The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  Slowing, Hollis looked again at his list of directions. Two miles past the trees/road left marked Trystling. Passing farm after farm, Hollis admired the peaceful countryside. Spectacular, it wasn’t, not that sort of landscape at all, but it had something. The were low hills to his left and as he slowed, looking for the turn-off, he spotted a small cottage perched half-way up the slope. A tiny track led to it, no more than a scratch on the hillside.

  Seeing the sign, Hollis turned onto what was little more than an improved farm track. Half a mile brought him to Trystling, a modern timber building in the Scandinavian style. Hollis stopped beside a red Peugeot and walked along a gravel path to the front door. The house was clearly newly-built, the garden still bare earth and churned up weeds. Sounds of hammering came from the rear, still work in progress, it seemed.

  A tall, slim woman wearing a bright floral dress opened the door as Hollis approached. 'Mr Sperring?'

  'Yes, hello.'

  'I'm Trisha Hitchell. Did you have a good crossing?' She appeared to be in her forties, a pleasant-looking woman with a kindly face half hidden by over-large spectacles.

  Hollis grinned at her, he remembered the voice from the telephone. 'Yes, it was fine.' He got the impression it was a standard question for new arrivals. Bad weather in the Pentland Firth would surely give some holidaymakers an unfortunate start to their vacation. But not today. 'I enjoyed it.'

  'That's good,' she said. 'The weather forecast wasn't very good this morning, but they seem to have got it wrong again! Come in.' She led the way inside the house. 'Have you been in Orkney before?'

  The lilting accent was most attractive, Hollis thought. 'No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t.'

  In the kitchen, Trisha lifted a key from the tabletop. ‘Here you are. This is the front door key. The back door hasn’t locked for years, but don’t worry about it, this is Orkney!’

  Hollis understood what she meant, there was little serious crime in these islands.

  'You’ll find everything you need in the usual places, just root around until you find them!’ she smiled. ‘The cooker runs on bottled gas, there are two red cylinders round the back and there should be plenty for any cooking you need to do.’

  Hollis nodded.

  'One is in use and the other is a spare, there's a valve that automatically changes over when one runs out, so you shouldn't have any trouble with them. If you do, just come and say.'

  'I'm sure I won't.'

  'I got some things for you this morning,’ Trisha said, ‘in case you didn't want to go running into town on your first day.' She smiled her engaging smile at him again, men never seemed to remember about such things. 'There's fresh milk in the fridge, along with butter, jam and so on. And a loaf of bread and some bannocks as well.’

  'That's great, thank you.'

  They walked back to the front door. ‘There’s no TV, I’m afraid, that’s on the list for next year.’

  'I'm not worried about that,' Hollis assured her. 'Where I live in the west highlands, I only have satellite TV––nothing else is available at all.'

  Trisha looked surprised. 'Some parts of Orkney have problems like that.' She turned to wave a hand towards the back of the house. 'Further along the road, towards Birsay, there are places where television reception is very bad. High ground blocks the signal or something.'

  'I hope they get a rebate on the licence fee!' Hollis commented. Not that he himself owned such a thing.

  She laughed. 'I think it has been tried!'

  'Quite right, too.'

  'You'll find there is an electric blanket on each of the beds. Even in summer, it can get a bit chilly.'

  'Especially in old houses. I have the same problem.'

  'Oh?'

  'Yes, it's an old croft house. It was empty and in quite bad disrepair when I bought it some years ago.' He didn't tell her that he had hunted high and low for just such a property, in a suitably isolated location. 'I've been working on it ever since. Keeps me busy.'

  'I'm sure it does. My parents lived near here from the day they got married until the day they died. It was a croft of course in the early days and they had to work hard just to survive.’

  'I suppose a lot of older houses here get a new lease of life in the tourist industry,’ said Hollis.

