October Song

by Ru Pringle

  As she nears the tip of the peninsula, with the broad sound between Scarba and the island of Luing opening out ahead, she decides to leave the kayak and scramble up to the skyline of the rough crags looming over the shore for a look around.

  At the top, a chill wind ruffles the long grasses in patterns like disturbed water. In the lee of a high point a short way inland from the crags she finds a comfortable-looking heathery hollow to park her backside in, and nibbles delicious Barnhill bread as she studies the map, which has been thoughtfully dried by Hedge Trimmer’s people.

  She takes out her binoculars and peers in the direction of Craobh Haven.

  It’s little more than six kilometres away according to the map, but she’s not high enough to see the marina over the intervening islands. On the plus side, she has a pretty good view of the maze of water between her and the mainland.

  It’s deserted. Nothing seems to be moving anywhere. Not a bird, not an insect, nor anything in the sea. She can’t see a single boat.

  Inland, against thickening cloud, she can make out fat plumes of smoke. She has no idea of their scale, distance, or cause, but they’re being blown almost horizontal by the wind. Jets are flying about somewhere, but she can’t even tell the direction of their distant rumbles, let alone see them. Northwest on the isle of Luing, perhaps three kilometres away, a rust-stained hulk is beached. It looks the size of a large fishing boat, though its shape is exotic, with a pointed bow and a raised stern like a Tudor warship’s. A quarter-kilometre inland is a white-walled farmhouse. It’s burning with vigorous, orange flames. Looking closely, she can just make out figures milling around it, like agitated ants. Though she strains, the wind is blowing in the wrong direction for her to hear anything.

  She pulls a face.

  So much for camping on Luing.

  Coira takes another look at the map. Things are getting complicated. She has to assume the authorities have found the kayaker by now, and forensics have given them the info they need about how she is travelling. With luck, they’ll be looking for a bright purple kayak with yellow and black paddles.

  Even so …

  She finds her thoughts returning to the aftermath of events in Edinburgh. To the speed and thoroughness of the authorities’ response. The city felt like an anthill someone had hit with a shovel. She hadn’t expected that. There’s the nagging feeling she’s missing something crucial. She kicks herself for lacking the presence of mind to risk pumping Hedge Trimmer and his acolytes for information when she had the chance.

  Wondering if it might be time to change her mode of travel, she’s jolted back to the present by the realisation that what she’d written off as an approaching bird is in fact a stealth-grey drone.

  BREATHING HARD, she flattens herself into the heather, wincing as she thinks of the kayak. While she had the presence of mind to flip it over, hiding its purple interior, it’s far more exposed than she would like. She can only hope the new paint job will mask its shape.

  The little aeroplane is flying more or less up the middle of the sound. After a while, when it shows no sign of deviating, she risks propping herself on her elbows for a look through the binoculars.

  It’s one of the old turbofan-propelled ones: a cigar with skinny wings at odd angles, similar to American designs around when she was a kid. She has no idea if it’s armed. It doesn’t look remotely stealthy, however. She figures that if it had any weapons they’d be outside, where she could see them.

  Seeming in no hurry, the thing banks lazily away to follow the coast over Luing on its way north.

  Coira lets go a lungful of air. Experiences a strange little shiver. ‘This is so not good for the nerves,’ she tells herself aloud, with a giggle. She tracks back south with the binoculars, following the line of the mainland shore …

  … and almost immediately sees the second drone.

  Fuck!

  She presses herself to the ground again. Unlike the first, this one’s coming almost straight at her. She squirms her knees beneath her, deciding that keeping flat is less important than hiding the red of her legs. She tries keep her breathing shallow, infinitely glad of her olive jacket and brown hat. In just the wetsuit, she’d have stood out like a beacon. Realising her face will be conspicuous, she screws her eyes closed and pushes it into the prickly vegetation. All she can hear is air rushing in her windpipe, her pulse thudding, and the faint roar of the tidal race.

  Could the first drone have reported something for the second to investigate?

