by Rob Wyllie
'Something's wrong,' she said, her voice clipped and urgent. 'Something's badly wrong. Where would she go Elizabeth? Where did they go when they were kids? Flora and Morag and the Macallans?'
But Jimmy was already on the move. 'The boathouse. Elizabeth, will you call the police and the coastguard, and Angus, can you go and get your wee boat ready, quick as you can.'
◆◆◆
He was conscious that Maggie was trailing way behind him, but there was no time to worry about that now. There was only one thing on his mind. He had to get to her before brooding Loch More worked its malevolent destiny, its merciless currents racing and swirling, intent on swallowing any defenceless craft that was stupid enough to venture out on its waters. It only took two minutes to reach the boathouse, where his darkest fear was confirmed. Tinytanic was gone.
'Shit.' He ran to the edge of the little cobbled beach, scanning the loch, his eyes squinting against the glare of the low sun. Shit, shit. It had to be out there somewhere, but where? For a moment, he studied the water lapping against the edge and in an instant he had made the computation. The tide was on the turn and soon anything caught in that race would be dragged out to the Atlantic at a rate of knots. He had five or ten minutes at the most to save her.
He became aware that Maggie had arrived at his side.
'The boat's gone, hasn't it?' she said, her voice anxious. 'Can you see anything?'
'No, but it's got to be out there somewhere.'
'There,' she said suddenly. 'Look, can you see it? It's hard to spot with the sun in our eyes. Straight ahead.'
And he could just about make it out, the tiny boat bobbing around like a cork, miraculously still afloat but low in the water. Dangerously low. He estimated it was around three to four hundred metres away and he remembered back to his army days and that survival training course they'd sent him on, and that chart they'd splashed up on the screen in the warm Glencoe classroom. Survival times in cold water. But these waters, warmed by the Gulf Stream, although bloody cold, rarely got below freezing, so he'd have fifteen minutes at least and probably more. Not that these technicalities were going to influence his decision one bit.
'I'm going in,' he said, tearing off his shoes. 'Keep me in your line of sight if you can, in case the coastguard turns up.'
'But what about the currents?' Maggie said anxiously. 'You said it wasn't safe.'
He knew it wasn't safe, of course he knew, but what else could he do? And he was a strong swimmer, his broad shoulders capable of powering him one hundred metres in close to a minute. In a warm swimming pool, that was. Out here, it would be quite different, lucky if he could do the same distance in under three. But he had no choice.
As he plunged in, the icy coldness took his breath away, but he was ready for that and soon he was into his stride, his arms and legs synchronised in perfect harmony, extracting the maximum thrust from every stroke as he carved through the water. And on this outward leg, he was getting some assistance from the current although he knew the prevailing vector would be pushing him seaward. Meaning that getting them both back to the shore was going to be pretty much impossible, but that was something to worry about later. All that mattered right now was getting to Flora before the tiny dinghy gave up its struggle.
As he got further away from the shore the waves grew higher, a constant spray of salty water stinging his eyes, causing him to struggle to see where he was going. It was difficult to maintain a straight path against the cross-current, and the effort needed to correct course was beginning to sap his strength. His upper arms burned with pain as he ploughed on, forcing out one stroke after another, his body begging for him to stop. It was like his army survival training, except today there was no brutal sergeant-major making damn sure it would be more unpleasant to give up than to keep going. But today, the stakes were immeasurably higher. Today, it was a matter of life and death.
As he got closer, he could see her, sprawled across the bottom of the dinghy, her body already partially submerged as the waves crashed over the side, so close to sinking the flimsy craft. With a final effort he reached it, grabbing hold of the stern, grateful to have a moment to regain his breath. Now he could see Flora was unconscious, a trail of half-dried blood running down her cheek from where she had been struck a disabling blow on her temple. Bastards. He remembered vividly what they had drummed into them back on that survival course. Stay with the boat if you possibly can. Aye, if it was still afloat that was, and he could tell just by looking that the wee dinghy was seconds away from being overwhelmed. One more decent-sized wave and that would be it. The fact was, he had no choice. He had to get her out right away, before it dragged them both to a watery grave.
