Despite the conditions, Keith decided to heed Hugh Donald’s words and to take the Skene road. Even there, the traffic was not light and he was clear of the city before he was sure that another car was following. This came as no surprise. With Galway removed, he had been expecting McHenge to take an interest. Walking the streets, he had stayed with the crowds and watched his back.
He slowed suddenly and the pursuing car came closer before its driver reacted and dropped back. The lights of an oncoming car showed Keith only a pale blob, but, as the lights went by, the blob was dramatically side-lit for one useful instant. Holding onto the memory, Keith was sure that he had detected a hatchet face over a pale scarf.
He watched and pondered. He was soon sure that the other driver was either unskilled or driving a car which was strange to him. Skene, and his turning for Kemnay, came up but Keith drove on towards Alford. His one advantage was that his car felt as familiar to him as his shoes. He turned on the speed, passing car after car whenever the oncoming traffic allowed. He came up behind a gritting lorry. Horns blared and lights blazed as he passed it in the gap between two buses and ran onto a surface which would not have shamed an ice-rink. He kept going, catching each slide with a flick of the wheel or kicking the tail out with a burst of power. It was delicate work in the dark and on a road only half-remembered, but he survived. Soon McHenge, if it were he, was half a mile behind and lost among other vehicles.
Keith turned right at Tillyfourie and came back towards Kemnay through Monymusk. For the last few miles he had the road to himself.
Chapter Seven
Jenny Carlogie had come off duty but, Keith noted with amusement, she was waiting in the manager’s office so that she could make an entrance a minute or two after his arrival. She had abandoned her Angora and tweeds for a pretty frock and had made up for the loss of her jewels, ‘such as they were’, by the purchase of some costume jewellery discreet enough to pass for real at first glance. She came out smiling and her smile was bright with happiness.
She surprised him by being good company, ready with bright if shallow chatter, flatteringly willing to listen to his own opinions. Over drinks and an excellent dinner, they avoided the topics of the murder and of the missing inheritance. The bill made Keith’s eyebrows go up. He filed the receipt away carefully in his wallet for the Shennilco accountant to worry over.
It was Keith who remembered to load her bicycle into the rear of his hatchback. It seemed that Miss Carlogie was already trusting him to chauffeur her to work in the morning.
The hotel staff had been curious about Miss Carlogie’s gentleman friend. The moving car gave them their first chance to talk in privacy.
‘I’ve been thinking some more about your burglar. If he tried to come back, he can’t have got what he wants,’ Keith said. ‘You’ve had no more ideas about where your friend’s money could have vanished to?’
‘None at all.’
‘Would you like me to try to help?’
‘I wish you would,’ she said.
‘You realise that you’d have to trust me?’
‘If you tricked me,’ she said, ‘I’d be no worse off than I am now. But I don’t think you would.’ She put a hand through his arm.
‘There’s another thing. If the money was dirty, if it had been obtained by embezzlement . . . had you thought of that?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She sounded surprised that he should doubt it.
‘It might only be possible to give it back and claim a reward. Probably ten per cent. It could still be a lot of money, but not as much as she wanted you to have.’
‘We’ll share, half and half,’ she said comfortably.
They were coming to the big sycamore tree. Keith slowed and parked where Hugh Donald had parked the day before. ‘You remember seeing the man coming down the gulley here, the day Mary Spalding died?’
‘It was only for a second,’ she said.
‘I know that. But even in a second, you must have got some impression. Was he a big man? Or small and hatchet-faced?’
She concentrated, perhaps searching her recollection, possibly absorbing his suggestions. ‘He was thin,’ she said. ‘Hatchet-faced would just describe him.’
Keith sighed with relief. He would much prefer that McHenge, who was already established in his own mind as the killer, had also returned with the cheque book and been seen by Jenny Carlogie. One strong case would be better than two shaky ones.
His sigh pulled her towards him and they kissed. She seemed to expect it. Her lips were eager. Keith, who would rather have been kissing his wife, was only mildly stirred, but when it was over she could hardly draw breath. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said.
