by Iain Cameron
‘It looks a big house,’ Rachel said.
‘It’s larger than our place in College Place with a much better view, but it’s not worth half as much.’
‘If a stat like that is supposed to make me feel richer, it doesn’t. I just think of the high mortgage we’ve taken on and all the money going out every month.’
‘You’re on holiday, forget such things and enjoy being away from the grind for a while.’
‘Good advice from a cop who never switches off. I’ll try.’
He lifted the suitcases out from the boot of the car and followed Rachel up the steep stairs that bordered the garden, already a problem for his father as his knees weren’t as reliable as they used to be.
The door opened before he got to it and for a moment, the smells of his childhood washed over him like a bow wave: Vick’s Vapour Rub, Rive Gauche perfume and farmhouse scones, toasting on the griddle.
‘Hello, love,’ his mother said, grabbing him in a bear hug, a strong grip for such a small woman. ‘It’s lovely to see you, son.’
‘It’s great to see you too, Mum.’
She released him slowly.
‘This is Rachel.’
His mother gave her a hug too, a sign of mellowing in old age perhaps, as previous girlfriends had to make do with a cool handshake and a steely glare.
‘Come away in,’ Mary, his mother said, ‘and take the weight off your feet.’
He walked into the lounge, a place where he used to play Scalextric on the carpet and dreamed of being the captain of a large ship. Not a big leap in imagination for a small boy, as he could see from the front window several boats a day making their way up Loch Linnhe to the Caledonian Canal.
His father was ensconced in his favourite chair, his concentration fixed on the newspaper in front of him. In the morning and afternoon it would be The Scotsman, and later in the day, The Press and Journal. Once a week he bought The Oban Times.
His father looked up as he came into the room. ‘Hello Dad,’ he said.
His father stuck out his hand without rising from his chair. ‘Good to see you, son,’ he said shaking his hand vigorously and slapping him on the back as he leaned down for a hug. ‘Sorry I can’t get up, I’m feeling a bit out of sorts today.’
Henderson introduced him to Rachel and after enquiring about his health, he walked into the kitchen to see what was causing the delicious smells. He lifted a tea towel covering something and underneath saw fruit scones, farmhouse scones and pancakes.
‘Don’t you go pinching anything, Angus Henderson. Go away into the living room and talk to your father and that pretty girlfriend of yours. I’ll bring you all a cup of tea in a jiffy.’
Ten minutes later, he introduced Rachel to his mother’s baking and to the delights of home-made strawberry jam. The tea tasted better too. People often said it was due to the homecoming effect, but as a man less prone to sentimentality than some, he suspected it was down to a higher level of water quality. Sussex water wasn’t bad, but whether as a result of high levels of chalk or something else, it couldn’t match this.
‘What’s been happening on the crime scene down there in Sussex?’ his father said. ‘I look for things in the newspaper every day but bad things only happen in big cities like Glasgow and London. Sussex seems to be a bit of a backwater where criminals are concerned.’
‘Maybe it’s just as well you don’t read about all the cases I’m working on, it can be hard to maintain a sense of perspective from up here.’
‘You think we don’t get crime up here in the Fort? Only last week a woman ran over a sheep and a man accidentally discharged his shotgun into his neighbour’s hut.’
‘Your dodgy knees haven’t affected your sense of humour I see,’ Henderson said.
‘Are you popping into see old Archie and wee Eric? They’re always asking after you whenever I see them.’
‘I intend to,’ Henderson said. He turned to Rachel beside him. ‘In case you’re wondering, they’re a couple of bobbies from the local cop shop. Archie is about fifty, old for a cop but not to anyone else and wee Eric is six-four.’
‘How do you know them if you never worked for the police up here?’ Rachel said.
‘I came up for the weekend from Glasgow one time and went into the police station to report a crashed car I spotted on the A82. They say criminals can spot cops but cops can recognise their own kind. I told them what I did and they told me about their job. We’ve kept in contact ever since.’