  Trisha nodded. 'It seems that way.’ She waved a hand at the house behind her. ‘Nowadays, we all want new, modern houses with conservatories and central heating. Even peat-cutting is dying out in Orkney.' She shrugged. 'For thousands of years everybody burned peat for both heating and cooking. But nowadays it's practically unknown.'

  'That's a shame,' said Hollis, and meant it. As an American, he had difficulty relating to people who could speak casually of thousands of years on ancestry. He knew from his guide book that the world-famous archaeological site of Skara Brae had already been occupied in 3000 BC. And nobody actually knew just how long ago the first explorers and settlers had come to these islands. It was a sobering thought sure enough.

  Trisha pointed along the farm track. ‘It’s just a bit farther along the road, you can’t miss it!’

  ‘I saw it from the main road. Thanks a lot.’

  'The electricity meter takes 50p pieces, it's under the stairs. You can use whichever of the three bedrooms you like. The attic ones have the best views, but it's up to yourself.'

  'I'll be fine. The house will be great, just what I was looking for.'

  Trisha looked pleased. 'If the toaster or something conks out, just come and tell me.’

  ‘Thanks again, said Hollis, and walked back to the car.

  Sanctuary.

  15

  Monday 19 August, 2013

  It was shaping up to be a fairly typical Monday morning.

  The train shuddered to a halt for the fourth time, again without any explanation being given. Why did they bother installing intercom systems in these bloody things? Puzzled and irritated commuters peered uncertainly out of the steamed-up windows, but what little was visible gave no clue as to the reason for yet another delay. The gray morning outside was adequately reflected in the gloomy atmosphere within the crowded carriage as the occupants dismally considered the prospect of yet another week at the grindstone.

  Frank Wedderman gave up his analysis of railway PR procedures and rested his head on the seat-back. He closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the lurid conversation being pursued between two girls in the seat behind him. He had yet to come to a positive conclusion on whether the young lady in question was protesting or boasting about what her boyfriend had been doing to her during the course of the weekend.

  It hardly mattered.

  At least the silly bitch was in not in imminent danger of being shot simply because she had managed to offend somebody who possessed large amounts of money and a distinct shortage of morals.

  The train eased into motion again, rumbling its unhurried way through the dreary suburbs of the capitol.

  The problem, Wedderman thought, was his total inability to understand the personality that drove the kind of person who would willingly kill another human being for money. Try as he might, he simply couldn't get inside the head of this man Hollis––or whatever his real name might be. He might as well have tried to empathize with the slobbering alien lifeform he had been grimacing at on TV last night. He smiled to himself at the mental picture generated by this interesting comparison.

  Finally setting foot on the crowded streets of London, he briefly considered taking a taxi in an attempt to make up some lost time. But one glance at the traffic chaos on display persuaded him that walking would surely be the quicker option. He arrived in his office thirty five minutes late, perspiring and grumbling.

  A trip to the washroom and two cups of coffee later he rapped a knuckle on the door of Chief Inspector Durrant's office. 'Can I have a few minutes, sir?'

  'Of course, Frank, come in and pull up a chair. How's the inquiry going?'

  'Well, sir, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.' Wedderman sat an
d gathered his thoughts. 'When we started this thing––God it seems a lifetime ago––we identified several possible targets. People whom we judged were potentially at risk from a professional killer due to their personal, commercial or political circumstances.

  'In the absence of a definite lead, it was the best we could do. Both Special Branch and the uniformed services have spent a lot of time on the subsequent investigations, not to mention a significant presence at suspect events, appearances etc.'

  Durrant nodded in silence. He too had been experiencing a certain measure of frustration with the course of this inquiry. He had said little to express his uncertainty, because to knew his junior officers, indeed everyone concerned, was putting in one hundred percent effort––and had been doing so from day one. Berating them for lack of success would achieve nothing. Would, he was sure, produce a high degree of resentment and very little else.

  Durrant had total contempt for those who indulged in that style of bullying management.