  She can hear the hum of the propeller now. She doesn’t think these two look like they’re following a search pattern, but not being a drone pilot there’s no way to be sure. For all she knows, the first could be sweeping a lane kilometres wide with cameras and other sensors, targeting heat signatures and other tell-tale signs for the second to home in on using GPS. She’s so glad she spray-painted the kayak.

  The propeller sound grows louder. And louder. She grimaces.

  The wretched thing feels like it’s right on top of her.

  Then the pitch changes. At first she doesn’t dare believe it. But soon there’s no doubt.

  It’s moving away!

  She itches to look up. Knows she can’t, yet. The sound fades with frustrating languor. She forces herself to wait until it’s almost inaudible, then cautiously raises her head.

  When she does eventually find the drone again, it’s visible only as a paler fleck against the slate-grey mountains to the north.

  Coira flops bonelessly on to her back. She doubts her heart’s ever had such a good workout as during these past few days. Even her undercover years couldn’t match this. She can’t quite shake the feeling the machine must have seen her. That it’s already passed her position on to the people chasing her. Who will turn up in half an hour with helicopters …

  Then again, maybe the drones are simply headed for the fighting? All the military activity suggests things further north may be hotting up.

  She wonders where the action is. Last she heard, separatist forces were being driven north of Fort William – though by all accounts they were getting adept at guerrilla tactics, resisting army attempts to drive them into the wilds where they could be carpet-bombed without political fallout. ‘Grasping at smoke’ was a description she’d heard. Guerrilla cells kept resurfacing in areas that were supposedly cleared. Unlike the deserts in which Britain’s armed forces had grown used to fighting, the persistent low cloud and bad weather must be playing havoc with remote surveillance and air support. And the separatists had clearly armed themselves with some sophisticated kit. Much of it was probably British. Sold to, and captured in, countries where it had been used against the very migrants who were now bringing the weapons here.

  What to do? She doesn’t like this at all. Even if the drone didn’t spot her, she has no idea what may be waiting for her in Craobh Haven. Her contact could be in custody by now for all she knows. A trap could have been set for her.

  She needs local intel.

  Sighing, she decides to wait until nightfall, then use the turning tide to risk investigating the farm on Luing.

  CHAPTER 15

  ______________

  Light Sleeper

  ‘UPDATE ON THE KAYAK.’

  Sebastian doesn’t need to look to know who the speaker is. The consistently dependable James Fields. The day’s proved every bit as interminable as expected. Most members of the team have bruised-looking rings around their eyes.

  ‘Go for it.’

  Eyes on his screen, Fields sags back into his chair. ‘It’s purple. Glass fibre composite, not plastic. All-purple kayaks of this construction are rare – most have white undersides, apparently – so forensics have been able to narrow it down to a single model. A Tempest, by Wilderness Systems. An English company.’

  An image appears on the wall of a slender craft with a cross-hatching of what’s probably bungee cord either side of an opening like a rounded keyhole for the paddler to sit in. Th
ere are two smaller hatches fore and aft that he assumes are for storage. The kayak has a red top and white underside.

  ‘Normally this model is plastic, but they produced a short run of glass-fibre models –’ there’s a pause ‘– ten years ago now. The pic should be near-identical except for the colour.’

  ‘Good work,’ says Sebastian. But Fields isn’t finished.

  ‘Interesting thing is, despite this kayak being ten years old, it was never used.’

  Sebastian blinks. ‘They can tell that?’

  ‘Oh, easily. UV degradation and contact with water and other substances leaves a signature, apparently. This kayak had not seen the water until the day it was at that camp.’

  Sebastian frankly doesn’t know what to make of this. From their expressions, neither do Lorna and the others. ‘Okay, what else have we got?’ he asks eventually. ‘First: the car. Surely we must have that by now?’

  Fields has obviously farmed this task out, because it’s Scott Petrie who answers.

  ‘The car is registered to one Mr Ahsan Yusuf.’

  Sebastian blinks. Jabs a finger at the pictures of the conspicuously Caucasian corpse on the screen.