After a hearty dinner that he doubted even Rachel, with her library of Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson cookbooks, could match, he needed some exercise to burn some of it off. He said goodbye to his parents and took Rachel for a walk into town.
‘Your dad’s got a wicked sense of humour,’ Rachel said, ‘the way he baits your mother makes me cringe and giggle at the same time.’
‘It’s like she’s not bothered but she’s taking it all in. She’ll have it out with him when we’re not there.’
They walked the steep hill of Alma Road, a bugger to walk up after a night in the pub, after a long shift at the sawmill or on the beat, and headed down Belford Road past the hospital.
‘This hospital isn’t like the Royal Sussex, only catering for Brighton and surrounding area, they take in patients from all over the West of Scotland, some coming by ambulance and the more serious by helicopter.’
‘I suppose as this part of the country is so rural they have to do that, as Fort William isn’t big enough to support such a large facility on its own.’
‘Aye you’re right, and it’s the same for schools. In the place I went to, Lochaber High, we had people in there from little villages out west, the names of which we’d never heard of, and others were from far-flung islands, only accessible in fine weather.’
‘That must create its own problems.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well if you live in a place like this, it’s not a big city like Brighton for sure, more like an oversized town, but the people here would be more switched on than some farm boys from a Gaelic speaking island.’
‘Some of them were a bit strange right enough, but once we got used to their odd sayings and habits they settled in fine.’
‘You didn’t bully them?’
‘Nothing I would care to admit.’
They took a walk along the shores of Loch Linnhe, the water as flat as glass, and stood for a moment looking over at Caol and Corpach and down towards Loch Eil, the lights in the distance twinkling like mini-stars in the fading light.
They turned back and headed over to the Crofter Bar and walked inside. After the calm of the lochside the bar fizzed with heat, noise and the strong aromas of food, sweat and beer. He looked around while waiting to order but didn’t see anyone he recognised. By the look of the bright North Face jackets and trendy haircuts, most of the people there weren’t locals.
He had just taken a seat, looking forward to a pint of John Smith’s in front of him, now that the food groan in his stomach had subsided, when his phone rang. He stepped outside to take it as he couldn’t hear a word inside the pub.
‘How are you enjoying your holiday, Angus?’ Carol Walters asked.
‘I’ve only just arrived but so far it’s shaping up.’ He looked at his watch: 21:45. ‘Are you still in the office? Don’t you have a home to go to?’
‘I have and I’ll soon be returning, but I’m calling to say there’s been a development.’
Henderson sighed. ‘This only happens to detectives and prime ministers; just when we go on holiday, all hell breaks loose.’
‘It’s not so bad, unless you’re Fraser Brook, of course. Italian police found him today, dead and fully-clothed in the pool at the villa where he was staying in Italy. He had gunshot wounds.’
‘In Italy?’
‘Yep, in a villa near Lucca, and beside him the villa owner’s wife. Brook had a bullet wound in his shoulder and one in his leg but the cause of death is thought to be drowning.’
‘After.’
‘So, someone shot him and threw him in the pool, or they threw him in the pool and then shot him. Either way, he couldn’t swim and drowned.’
‘Yep. The owner’s wife received two bullets to the head.’
‘She saw something she shouldn’t have?’
‘It’s what the Italian police think.’
‘Hang on a sec. Landseer had a similar, non fatal injury as Brook, but in his leg. It makes me think the killer is torturing them before killing them; Landseer to give up Brook, and Brook to give up the stolen money.’
‘Could be.’
‘Do the Italian police have any suspects?’
‘No, but we think it was Perry. Bennett is an old-fashioned kind of guy. He would just shoot Brook where he stood; forget throwing him in the pool.’
‘Damn. We asked Interpol to keep a look-out for Perry, Bennett and his son.’
‘Europe’s a big place.’
‘It is and thanks to the lack of border controls, a suspect can shift between EC countries without cameras and border checks picking them up.’