He pulled himself round so that he was parallel with her shoulders, where this close, he could see her chest moving, if imperceptibly, but enough to know she was still alive. Thank god. He reached over the side, keeping himself afloat by balancing his chest on the rim of the boat, and placed his hands under her armpits. As gently as he dared, he drew her towards him, the buoyancy of the salt water thankfully taking some of her weight. Now he had to flip onto his back, the classic passive-rescue position he had been taught in the army but had never before put into practice. Hook your arms under the armpits of the casualty. Support their head with your hands. Tread water to save energy. Do not attempt to swim to shore except when there is no hope of rescue. All so easy to accomplish when you were reading it in a book. Not so easy when a ten-mile-an-hour tide was pushing you away and the cold was draining you of every ounce of energy you possessed. But he managed to get some leverage by pushing with his knees against the side of the dinghy, forcing it to tilt towards him, and then with a powerful leg-stroke, he propelled them free.
Now, all they could do was wait for the rescue party and hope that it came bloody soon. Because Flora hadn't stirred, and he began to fear the onset of hypothermia, remembering another of these damn slides from the survival course. At a water temperature of zero to six degrees, death is likely to occur between thirty to ninety minutes. Flora was strong and fit, but she'd been in the water at least thirty minutes, probably more, and he had no idea the extent of her injuries. Shit. He held her closer to him, knowing that it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference, but he wasn't going to let her die on him. Stay with me darling, stay with me. Don't leave me.
A few metres away Tinytanic, now totally submerged, had given up its heroic struggle and was about to embark on a one-way journey to the bottom of Loch More. So that was it, they were on their own. And then he heard it, the angry buzz cutting through the cold evening air. An outboard motor, coming from the direction of Lochmorehead. Thank god. Then the slap of the inflatable boat as it carved through the waves, its prow raised like a Viking long-ship. Jimmy raised an arm in the air and yelled at the top of his voice although he doubted he could be heard above the noise of the engine.
'Angus! Angus! Over here!'
He heard the engine note change as Dr McLeod eased off the throttle, allowing the prow to settle back in the water, tweaking the tiller to bring the inflatable alongside his daughter and her rescuer. Jimmy answered his father-in-law's question before it was asked.
'She's alive Angus, but she's in a bad way. We need to get her warm as soon as we can.'
'I've got blankets and towels, and it's only a few minutes back to the jetty,' Angus shouted. 'Let's get her into the boat.'
It was difficult, but somehow between them they managed to bundle her limp body over the side. As her father swaddled her in the warm blankets, Jimmy dragged himself up and flopped onto the bottom of the boat, spent with exhaustion.
'Get her home Angus, get her home.'
Dr McLeod gave a nod of acknowledgement and opened the throttle to its maximum setting.
'Hold on to her Jimmy, it's going to be a rough ride.'
And as Jimmy pulled her close to him, he knew he could never ever let her go again.
◆◆◆
It seemed as if half the village had been waiting for them at the jet
ty, together with the coastguard helicopter, which somehow had managed to land on the hotel's front lawn and was now waiting to fly Flora to hospital in Glasgow. She had regained consciousness, but was only able to give the vaguest description of what had happened to her. She remembered two hooded figures approaching her as she left the surgery, and then she remembered been struck on the head and then nothing. It was assumed her abductors had bundled her into a vehicle then made the short drive to the boathouse, laying her in the dinghy before setting it adrift to face the wrath of the dangerous tidal race. Attempted murder of course, the method and opportunity as crystal clear as the waters of Loch More, but what of the motive?
Maggie Bainbridge knew, ninety-nine percent certain, but she needed Flora's confirmation to be absolutely sure. So she had approached her just as the paramedics were about to slide the stretcher into the helicopter, its engines already roaring in preparation for take-off so that it was almost impossible to hear. But by placing her ear within a whisker of Flora's lips, Maggie could just about make out the answer to her question.
'It wasn't Kirsty. She wasn't Kirsty.'