  'The problem is that over the weeks each of our prospects has made his public appearance, or attended his meeting, or whatever––without any sign of anything untoward. Our investigations have turned up nothing to show that any of them was ever really at risk.' Wedderman heaved a sigh, sitting back in his chair and pulling at his chin with one hand. Sooner or later he would be required to justify the manpower used to cover these events. The overtime costs alone were staggering.

  'Do you think we might have scared him off?' suggested Durrant.

  'I'd like to believe that, but it doesn't really ring true. The truth is we haven't done anything that's going to worry someone like this Hollis character.'

  Durrant waited for what he knew was coming. He had followed the same train of thought himself more than once. He didn't expect to like it any better for it being put into words.

  Wedderman took a deep breath. 'That just leaves two suspect events outstanding: Blair in Aberdeen; and Prince Charles in the Orkney Islands.'

  The Orkney Islands were experiencing a typical summer day: with broken clouds scudding across the sky, driven by a brisk south westerly wind. The waters of the Harray Loch were chill-looking, but obviously no deterrent to the various fishermen dotted here and there. Ken Basker had never been interested in fishing, indeed he had never been a man to indulge in hobbies of any sort in the past.

  The advent of the highly-portable camcorder, and in particular his ownership of one, had changed all that. He had uncovered in himself, to his surprise, a totally unexpected fascination with film-making. Previously, he had looked on "home-movies" in some disdain, having sat through too many flickering, badly-focused and downright embarrassing “Super-8” efforts in his time.

  Modern video equipment provided the sort of facilities which any professional film cameraman of the sixties, seventies or eighties would have given the proverbial arm and leg for. And all of it miniaturised into a package hardly bigger than a traditional SLR. With the addition of computer-aided editing and titling, the now-humble camcorder enabled even Ken Basker to produce home movies to be proud of.

  Ken stood in the centre of the great stone circle of Brodgar and rotated slowly in place, recording the procession of stone menhirs. It was an incredible sight: the ring of standing stones was over 100 paces across. He counted twenty seven stones still standing and according to the information board at the entrance, there had originally been 60 of them.

  Lowering the camera again, he walked back through the heather to where his family waited by the gate. Like many others before him, Ken wondered what had driven a primitive society in the third millennium BC to complete, let alone contemplate, such an awesome construction. And like many of those before him, he wondered in vain.

  'Well, which would you choose, sir?'

  Durrant ran both hands through his thinning hair, peering up at his junior officer over the top of his spectacles. The discussion was going round in circles again, not really surprising considering the circumstances. He thought it wise to side-step the direct challenge. 'I can't put myself in a contract killer’s place any easier than you can, Frank,' he said mildly. 'The fact is, there has never been any genuine threat made against the Monarch or any of her immediate family––' He held up a hand to stifle the immediate protest. 'Yes, yes. I haven't forgotten the Mountbatten incident! But that wasn't a planned strike against a member of the Royal Family as such. It's generally accepted that it was more of an expedient move by the IRA when a God-sent opportunity was presented to them on a plate.' He picked up a silver-barrelled pen and tapped it on the blotter for emphasis. 'Very different thing.'

  'Yes, sir, I know. But the Crown is distinctly less popular than it once was. You saw the commotion just last week when one of the tabloids claimed the Palace was deliberately reneging on the agreements to reduce the cost of the monarchy. Directly accused them of laundering public money to finance the lesser Royals by the back door so to speak.'

  'That's enough, Frank.’ Durrant frowned across the desk. ‘We, of all people, know better than to believe everything that appears in the national Press.'

  'Of course, sir. I just meant––'

  'When Tony Blair was Prime Minister, his various governments continued to dismantle virtually all the remaining nationalised industries. Not to mention the multitude of changes to employment legislation, taxes, the National Health Service, Social Security benefits and a dozen other things. Hundreds of thousands of people were put out of work. Many of them facing the prospect of never working again and being denied any government-supplied income.’

  Wedderman nodded in agreement.