‘If Perry did it, I’d like to know how as his name didn’t pop up in any of the systems as having left the UK. We’ve got them monitored.’
‘Probably on a fishing boat out of Harwich or on someone’s yacht. Thanks for the heads up, Carol. I assume I can depend on you to liaise with our European colleagues.’
‘I’m not getting off the phone yet, there’s more.’
‘There is?’
‘CI Edwards has warned everyone to be on their guard until Perry is caught.’
‘He’s been missing for weeks, hence I’m up here taking some overdue leave. Why the caution now?’
‘The Italian Police looked through Brook’s laptop and believe he was trying to transfer funds from a UBS bank account. This is the account where, according to documents found in his office, Brook kept the money stolen from Perry and his gang.’
‘The funds I ordered to be blocked.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, the Chief thinks what? He’ll come after me or you in revenge for blocking his money?’
‘She’s just being careful, Angus. He’s a dangerous man and who knows how he’ll react when he realises his source of easy pickings has dried up.’
He thought for a moment. ‘It’s you that needs to watch your step. An internet search will tell him where you’re based, but I’d like to see him try and find me up here. Even tourists with maps and sat-nav systems get lost.’
‘Where are you going after Fort William? Are you still going touring?’
‘We’ll stay here a couple of days to catch up with a few friends and look up some old colleagues. Then, we’re heading out west to Kilchoan, a place I’ve visited a few times before and really liked. We’ve rented a cottage there.’
‘Well, I hope you both have a great time.’
‘Don’t worry we will. Talk to you later.’
THIRTY-SIX
On Monday, two days after arriving in Fort William, Henderson and Rachel packed the car, said goodbye to his parents and drove south towards Corran. He often felt melancholy about leaving Fort William and his family, but not today as he wasn’t heading straight back to the office and would still be in the area if anything happened. Not something he could say when down in Sussex, over 500 miles away.
‘I didn’t know your dad had served in the Navy. It wasn’t until I looked at some of the pictures dotted around the living room that I noticed him in uniform.’
‘He keeps it quiet for some reason. A lot of men who served in the Falklands saw the true horror of war at first hand. When they returned home, I think they found it hard to talk with people doing everyday jobs like repairing roads or looking after their sheep. War is so alien to what they know or what they’re used to.’
‘All the same, we should make more of war veterans than we do. They often get a bad press but they’re just following the orders of their political masters. It’s the politicians we should criticise not the armed forces.’
‘I agree, and not just because my brother was once in the Army.’
‘As that how got his dodgy knees?’
‘No, that was playing bowls and golf in all weathers.’
The previous day they’d behaved like tourists. In the morning, they drove to the Glenfinnan Monument, the place where ‘The Young Pretender,’ Bonnie Prince Charlie, raised his standard in 1745. In the afternoon, they took a chairlift up the Nevis Range to admire Scotland’s tallest mountain and to breathe in air blowing all the way from Scandinavia. It was a warm summer’s day at ground level in Fort William, but bitter and chilling at 2,000 feet, and colder than anything he had ever experienced in Sussex in the middle of winter.
‘When you said we were going on a car ferry,’ Rachel said as the Corran Ferry approached, ‘I imagined one of those big ships sailing between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight.’
He laughed. ‘How could you fit one of those monsters into this little crossing? We could just moor it across the loch and walk over the deck to Ardgour.’
He drove down the steep landing and bumped on to the ferry, the ruddy-faced worker in a high-vis jacket with a heavy woollen sweater underneath coaxing him closer and closer to the bumper in front. Thankfully a tap on the bonnet stopped him from having a shunt as he didn’t take out Collision Damage Waiver insurance when he hired the car. He pulled on the handbrake as instructed by the sign on the side of the ferry, and got out of the car.
