And the World Changes

by A M Kirk

  **********

  Janette tripped on another of the infernal tussocks and went sprawling in the damp grass. Anger etched a terrible scowl on her smeared face. The track had come to an abrupt stop a few minutes ago, and they were carrying on over pathless grass. About four hundred metres in front lay the narrow expanse of Loch Lyon, but they could only see a confined section of it for the moment, as they descended by uneven ground from the watershed.

  “Up you get, mum,” said Mark, jogging back to help her. “Never say die.”

  “I’ll tell you what you can do with your clichés, young man,” replied Janette, getting up and feebly going through the motions of dusting herself down.

  “I shouldn’t bother doing that, mum, you’re just spreading the dirt around more evenly,” remarked Mark.

  “Shut up shut up shut up! How far do you think we’ve come?” asked Janette.

  “About a couple of miles. Maybe three from that wood.”

  “Any feelings? Any insights? Any bloody ideas where we’re going?”

  “Away from here, mum, if you don’t mind.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m pretty sure we’re being followed. Let’s head for the loch and see what happens.”

  “Oh God!” muttered Janette as they set off again. “This skirt, these blasted shoes, these goddamned mountains…”

  **********

  The Jeep skidded to a halt in the little farmyard some kilometres south of the small attractive town of Killin. The farm’s owner had been waiting for him. Logan got out of the Jeep as the burly man approached.

  “I’m McGregor,” he said and held out a thick hand for Logan to shake. It engulfed Logan’s. “You’ll be Logan, I take it.” McGregor, a large-faced, loose-limbed man looked like he’d spent most of his forty-odd years out of doors. He regarded the younger newcomer warily as he released the hand-shake.

  “That’s right,” replied Logan, returning the appraising look.

  “Good. I’ve received the instructions and everything’s taken care of. Well, follow me, then.”

  Logan followed the man round the farm buildings to a large open field. In the field sat a helicopter.

  “I bought it a couple of years ago. It was the Chairman’s idea. Yes, the Chairman himself! It’s come in pretty handy, too. I hire it out to the tourists at this time of year for trips round Ben Lawers and round and about, you know. And in the winter it comes in handy for the Mountain Rescue from time to time.” As they moved in its direction, McGregor surveyed the chopper with obvious pride. “Aye, he must be a shrewd one, the Chairman, eh?”

  “Yes,” replied Logan. The curtness of his tone, and the slightly prolonged eye-contact before turning coolly away was a clear signal to McGregor that here was his superior in the League, and loose chat about the nature of the Chairman would not be taking place.

  “Right then,” said McGregor after a momentary hesitation, “let’s get you kitted up and belted in and off we go, eh? The stuff the Chairman asked for is already stashed in the back seat.”

  Logan noticed the small red first aid kit, with “Mountain Leader” emblazoned on it. “The stuff’s in there?” he asked and McGregor nodded.

  A few minutes later the rotor blades were in furious motion and the Logan saw the ground fall away rapidly beneath him.

  **********

  A few hundred metres from the sprawling buildings of Auch farm, Roberts ‘ CIS helicopter was powering down in a stretch of flatter land below the track as he boarded the motionless train. Impatient mutters of “At last!” and “Maybe they’ll finally get us on our way,” reached his ears as he sought out the officer in charge of the crime scene. He was shown into the carriage where the shooting had taken place. Striped tape cordoned the carriage off. A uniformed policeman was sitting at one of the tables for four, making notes in a small, old-fashioned notebook. Above him, Roberts noticed a hole had been torn in the roof, the jagged edges punched outwards. At the far end of the carriage, a cloth shapelessly covered the body of the murdered officer.

  The policeman, aware of Roberts’ presence, stood up. He looked glad and relieved to see someone of superior rank. He introduced himself as Sergeant Tod Campbell.

  “Roberts, CIS,” said Roberts, sitting opposite Campbell and offering his ID for checking.