  ‘And to add insult to injury, those new jobs that were created appeared to be specifically designed for young people, with older workers simply thrown on the scrapheap. That’s a large percentage of the working population, Frank, a lot of them used to trade union members, too, and those unions aren’t exactly happy being castrated. Nothing more than talking-shops now.’

  ‘But, sir––’

  ‘And as if that wasn’t enough,’ Durrant ploughed on, ‘he has a great deal to answer for over his part the Iraq War. Him and his government! There are still a lot of people out to get him on that score.’

  'Yes, sir,' responded Wedderman dutifully. Although he didn't totally agree with everything he had heard.

  'Then of course there were the thousands of businesses which went under, large and small. Many of those proprietors lost everything they owned; everything, in some cases, that their families had built up over generations.

  'Rightly or wrongly, Blair left Office as one of the most unpopular politicians this century––not least because of the successor he foisted on the country. My gut feeling is that someone may just have decided that it's payback time.'

  The two men were silent for time, each occupied with his own thoughts. Wedderman could see his superior’s point, however, the bottom line was that they knew of no-one likely to have a big enough grudge against the monarchy to set an international assassin onto the future king.

  'I agree, sir,' he said at last. 'It looks like Blair could well be Hollis' objective. Unless something else shows up, we really have no choice but to work on that basis.'

  Chief Inspector Durrant flipped through the pages in the slim folder until he found the appropriate sheet of yellow paper. 'Projected journey time from Dyce Airport to the official reception at the hotel: 35 minutes,' he muttered.

  'I've already organised two extra unmarked cars to cover his progress. That's in addition to the local lads with the blue light going. He doesn't know about the supplementary protection of course.'

  'No,' grunted his boss. There was nothing to gain by stirring things up more than necessary.

  Wedderman knew that there was a strong argument in favour of no fuss at all: just an ordinary car with an anonymous passenger disappearing into the city traffic. One among thousands. Even the police themselves would have trouble finding one vehicle amid the city crush. But it was too much of a risk, politically. If anyt
hing happened to the man, anything at all––even a trivial road accident––the police force would be crucified, particularly the local constabulary.

  Police ignore ex-prime minister!

  Blair told: You're on your own!

  Chief Constable snubs VIP!

  It didn't bear thinking about.

  'Mind yourself, laddie!'

  Hollis ceased his admiring scrutiny of the immaculate Kirkwall lifeboat and stepped aside. It could have left the builders yard yesterday by the look of it: there wasn't so much as a blemish on the paintwork. He understood the pride the crew must feel when they stepped aboard this impressive machine. Pride, too, in their ability to deal with just about anything the sea could throw at them.

  A middle-aged man in blue overalls stepped up onto the lifeboat's foredeck and turned to take hold of a portable oscilloscope passed to him by a younger version of himself. A couple of cardboard boxes, clearly containing marine radio equipment, followed. The two then disappeared into the wheelhouse.

  Hollis left them to it and wandered back down the short west pier to watch the latest in a continuous stream of orange-coloured tenders disembark its load of passengers onto the floating pontoons alongside the harbour wall. On the way into town he had noted the gleaming white cruise liner anchored offshore. Presumably she had too great a draught to risk approaching the main pier. A torrent of excited Italian poured into his ear as he was engulfed in the crowd. Behind him, the line of buses rapidly began to fill.

  Five minutes walk took Hollis to the building which housed the Visit Scotland tourist centre, and he stood in line behind two of his own countrymen asking about diving facilities in Scapa Flow. When the girl dressed in a green tartan outfit turned to him and smiled, he said: 'I'm looking to hire a small boat for a few days. Do you know of anyone I can talk to?'

  'We don't keep a list, I'm afraid. But you'll find some business cards and brochures on the wall over there.' She pointed daintily over her shoulder, indicating the other half of the room, on the far side of the central reception area. Hollis went across and scanned the place in question. There were two possibilities: he jotted the details down in a notebook and walked back out onto the street.