Some tourists were adept at driving into tight spots like this, while others made a complete pig’s breakfast of it, making him wonder how the staff maintained their happy demeanour. Rachel joined him as the boat dropped its mooring and headed towards Ardgour on the Ardnamurchan peninsula. There wasn’t much to see as the chilly start to the day had deterred many sailing boats, and only a few hardy line fishermen had ventured out. It was a short crossing but it saved them over an hour of driving as the alternative route was to round Loch Eil and then to drive down the west side of Loch Linnhe.
‘I remember someone telling me,’ Henderson said as he steered the car up the steep ramp while waving farewell to the ferryboat crew, ‘about a local man who drove up here from Glasgow with a faulty car battery. It meant if he switched the engine off, the car wouldn’t restart, so if he had to stop, he kept the car running, even in the long queue for the ferry at Corran. When he finally got on the ferry, he must have felt so relieved to be almost at his destination, he switched off the engine.’
‘Oh no, what a place to be stuck. How did he get off? Or did the ferry go back and forward all day with his car on it?’
‘You saw how steep the Ardgour ramp was?’
‘Yes.’
‘A couple of crew members pushed him up to the top and then gave him a bump start.’
‘I call that real customer service.’
Close to the start of Loch Sunart, a body of water that would accompany them all the way down to Kilchoan, they stopped at a tea room in Strontian. It was a lovely old fashioned place offering cream teas and slices of various cakes, but surprisingly owned by two young women who looked like escapees from Hampstead.
He plumped for a slice of the coffee and walnut cake while Rachel confirmed her growing fondness for farm scones by having another.
‘This is delicious,’ she said as she tucked in, ‘I must get the recipe.’
He sighed. ‘Another piece of kit to clutter up our smart but small kitchen.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m no expert, so you’ll need to ask Shona behind the counter, but I believe farmhouse scones are made on a thing called a griddle. If so, it’s the only piece of equipment our new kitchen doesn’t possess.’
**
She fell to the floor and before she knew what she was doing, blurted everything out. ‘He’s in Scotland. Fort William first and then to a small village called Kilchoan today.’
‘How long is he th
ere for?’
‘Until the end of the week.’
‘Very good, Detective Sergeant Walters. See, it wasn’t so hard, was it?’ Daniel Perry said, his smile like that of a cartoon snake. ‘Maybe now I’ll only let Hal rape you.’
She’d left the office at eight. When she’d entered her apartment, Perry was waiting. Brighton had been experiencing a warm spell and a few windows were open to air the rooms, but mindful of a recent spate of burglaries around the Queen’s Park area, she didn’t think a child could squeeze through the tiny gap she’d left, never mind a full-grown man.
Perry didn’t muck about, he knew Sussex Police had instructed the Union Bank of Switzerland to block the funds Brook stole from him, and now he wanted them unblocked. She told him she didn’t have the authority to do so, but that didn’t seem to hinder him from punching and kicking her and threatening to pick her nostrils apart with his sharp knife.
When it finally got through to him that she couldn’t unblock the funds, he stopped hitting her and demanded to know Henderson’s whereabouts, because for some reason, he knew the DI wasn’t in his office right now. When she refused, the beating started once again. Her thoughts were now on how she could warn Henderson that Perry was coming to get him.
Perry pulled out his phone.
‘Hal, where the fuck are you? You’re supposed to be down here in Brighton helping me.’
She could hear part of Hal’s garbled, high volume response. She couldn’t make out what he was saying but it sounded like he was in trouble.
‘There’s police at your house and you’re being arrested?’ Perry said. ‘What are they doing there?’
Perry listened again.
‘What are the charges? I’ll get Danny the solicitor to come down there as soon as.’
She tuned out and looked around for something to hit Perry with, or a way to escape, but to her dismay, he seemed to have all the bases covered. She was sitting on the couch, opposite the door and within touching distance of Perry who sat on the chair. If she made a run for it, he could get to the door before she could, and then there was the issue of the Sig Sauer pistol lying on his lap.