'I know,' Maggie said. 'I know she wasn't.'
Chapter 28
They were in the departure lounge at Heathrow waiting for their flight to Glasgow, and although it was just quarter-past-ten in the morning and he was technically on duty, Frank still felt justified in enjoying a pint. A celebratory pint, because after all, it wasn't every day you solved seven murders and an attempted one too, surely some sort of record for his wee rag-tag department. He glanced over at Jill, deep in conversation with Assistant Commissioner Margaret Walsh, whom he'd just worked out was her boss's boss's boss. Anybody else he would have accused of arse-licking, but not DCI Jill Smart. It just wasn't her style.
Truth be told, he was a bit peeved that he hadn't been invited to the big Sir Brian meeting, but he knew there was a well-established protocol about such things, and when you were going to launch a process that would well and truly shaft the career of one of the top brass, convention dictated the bad news had to be delivered by an officer of broadly equivalent rank, explaining why Jill was to be accompanied to Tulliallan by the Assistant Commissioner. Chief Constable Sir Brian Pollock was to be suspended on full pay pending the outcome of an internal enquiry into the handling of the original McKay murders, but in parallel, the Crown Office of the Procurator Fiscal was considering an allegation that evidence, specifically whiteboard records of the proceedings, had subsequently been tampered with, an allegation that would lead to a Perverting the Course of Justice charge against the officer responsible. Yes, Brian Pollock was finished, and back in London, star journalist Yash Patel had pushed aside the journeywoman freelancer originally commissioned to do the puff piece, and was getting stuck in to composing the ex-Chief Constable's career obituary for the Chronicle. The Rise and Fall of a Policing Superstar. There was no doubting it had a nice ring to it.
Frank had just taken a slurp of his pint when he realised the AC was speaking to him.
'Jill's just been telling me more about the Macallan murders. This has been excellent work DI Stewart,' she said, 'and a real feather in the cap for Department 12B. I assume the suspects are being held in Glasgow somewhere?'
'That's right ma'am,' he spluttered. 'In my old nick in the Gorbals. We picked them up at the airport trying to board a flight to Spain.'
'And the evidence is good?'
'A work-in-progress ma'am. It's pretty solid on the Flora Stewart case, and we're hoping we'll get some forensics on the others. But aye, it's pretty good overall.'
'And what about our hacker friend. The one who was blackmailing our Manchester colleague?' Frank was amused to see the AC was wearing a smirk. 'Do we know who killed him?'
He wasn't sure whether she hoped it was ACC Frost or not, although for some reason, he suspected the former. Everybody liked a bit of juicy gossip and from Walsh's point of view, it would take another rival off the stage. But unfortunately, he had to disappoint her.
'Forensics are saying it was three powerful stab wounds to the abdomen ma'am. Not to get too sexist, but they're saying it's probably the work of a strong man, given how far the knife penetrated. And it looks like it's the same MO as the murder of the Macallan twin.'
The fact was, although it sounded callous, Frank didn't give a stuff about who killed Daniel Clarkson. He'd been given the task of finding the identity of Geordie, and that he had accomplished. Job done, tick in the box. Now he could turn his full attention to the upcoming interviews with Rory Overton and the very-much-not-dead Elspeth Macallan, who were being detained in considerable discomfort at New Gorbals police station.
And when he was done with that, he was shooting off to Loch Lomond to have dinner with Maggie Bainbridge. It was just a shame that his bloody brother and his bloody boss were going to be there too.
◆◆◆
They had gathered in a little lochside hotel for their now-traditional post-investigation debrief, and as had already become traditional, Frank was complaining about the prices.
'I mean, how can haggis, neeps and tatties cost twenty-seven quid, that's all I'm asking, even if it comes with a bloody whisky sauce? Christ, are they using a fifty-year old malt or something?'
'They call it fine dining mate,' Jimmy said, cracking a sardonic smile, 'not something you would understand mind you.'
'Don't worry,' Maggie said soothingly, 'Asvina's paying. Or the estate of Roderick Macallan, to be more exact.'