  Campbell waved it away. “I knew you were coming, and you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to guess the helicopter with CIS on the side hardly ushers in Coco the Clown.”

  The words could have sounded sarcastic but Campbell’s face indicated otherwise. The Sergeant was nervous.

  “What have you got so far, Sergeant?” asked Roberts.

  Campbell took him through what witnesses had described and what the visual evidence reinforced. “The killer came in that door. He fired one shot at the couple – the boy and his mother – who were sitting here” (he indicated the seat with the destroyed headrest) “but he was then grabbed from behind by McPherson. He’s the dead man. There was a struggle, the killer got another shot off - the one through the roof – and then managed to round on McPherson and shot him at point blank range in the chest. The bullet fragments exited the body and are embedded – some of them - in the plastic doorframe. It’s made some mess of the poor guy.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Yes. I did, slightly. Anyway, I’ve left them there for the forensic team. They should be here within the hour. They’re coming from Glasgow too, but they’re not so quick off the mark as you, sir.”

  “No. Any shell casings?” asked Roberts.

  “I have them here in the plastic bag. And I’ve marked on the floor where I found them.” Campbell passed the bag over. “I can’t say I recognise them.”

  Roberts squinted at them but did not take them out of the bag. “No. Home-made, perhaps? “ Roberts pondered this for a moment. “Witnesses?” he asked at last.

  “We’ve started taking preliminary statements. Good witnesses. Very… articulate. Do you want to see any of them?”

  “No. Just give me the gist. What happened to the killer after he shot McPherson?”

  “The boy and his mother fled through this way. They jumped from the train.”

  “Did they now! And lived to tell the tale?”

  “We presume so. The witnesses said they saw them running off up Auch glen. The killer wasn’t so lucky. He hit the railing when he jumped and landed twenty metres or so below the bridge. The impact of the rail or the fall broke his neck. He’s still there, if you want to see him.”

  “I’ll maybe have a look later. No ID?”

  “No. And no gun. Just a broken mobile phone.”

  “That phone could tell us a lot. Its chip will give us every call the phone’s ever made or received. Make sure the lab guys get on to that right away when they get here. What happened to the gun?”

  “My guess would be the woman took it.”

  “Hmmm.” Roberts was silent for a long while. “What else?”

  “Shortly afterwards, witnesses reported two policemen running up the glen, apparently in pursuit of the mother and the boy. There’s just one thing.”

  “They weren’t policemen,” said Roberts.

  Campbell nodded. “I’ve sent a couple of our boys along the track in a Landrover, but it took a while to get started. We had to get gate keys from the farmer and he was out on the hill. But they set off up the glen just before you arrived.”

  “You’ve covered all the bases, Sergeant, it seems.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “They got on the train at Bridge of Orchy?” asked Roberts.

  “They did.”

  “Have one of your men check the registrations of all the cars in the hotel car park, the station, all the cars he can find there, in fact. It’s just a small place. Have him check the hotel, too. Not just the register, ask the staff if they saw a mother and her boy. If they paid in cash they could have given a fake name. They spent last night somewhere. Let’s start ruling out the possibili
ties.”

  “I’ll call that in just now,” said Campbell and began to speak into his police radio Mark at his collar.

  Roberts surveyed the carriage. He knew from reports that Janette Daniels and her son had left Touch and travelled to Crieff yesterday. They fled Crieff after the second explosion at the guest house. They ended up on this train. If they spent the night at the hotel… They would have had some hand luggage. Where was their luggage?

  “Sergeant – can you organise for the passengers to take their luggage off the train? Have it searched outside. You never know – there may be more than one killer on the train. And any luggage that is left over…”

  “I see what you mean, sir. Whatever’s left belongs to the woman and her boy and whoever was trying to kill them.”

  It was the work of a few minutes to organise the removal of the luggage. Roberts did not really think anything of real interest would turn up in the search – his chief concern was with what was left over, and sure enough, two small tartan overnight bags were unclaimed. He took them to the carriage table and started to examine its contents.