Obligingly, Keith started the car. They drove in silence, but thoughts were flickering between them like an electric discharge.
He came to the side road which passed her bungalow. They left behind the tracks of many cars, with tarmac showing through the snow where the wear had been greatest. One set of tyre tracks still ran on ahead. ‘You’ve had a visitor,’ Keith said. But when he turned in through her gate, the tracks went on.
‘Where does your side road lead to?’ he asked as he pulled up at her front door.
‘Nowhere. Just an old sand-pit.’
‘Somebody went up there and he didn’t come down again. I was followed this evening but I shook him off. He must have guessed where I was coming.’
*
‘Leave him be,’ she said. ‘He can’t get in to us if I set the alarms.’
‘I’d rather know where he is,’ Keith said. ‘I don’t want a bomb under my car or a bullet when I come out. You go in and make us a drink. If anyone but me comes to the door, set the alarms off and I’ll come running. He’ll have seen our lights, but he’ll probably wait for us to settle. If he’s watching from up near the sand-pit, how can I get near without being seen?’
‘Go round the other side of the bungalow,’ she said, ‘and round the first field. The field’s higher in the middle. You can’t see across it. Be careful,’ she added.
‘You sound like a wife,’ he said. Immediately, he would have recalled the remark if he could. Mention of a wife could spoil the mood of a romantic tryst.
The night was clear but dark. The snow reflected and magnified what little light the stars let fall. He wished that he could have borrowed white clothing, a painter’s overalls. He was wearing good, leather boots, but the snow was deep enough in places to reach his calves and soon his feet were damp. He found a gate in the garden wall and set off round the field.
The tracks could have been made by the return of a car which had been in the sand-pit during the last snowfall. He hoped very much that he was wasting his time.
It was twenty minutes’ walk in the heavy going and all the way the middle of the field hogged the skyline. Once a pair of partridges, unusually early in establishing squatter’s rights to their chosen nesting territory, burst out of the hedge-bottom and made him jump.
As he covered the third side of the field, he seemed to be climbing and there was a low, broad hump on the skyline ahead. Keith stepped gently over a fence and climbed the slope. He would have given a lot to have had nails in his boots. He finished the climb on all fours and looked over the crest. Below him was the hollow of the sand-pit and to his left the roof and back of an estate car, facing towards the cottage. As far as he could see the car had no outside mirror on the left. Keith backed away and set off leftwards around the hump. He stumbled once over a hummock hidden in the snow and nearly fell.
Another short stalk brought him towards what he hoped was the blind side rear of the car. The ground was uneven under the snow, but Keith had the knack of going silently over difficult ground. He stole towards the back of the car. It was in darkness except for the glow of the radio although the headrests prevented him from seeing the driver’s head.
He was almost up to the car and already planning how to give the driver the fright of his life when his eyes, now fully adjusted to the darkness, sa
w footprints leaving the car. As far as he could make out, they did not return. Heart in mouth, he span round.
He had been outmanoeuvred. A thin, hatchet-faced man – McHenge for a certainty – was coming up behind him, a self-loading pistol in his hand and pointing at Keith’s chest.
McHenge was still ten yards off. At that range, only an expert would have half a chance of hitting a moving target in such bad light, and the Glasgow tough rarely troubles to practise marksmanship. Keith decided to stake all on a dive over the car.
The snow beat him. He decided afterwards that, where he was standing, it overlaid a frozen puddle. Whatever the reason, his frantic leap only shot his feet from under him and he fell heavily, winded. When he managed to raise his head, McHenge was standing over him. The pistol was steady on his guts.
‘Too bad about you, Jimmy,’ McHenge said. The Glasgow accent was very strong. He shone a light on Keith’s face and then dropped the torch into his pocket. ‘I got my orders today. You’re next for the chop.’
‘Orders from Harry Snide?’ Keith asked. His voice tried to play tricks on him.
‘Direct from the client. But don’t fash me by asking who he is because I don’t know. You can have it hard if you want it that way, but I’ll give it you easy if you’re good. What’d you do to Bob Galway?’