  ‘You’re telling me this man’s name is Ahsan Yusuf?’

  Petrie grins. ‘No, chief – but they do have something in common.’ He’s clearly enjoying this. ‘Ahsan Yusuf is just as dead.’

  Sebastian feels his forehead crumple.

  ‘Identity theft?’ Lorna offers. Rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, Petrie nods.

  ‘Hell of a paper-trail, which I haven’t quite finished yet – but seems he died five years ago. Since when, his credit chip and bank accounts have remained active, he has paid his tax and services bills … In fact, he’s been a model citizen.’

  ‘Home address?’ Lorna again.

  ‘Let’s see …’ Petrie strokes his trackpad, rubbing a scalp that seems to have grown shinier as the day’s progressed. ‘33 Nora Street, Sunderland. In Northumbria,’ he adds, unnecessarily. Sebastian tugs at his lips. For a moment he’s lost. He’d felt on the verge of some revelation, but it’s slipped away.

  ‘Where are the man’s fingerprints?’ he asks eventually, looking up. ‘Surely they’ve been processed by now.’

  ‘No match for any on file,’ Andrew Campbell tells him. Pre-empting his next question, Campbell adds: ‘And no, they don’t match Ahsan Yusuf’s. I just checked.’

  ‘Good work. But … so, what are we saying? He’s an illegal immigrant?’

  ‘He’s an illegal something if his prints aren’t on the biometrics database.’

  Fields’ face seems to freeze. The police officer waves an apology as he lurches to his feet, pulling his ’phone from his pocket as he scurries up the stairs towards the door. Sebastian watches him leave.

  ‘So.’ He finds himself shaking his head. ‘We have … a kayak that was never used, strapped to a car owned not by the dead man who was driving it, but by a different dead man altogether.’ He’s been trying not to notice, but things about this case are starting to reek of fish. ‘Anyone have any explanations?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’ Shegen Tomlin. ‘Isn’t this all a little off topic? I mean, this unfortunate bugger’s a victim, isn’t he? Aren’t we in danger of losing focus?’

  Sebastian shrugs. ‘Well, that’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Frankly I have no bloody idea what’s going on here. All I do know is that we’re short of leads, and the deeper we dig into this little scenario the less things seem to add up.’ They all turn at the sound of the door opening. James Fields is standing at the top of the stairs, looking a little wild. He’s holding up his ’phone.

  ‘Followed up a wee hunch,’ Fields says, grabbing on to the rail. He’s slightly breathless. ‘After our conversation here.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And – I spoke to one of the junior examiners at the scene. Young lassie, but sharp as a button. Straight talker, too. I asked her if anything seemed odd about the crime scene.’

  ‘And, did it?’

  ‘In her opinion, the camp site wasn’t used.’

  Sebastian squints. ‘But we all saw it was used. There was the fire, and …’ He grimaces. Slaps himself on the forehead. Fields is nodding vigorously.

  ‘That’s right. Tents leave imprints on the grass. Sleeping bodies compress the ground as well. A tent had been pitched, but only for a couple of hours. No one slept there. The footprints match the deceased’s and what we expect Keir to be wearing – you were right, sir: apparently where the piece of head was found, there’s trampled ground consistent with a struggle. Time of death was estimated to be … an hour either side of dawn, if I’m remembering right, but the pattern of footprints doesn’t suggest the tent was ever used for camping. She doesn’t think it was even sat in.’

  A lot of blinking is going on.

  ‘So what does this mean?’ Soo-Ling Campbell asks plaintively, her jet eyebrows joined by a characteristic furrow. She’s speaking for most of the others, if their expressions are anything to go by. Sebastian screws up his face and scratches his head. He does this for quite a while.

  ‘What it means is that we need to make our own set of fingerprints.’

  He becomes animated.

  ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘On the slab in Gartcosh.’ Seeing this means nothing to Sebastian, Fields adds: ‘The big police campus. Near Glasgow.’