  Most of the items still had wrappers with price bar codes attached: underwear, socks, pairs of jeans, thin jumpers, toothbrushes and toothpaste hardly used, a face cloth still damp. Roberts studied Janette’s wallet. He remembered too, what her husband had looked like. Quite like the boy. But that had been a long time ago. He recalled it was back in 2002 or 2003 – he had been a much younger Chris Roberts in those days, not long out of training college at Tullyallan. More details of the case came back to him. Daniels had been on the fringes of some bizarre plot to blow up the Scottish Parliament building. A latter-day Guy Fawkes? Roberts smiled at the memory of it. “The Tartan Liberation Army”… something like that – a stupid, student, amateurish outfit. But, they might have done the Scottish taxpayer a favour, after all…

  He found some sheets of paper rolled up and apparently hastily stuffed in a side pocket. A graphic of the front of the Bridge of Orchy hotel decorated the top left corner of each sheet. Small, neat handwriting covered three of the sheets and the last one had a map drawn on it.

  Roberts began to read.

  **********

  Another couple of kilometres had been covered but the situation was looking worse by the minute. Mark, having vomited his breakfast back at the train, was now very hungry and the morning’s exertions had only intensified that. Janette, too, constantly had to stop herself from complaining about her discomfort that was now, she felt, extreme. She had never been so uncomfortable in her life. She was wet from falls and trips, and blisters were making themselves evident on her heels and sent stabs of pain through her legs every time her feet made contact with the ground. She tried walking on different parts of her sole, but that just make movement more awkward and ultimately tiring. Progress was slow and frustrating and made worse by the insistent gloomy thought that they were going absolutely nowhere in this vast landscape that showed, to their eyes, no trace civilisation. Six kilometres to the east lay a hydro-electric dam, farms, a populated valley. But Mark and Janette could not see that. These signs of twenty-first century civilisation might as well have been on the moon. Here and now it felt like they were in the middle of an ancient trackless wilderness with no help for a hundred miles.

  “We’re a couple of poor excuses,” remarked Mark.

  “I know. God, I wish I’d kept up that fitness programme with Dawn Greenwood. I just feel so unfit, so inadequate.”

  “You’re not the only one, mum. I just wish I could sit still and get my head straight. I’ve been all mixed up since the train. I just can’t -“

  There was a sound to his right, a soft thunking sound, just a metre from his foot. It was the sound made by a bullet, they both knew. Automatically Mark looked back the way they had come.

  “Oh no!”

  Just cresting the rise, less than five hundred metres away, he saw a figure motionless and apparently taking aim again.

  They dived for what cover was offered by the tussocky grass on the boggy banks of the narrow loch. Another bullet thudded into a thick boulder a couple of metres to the left. A large chunk of the rock fragmented off, proving how powerful these bullets were and suggesting what they might be capable of doing to a human being.

  “What on earth do we do now?” hissed Janette, and Mark could not mistake the sheer terror in her voice. Her face had an unnatural pallor and her breathing was shallow and rapid as she crouched in a small furrow in the bank beside him.

  “I wish I knew!”

  “The gun! Do you have the other guy’s gun?”

  Mark nodded and took it from his pocket. It was like no gun he had ever seen. He held it lightly in his hand, examining it, then tightened his grip determinedly on the butt. His index finger slipped almost naturally over the trigger.

  “It might be our only chance, Mark!” whispered his mother.

  Mark nodded again. “I’ll wait till I can get a clear shot.” He peeped over the rim of the hollow, aiming the gun out in front. The pursuing figure was clearly visible, descending cautiously in their direction, his own weapon poised and ready.

  At two hundred metres Mark judged he could stand a chance. He tried to remember all he had seen in films and TV programmes about shooting techniques. Relax… take a breath…. hold it… and just squeeze the trigger gently. The gun jerked in his hand, but made little sound. Mark had been expecting a huge bang.