‘I hardly touched him,’ Keith said. The less McHenge feared him, the better his chances would be. ‘He was waiting in my room. He swung at me and I pushed him in the chest and he went down. It must have been a heart attack.’
‘Pull the other one. There was nothing wrong with Bob’s heart. The quack in Barlinnie checked him over not six months back. On your feet, Jimmy, and face the car. I can connach you where you are,’ he added, ‘but I’d as soon you walked, and I’ve no doubt you’d want to live a little longer.’
Keith dragged himself to his feet and turned towards the car. Hope, which should have died at that moment, came alive. McHenge was making two mistakes. He let Keith stand upright when he should have made him lean against the car. And he pressed the pistol into the small of Keith’s back while he patted his clothing for a weapon. Keith had seen the pistol. He knew the general type and had seen the protruding barrel; and Keith also knew that self-loading pistols will nearly always refuse to fire if backward pressure on the barrel locks the trigger. Nearly always. . . . But it was as good a chance as he was going to get. His fears were overwhelmed by a determination to survive.
Pushing off from the car, Keith span and chopped sideways. The gun fired as it flew out of the man’s hand and again when it landed in the snow, but no damage was done. The two men grappled, chest to chest, slipped and went down together. McHenge probed for Keith’s eyes. Keith rolled his head, tried vainly to use his knee and struck out blindly.
A lucky blow landed, not hard but squarely. McHenge rolled away and got to his knees. Keith started to scramble up, found that he had a good purchase with one foot and threw himself onto McHenge’s back, locking one elbow round the man’s neck and compressing the carotid arteries under the ears. McHenge kicked, groaned, weakened and suddenly went limp. Keith held on while he counted another five seconds and then let the other man fall back into the snow. He got shakily to his feet. In his memory he could still hear the whisper of death.
There was no time to waste; McHenge’s sleep would only last a few minutes at the most. Keith took the torch from the unconscious man’s pocket and went to look for the pistol. He shuddered when he found it, a Japanese Shiki Kenju Type 94 left over from World War II and quite the most dangerous service pistol ever made. If Keith had recognised it, he might not have dared take the risk. But ignorance had been more than bliss, it had been salvation.
The torch showed him no convenient length of rope in the back of the car. He was sure that there was none in his own. Not even a piece of string. He thought of bootlaces, but McHenge’s boots were zipped up the side and he was damned if he was going to sacrifice his own. He patted his pockets and found that he was still carrying one of the purchases which he had made earlier in the day. A slow grin spread over his face.
He loaded the smaller man without difficulty into the passenger seat of the estate car and pulled off his boots and socks. Then he squeezed Superglue onto the palm of McHenge’s left hand and pressed the palm against the sole of the right foot. The glue took hold almost instantly. He repeated the process, right hand to left foot.
The keys were in the dash. Keith brushed the snow off his clothes, settled into the driver’s seat and set off towards the bungalow. By his side, McHenge snored contentedly.
McHenge was already beginning to yawn and blink when Keith parked the estate car between his own car and the living room window. He left the engine running. The lights were on in the bungalow, spilling a swathe of light which made his tasks easier. He tossed McHenge’s boots and socks onto the back seat and made sure that the tube of solvent was safe in his pocket.
‘What—?’ said McHenge. He tugged at his hands. ‘—the hell?’ he finished. He twisted his head and transfixed Keith with a sizzling glare.
‘Not much fun being on the losing side, is it?’ Keith said. ‘Now, listen to me you lethal turd. You killed Mary Spalding and you were going to kill me.’
McHenge began to protest his innocence and good intentions, but Keith broke in and McHenge stopped to listen.
‘You,’ Keith said, ‘are going to commit suicide in a fit of remorse. A piece of garden hose from the exhaust into the car is all it’ll take. After I chauffeur you out into the wilds, use the solvent and put your boots and socks back on you, who’s going to question it? Your only hope of living is to tell me who your client is.’
