' Joanne wouldn't be a problem with her cast-iron stomach. Alison wished she could be so sure about herself.
The two children were further aft, hanging over the stern rail, engrossed in the manoeuvres of a flock of seagulls feuding over scraps in the water.
'Yes, you're probably right.' Ken agreed. He recalled the view out across the Pentland Firth from Thurso earlier. They had stopped for an hour in the town to do some shopping and let everyone get some exercise. 'It's a bit choppy but the ship has stabilisers so I don't think there will be any problem.'
In silence they watched the great visor come down, sealing the bow of the ship against the sea. A few minutes later the throb of the engines deepened and the quay began to slip away as the Hamnavoe eased out of the ro-ro berth. The PA system opened up with the Public Safety announcement as Ken settled the camera against his face and started recording their holiday.
Hollis dropped some coins in the slot, hearing the clunk of the Coke can dropping into the hopper. He carried it back to his window seat in the after lounge and sat morosely with his guide book, watching the Old Man of Hoy passing on the starboard side.
The Old Man is a great rock stack, standing under the forbidding bulk of Ward Hill: at 479m the highest hill in the Orkney islands. Rising to a height of 137m, the Old Man stands on an ancient lava flow and the crumbling and dangerous face regularly attracts climbers from all over the world.
The name Hoy is derived from the Old Norse language and means, literally, high-island. Hoy more resembles the bleak highlands of Scotland than the flat, agricultural landscape of the rest of Orkney. Only the southern end of the island is flat and fertile.
It was more sheltered here on the west side of the island of Hoy and the cameras and videos were out in force. Hollis had been enjoying the abundant fresh air in his usual manner but had been driven indoors by the constant jostling for space at the rails. He read with envy the section covering the walk from Rackwick along the cliffs to the landward viewpoint of the Old Man. The photographs showed that it was even more impressive than this sea-level view from the ferry. Hollis knew he could happily spend hours tramping the empty countryside here, just as he did at home. Another time.
Despite being on the same latitude as the south of Greenland, Orkney possesses a surprisingly equable climate. The local weather is greatly influenced by the sea, the technical term being HYPEROCEANIC. The prevailing winds are principally westerlies, which blow unimpeded across the low-lying terrain. Despite this, Orkney is remarkably mild, enjoying barely 10 degrees difference in temperature between winter and summer.
While being in the main, pleasant, the weather is also highly variable. Driven by the interaction of the North Atlantic Drift and the much cooler North Sea, the resulting local weather systems can be confused and unstable. This is particularly true during the winter months when gales, and severe gales, are a common occurrence. Although the heavy and prolonged snowfalls of earlier in the century are now almost unknown.
Like Shetland, Orkney's great asset in the summer months is almost unlimited daylight: the sun is above the horizon for over 18 hours a day, providing endless opportunities for recreation and sport. 80,000 visitors each year from all over the world, four times the resident population, experience the peace and timelessness of these islands...
Hollis closed the book again and sat back in his chair. It hadn't occurred to him how busy Orkney might be during the summer. It certainly explained the difficulties he had found in locating self-catering accommodation. It was to be hoped that there wouldn't be large numbers crowding the NorthTek premises next Saturday, wanting a glimpse of Royalty. It didn't seem very likely, although on the other hand, the additional security problems generated by flood of people piling into Hoy could only work to his advantage.
It was urgent that he take a look at the site in question. Not least because he had yet to figure out a way to get himself and the box of tricks inside. Then he had to somehow make the switch. and then get back into a position to view the presentation itself.
There were one or two possibilities, but all of them were dependent to some degree on the building and its surroundings. How easy would it be to approach after dark? What were the security procedures? How had they been altered to cope with the Royal visit?
That last query gave Hollis cause for considerable thought. The Prince of Wales was only making a flying visit, so there were no long-term hazards from a security point of view. And of course it was an out-of-the-way spot anyway. It seemed reasonable to assume, therefore, that things would be fairly low-key. The man wasn’t noted for his patience with over-bearing security measures at the best of times. It had already been announced that he would arrive, and depart, by helicopter––from Balmoral. So the active security window was small and that might make someone careless.
It was doubtful if the Royal visitor would be on the island for more than an hour all told. Shake hands all round, accept the presentation, quick tour of the place and then back to Balmoral for lunch. Indeed, the very fact that it was an island, itself part of another island group, meant that there was strictly limited access via ferries etc. Ideal from the other side of the fence, but it left Hollis with a king-size initial problem.
How did he get onto the island and, rather more importantly, off again afterwards?
Assuming success, there was going to be a major fuss and all ferry traffic was bound to be immediately suspended. If everyone present at the time could be kept isolated on Hoy then the forces of law and order would have a significantly easier task in identifying the guilty party. It was worrying.
Ken Basker had been filming intermittently all the way across. The scenery had been stupendous. The tall cliffs and wheeling seabirds of Hoy were falling astern now that the Hamnavoe had turned east into the sheltered waters of Hoy Sound, between Hoy and the Mainland island. Graemsay, nearly flat and almost entirely arable farmland, was closing fast on the starboard side where the channel narrowed. Ken walked round to the port side and suddenly realised they were a lot closer to their destination than he had thought. He found the two children already jumping up and down at the rail, excitedly watching houses appearing over the hill as the ship came abreast of the lighthouse on Point of Ness.
Alison felt the speed drop and had just opened her mouth to comment on it to her husband when she felt the ship heel into a surprisingly sharp turn. Rows of stone-built houses began to appear right on the edge of the sea, many of them with tiny private slipways. Behind them, more modern dwellings rose in tiers up the hillside. The ship straightened again, heading now into the depths of a long, narrow inlet. The town of Stromness had materialised as if by magic. Alison cringed as the ship's horn blared out mightily in imperative greeting.
The Hamnavoe was home.
The steel ramp rattled under the Range Rover's wheels, and then he was
on the short concrete causeway. Already the ferry loading area was full of vehicles lined up for the return trip. Hollis paused at the end of the causeway while a small tractor unit hauling an improbably large semi-trailer passed. With the road clear, he followed the other ex-ferry traffic out of the town, emerging into green countryside at the top of the hill.
Shortly the placid waters of Stenness Loch, followed immediately by Harray Loch, appeared––with wonderfully open countryside beyond. Hollis knew the shallow waters of Harray Loch, Orkney's largest, were ideal for both boat-fishing and wading. 'Won't be any time for that stuff, Mike,' he scolded himself.
About four kilometres further on he checked his sketch map, seeing the signpost Finstown at the side of the road. The third largest township in Orkney, Finstown nestles in a sheltered position at the head of the Bay of Firth. As he approached this body of water, Hollis left the main Kirkwall road and swung the car north onto the A966.
The houses rapidly thinned and were again replaced by empty countryside. Agricultural land again on both sides, the crops waving intricate patterns in the wind.
Hollis watched for the trees.
Living as he did in the West Highlands, where flora and fauna abound in chaotic profusion, it seemed odd to be watching for trees as a landmark. But driving through the Orkney countryside, Hollis could see the point of the directions he had been given: there was hardly a tree to be seen. Those that did exist in sheltered spots, were short, almost stunted examples of their genus. Witness to the winter gales that scoured the landscape of anything breakable or movable. Those strong enough to survive the buffeting winds had still to contend with salt-laden air all the year round.
Trees.
Hollis smiled to himself. The trees in question formed a tiny canopy across the width of the road amid a small group of houses. The ludicrously oversized road signs bordering this diminutive hamlet grated on his sense of proportion: no doubt another triumph for some local government official anxious to justify his existence.