  ‘Shegen Tomlin, Derek Planter: I want you over there ASAP. Lorna – can you sign off a driver?’ Lorna nods. ‘I want prints, pics … You know the drill. Don’t pass them to anybody else: bring them here. Understand? In fact – screw that, just re-bag the body; bring it here. Andrew – no, Andrew Campbell – make sure they’ve got the paperwork. You find anyone stonewalling, get them straight on the ’phone to me.’

  Tomlin and Planter look at each other, eyes popping. They grab their jackets. Lorna hesitates, then follows them out of the door, followed by the lumbering chief inspector.

  ‘And get us someone solid in Sunderland. I want a thorough sweep of this dead guy’s house!’

  CHAPTER 16

  ______________

  Scent

  YOU’RE DOG-TIRED. You didn’t get much sleep, and the morning’s predictable little dance with police and MI5 bureaucracy sorely tested your patience.

  It’s nothing that caffeine and a sense of purpose can’t fix.

  You’re getting close to a proper trail. You can feel it. While there’s nothing tangible beyond the murder scene, your intuition needle is twitching off the scale.

  You can almost smell her ahead of you.

  The tiny white fishing boat you commandeered at the little village of Tayvallich isn’t the fastest or most powerful craft you could have chosen, but these weren’t properties you were looking for. Your need is to travel as closely as possible to the way Keir did. At similar speeds.

  You need thinking time.

  According to its owner, the boat does, however, have good range. Which is good to know as you’ve no idea yet how long you’ll be away, or when an opportunity to refuel will present itself. And so, with a small but potent arsenal from the boot of your car, you set off shortly after lunch down Loch Sween, tracked tirelessly by the military-grade GPS on the not-so-standard ’phone you’ve just been lent. Since you started this unusual hunt you’ve been conscious of daylight hours growing shorter each day, but you’re hopeful you can find something before nightfall.

  The first thing you pass that’s of note is a camp of boat people, near the ruined old barge that presumably brought them here. Seeing some are armed, you keep a respectful distance. You don’t know how long they’ve been here, but from the gaunt faces and stick-thin limbs you see in your binoculars, they won’t be for much longer.

  At the mouth of the loch, there’s a choice to make. On a whim you turn right: northwards, up a broad channel about five kilometres wide. The GPS display the ’phone’s sending to your Spex doesn
’t name the channel, but you remember from somewhere it’s called the Sound of Jura. There’s a whisky named Jura, you think.

  The ’phone’s a distraction, so you disable everything but the GPS. Trying to put yourself in Keir’s shoes – or rather, her kayak – you think back to the weather conditions those long days and nights ago. The wind rising. A storm blowing in. You’re injured. You’re probably losing blood; you’ve had little if anything to eat. You’re cold, in an unfamiliar kayak that’s probably pretty unstable. You’re daunted by the weather and the openness of the water. At the same time, you don’t trust the land or its unknown inhabitants.

  Where would you go?

  And why Loch Sween?

  Was it accident? Desperation? Or something more?

  For a while, you hug the shore. Then it occurs to you that she’d probably want to avoid being seen around the relatively inhabited areas neighbouring Tayvallich and the Crinan Canal. So you angle across the sound, towards the bleak coast of the Isle of Jura.

  It feels a daunting place. Even in a boat with an engine.

  Halfway across you see a two-strong team of the navy’s surface-effect coastal patrol boats roaring up the sound from the south. You’re on your boat’s radio before they can get a word in, providing a code they can check with HQ. One of them still insists on pulling alongside and sending a man down to check your credentials.

  You submit with good grace, asking if they’ve seen anyone in a purple kayak.

  The coastguard looks at you like you’re mad.

  You continue towards the island, the boat’s venerable single-cylinder diesel making a faltering “donk-donk-donk” sound, wreathing the boat in greasy smoke smelling of chip oil. For the first time you understand why boat-types call them donkeys. The swell is short and choppy, and the fishing boat doesn’t like it much. With its standing-room-only fibreglass cabin it’s less top-heavy than it looks, but it still wallows and pitches and tries to turn sideways as the waves roll underneath it at forty-five degrees.