'And on that note, I assume we're going to hear the full gory Macallan saga this evening?' Jill Smart had driven down from police HQ at Tulliallen after her portentous interview with Brian Pollock and was intent, Maggie surmised with some bitterness, on continuing her pursuit of Jimmy Stewart. 'The whole story, without hesitation, repetition or deviation?'
'Aye ma'am, with none of the above,' Frank grinned. 'Maggie's compiled the entire story for us, from start to finish. But it's a long one, so we'd better order our food and get the drinks flowing first, don't you think?'
Of course, no-one disagreed with that, and there was general hilarity when Frank finally decided on the haggis, the young waitress merely raising a discreet eyebrow when he asked for an extra portion of the sauce on the side. Maggie gave him a fond smile. Once again, she reflected that Frank Stewart was one of life's good guys. Kindness had been baked into him from birth, and it manifested itself in every human interaction. It was just a shame he was so bloody hopeless when it came to matters of the heart. But later, when she was three or four chardonnays to the good, she might take matters into her own hands. She looked across the table to where Jill Smart had been careful to position herself next to Jimmy. Where it looked as if she too was planning to take matters into her own hands, and sod the near ten-year age gap. But all of that would have to wait until later. Three chardonnays later, minimum.
'Ok then,' Maggie said, taking a generous sip from her glass, 'let's start with Commodore Roderick Macallan, shall we? Not a nice man by any measure, and a man who liked to use his powerful position to his own advantage. A power he decided to use when he found out that Mrs Morag McKay was desperate for her husband to be given a shore-based posting. It seemed that after their daughter Isabelle had come along, she had been suffering from post-natal depression, made much worse by her husband's long spells at sea. So the predatory Commodore saw his opportunity. Quite simply, he offered to fix it for her husband in exchange for sex.'
'That's disgusting,' Jill said. 'What an evil man.'
'Yes he was,' Maggie agreed, 'and according to his wife, he had a long history of using his position to prey on vulnerable women. But it all started to unravel for him when Morag began to suffer terrible remorse for what she had done. That's when she decided for her own peace of mind she had to make a full confession to her husband.'
'And that's how our boy Geordie comes into it,' Frank said, 'or Communications Officer Daniel Clarkson to give him his proper title.'
Maggie nodded. 'That's right. H
e was the communications guy on board HMS Azure and because of the need for security, all comms to and from the submarine went through him.'
'Packet-encrypted technology,' Frank said, adopting a smug smile, 'at least that's what wee Eleanor told me they used. Basically a big bunch of coded stuff is sent to them about once a week and super-powerful encryption computers on the sub de-code it. It's a bit like that Enigma stuff from the war, but without the cogs and wheels.'
'I'm impressed,' Jimmy said, laughing, 'but you don't really understand a word of what you just said, do you?'
'Not a word,' Frank admitted, 'but in a nutshell, it means that Clarkson got to see all incoming comms traffic, which is how he found out about what Morag McKay and the Commodore had been up to, or to be more precise, what she had done for him.'
'Exactly,' Maggie said, 'and of course this information was absolute dynamite for a natural blackmailer like Clarkson. So we assume Macallan is surprised one morning to receive a communication from Clarkson on board Azure that says unless we can come to a satisfactory arrangement, I'm going to blow your secret.'
'Right,' Frank said, 'and that's when the Commodore sees his opportunity. By recruiting Clarkson, he was able to hatch the plan to silence Morag and frame her husband James for the murder at the same time.'
'Yes,' Maggie agreed, 'so he came to an arrangement with him. A hundred and twenty grand payment for keeping his mouth shut, a sum that would set him up very nicely when he left the service. But there were conditions attached.'
'That would be the falsifying of these e-mails between Morag and her husband?' Jimmy asked.
'Yes, exactly. Clarkson doctored the e-mail trail and instead of her confession, what James McKay learnt from his wife was that she intended to leave him and take little Isabelle with her. So of course he was distraught, and his anguish grew with every subsequent fake e-mail he received.'
'Until he finally lost it and threatened to kill her,' Jill said.