  “What happened?” asked Janette asked.

  And then was terrified out of her wits by the man’s voice behind her. “Your son got off a shot that shows he needs a few lessons. Don’t move an inch or I’ll kill you here and now!” The voice gave the impression of very a dangerous and very competent man who would do exactly what he said.

  Mark felt the barrel of a pistol touch his left ear, just above his birthmark. Adrenalin pumped into his system and completely disorientated him. The flight, not fight, impulse was strong in him now, but he was utterly paralysed with fright.

  “And I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.” A hand reached round and lifted the gun from Mark’s nerveless fingers. “Now, stand up, both of you.”

  With an effort Mark struggled to his feet. He turned to face the man behind him. He was a tall, muscled figure, dressed in a black t-shirt and carrying a light back-pack. The figure cupped a hand to his mouth can called, “Hey! Come on! I’ve got them.” He looked at Janette who stood trembling beside her son. “Quite a chase. I’ve even broken sweat.”

  Johns came up. “Good work,” he said. “You need to practise your shooting, kiddo,” he said to Mark. “You missed me by a mile.”

  “Sorry,” said Mark, then realised the absurdity of his remark.

  The two men laughed. Johns took out a mobile. “Come and pick us up. We’ve got them.”

  Ten seconds later the noise of a helicopter could be heard approaching from the east. It came in low across the loch, the downdraught rippling the blue water, and landed on the flat of the bank fifty metres from Henderson and Johns. A slim man wearing dark glasses jumped out. Mark immediately thought Human Freedom League.

  “So we have them at last,” the newcomer said. “Bring them.” He had something in his hand. Not until Mark drew much nearer did he make out what it was: a hypodermic needle. He felt his legs begin to shake uncontrollably, and the first man, Henderson, had to hold his arm to make him walk.

  “What are you – “ Janette began, but Johns slapped her hard in the face and she was knocked to the ground. The man from the helicopter stepped quickly up and Mark watched in hopeless horror as he plunged the needle into his mother’s shoulder. Janette was too surprised and frightened to make any motions to prevent what was happening, and within seconds collapsed into unconsciousness. Johns and Henderson caught her easily and lifted her into the back of the helicopter.

  The other man, clearly their leader, advanced upon Mark. He still had the needle in his hand.

  Logan grinned at the trembling boy before him. He wa
s following his orders to the letter and everything was now going smoothly. Nothing could stand in his way now. He held the needle up in front of the boy’s frightened face and stepped forward laughing.

  Mark saw the long sharp point of the needle floating towards him. He had been aware of his mother being placed in the helicopter, he had heard the rotor blades still spinning and felt their draught, chilling him; but now all that awareness, Mark’s entire awareness of the world shrank and concentrated itself into this one image – the delicate thinness of the needle coming towards him. It filled him with black terror. The last thing he knew was pain searing through his head and the side of his neck and he collapsed to the cold ground.

  Logan stopped laughing. The kid had just flopped. His eyes had rolled up, showing just the whites and all colour had drained from the boy’s face. Then, Jesus, the kid had just hit the ground.

  Logan had never intended to inject anything into the boy. He wanted to scare him a little, sure, but the plan was now to take his mother and leave him here in the wilderness to fend for himself. Logan did not know why the plan had changed. And he did not understand why, when the kid had flopped like that, he had suddenly felt a little frightened. Frightened of what? He was just a kid, and Logan had come here to kill him, after all. “Fright” should not enter into the equation.

  Logan looked away.

  He turned on his heel and, crouching to avoid the blades, moved quickly back into the helicopter. The pilot, McGregor, lost no time in lifting off and pointing the chopper back the way it had come, keeping low down Loch Lyon, and then contouring remote hills in order to fly virtually unseen through little-frequented glens and passes over into Glen Dochart and so to approach McGregor’s farm from the west. In this way they avoided flying over the busy tourist town of Killin.