McHenge struggled again. His face darkened with effort and range, but he remained fast. ‘You’d not,’ he said.
‘I bloody would,’ Keith said. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘I don’t know the bloody client! I tell you.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Keith said. He put his hand on the door handle. ‘You said you got your orders direct from the client. Last chance. Once I’ve fetched a piece of hose, I shan’t feel like changing my mind. I’d hate the effort to go to waste.’
The argument may have rung a bell with McHenge who was already demoralised by his position. ‘I tell you I don’t,’ he said shrilly. ‘Listen. He kens my hotel. He’d send me notes. Once he wrote me to meet him, but outdoors and in the dark. And . . .’
‘That’s when he gave you the shotgun?’
McHenge hesitated, rolling his eyes around. But he was in his own car and there was no sign of a recording device. ‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘And the rabbit?’
‘Aye, it was. But I didn’t see him, just the shape of a tall claes-pole and the sound of his voice.’
‘What sort of a voice?’
‘Nothing special. Much like you’d hear on the wireless. Maybe deeper than some. The rest of my orders came through Harry Snide. That’s all I know, so help me!’
‘You can do better, to save your foul neck. Last chance.’
‘If I knew more, I’d tell you.’ McHenge groaned. ‘I’d not be put down for the like of him. But I never got sight of him. I wanted to see him, just for future reference. It could’ve been useful, later.’
‘Blackmail,’ Keith said.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ McHenge said. ‘Self-protection, that’s the term. I took out a fag an’ asked had he got a light. But he wasn’t that daft. Handed me a box of matches and telled me no’ to strike one until he was away.’
‘If that’s the best you can do . . .’ Keith said. He tried to invest the words with special menace. He twisted the door handle.
‘It’s all there is,’ McHenge said desperately. ‘Except . . . I could smell something on him.’
‘Like what?’
‘Not much, me being a smoker myself. But I thought I smelled cigar smoke.’
Keith pursued his questions for a few more minutes, but he was satisfied that he had
all that the man could tell him. He gave up.
Very carefully, so as not to be joined to McHenge in unholy deadlock, Keith squeezed Superglue onto the man’s lower lip. ‘You can close your mouth now,’ he said.
‘You can’t do this to ne,’ McHenge protested, keeping his mouth as far open as he could.
‘Believe me, I’m doing it,’ Keith said. He put a hand to McHenge’s ear and twisted it.
‘You b—’ McHenge began and stopped dead. His eyes bulged.
‘That’s better,’ Keith said. He skimmed through McHenge’s pockets and stowed away his findings for later study. ‘I don’t owe you a damn bit of goodwill. Annoy me once and I’ll glue one of your nostrils shut. Annoy me again and I’ll glue up the other one, and you can learn to breathe through your ears or snuff it, the choice’ll be yours.
‘I’m going to leave you here while I go inside. I’m leaving the engine ticking over so that you’ll not freeze, but I’m damn sure you won’t be able to drive. If you’re very clever, you might manage to get out of the car. But not without making a noise. And I’ll be looking out from time to time. Try anything like that and I’ll take your breeks down and glue your bum to the bonnet of the car, and you can ride in to Aberdeen that way. Got the idea?’
Without waiting for an answer, he got out, slammed the car’s door and went into the bungalow.
*
Jenny Carlogie was waiting in the hall, wringing her hands in apprehension. When she saw Keith she seemed to resume breathing.
‘I caught him,’ Keith said. ‘He’s sitting in his car outside. And he’ll stay there.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m in no doubt of it.’
‘Is he tied up?’
‘Something like it. Forget him.’
She turned her attention to Keith. ‘You’re soaking wet,’ she said. ‘You’d better take those things off. Only I’ve nothing to lend you while they dry.’
‘It’s warm in here,’ Keith said. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t.’
She nodded. He could almost see her thoughts in a little balloon above her head as she wondered whether she should pretend to be scandalised and decided not to risk spoiling the intimacy of the moment. He stripped to his underpants. She hung his clothes in an airing cupboard and then came and and stood close to him.
Silver City Scandal Page 8