by Ru Pringle
Lorna holds her cigarette packet towards him. The man’s bleary eyes dart from hers down to the packet, then crawl up again. He looks at it like she’s offered him a turd sandwich.
‘Suit yourself.’
She slides one out of the packet and pockets the rest.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
McCoull clearly considers whether to answer or not, but says: ‘As ye’re askin, I’d rather ye didna. Is that no illegal in here? Your roots is showin by the way. No a natural reid-heid ony mair, are ye?’
Very deliberately, she replaces the cigarette and makes a show of rooting in her bag for her vaper. ‘Good to see you’re such a stickler for the law.’
‘Get tae, princess.’
Sebastian enlarges his eyes and moves abruptly towards McCoull, arm raised. McCoull, he’s interested to see, doesn’t flinch. In fact, he looks like he’s planning a head-butt. Sebastian feels Lorna’s hand grab his arm, diverting its momentum. It’s a fascinating experience. He can feel how, with an extra little twist, she could have landed him flat on his back, looking like a fool.
‘None of that in here, please,’ she snaps. She takes a quick draw on the vaper she’s produced during the time it took to twist Sebastian’s arm. ‘Either of you.’
‘Which wan o youse clowns sent the message?’ McCoull fixes Sebastian with a bullish stare. ‘My money’s on airmy boy here. Aw, dinna luik sae surprised – us service boys can sniff each ither oot a mile aff. Ye’ll dootless hae seen ma record. Got wan o yer wee web-geeks tae tak dictation, did ye?’
Sebastian can’t help giving a wry curl to his mouth. The truth is, he’s feeling a little like a third nipple in here at the moment.
‘You’ve done the right thing,’ Lorna says smoothly. ‘We can protect you. Though I should repeat that your conversation with Keir is being checked for coded messages. We have some quite sophisticated analyses. Any anomalies we find will negate our agreement.’
‘I’m on the level.’ McCoull almost mumbles the words. ‘Like I tellt ye.’
‘You’d better be,’ growls Sebastian. This earns him a glare, but he leans forward and keeps going. ‘If you’re jerking our chains in any way, I will make it my personal mission to cause you pain. Is that clear? They won’t ever find your body.’
He straightens. Gestures at the walls.
‘You see any cameras? Have we ever said this is on the record? Yes, that’s right – this is very much off the record, sunshine. As far as this prison is concerned, you were never in this room. Meaning, if you’ve any sense at all you should be shitting your XXL pants right now.’
Lorna sighs melodramatically. ‘Not helping. My apologies, Mr McCoull – my colleague has had a trying week. He’s in hot water with his superiors because he lost some men recently. In an air strike on a marina south of Oban. You may have heard something about that?’
McCoull swallows visibly.
‘Which means, I believe, that you and he have something in common.’ She leans slightly forward. Sebastian’s impressed to see McCoull does the same. ‘Was Matteo Brandel just a contact? Or a personal friend?’
That triggers an immediate response. Sebastian can see the man’s pupils dilate.
He didn’t know …
Lorna’s eyes, meanwhile, have transformed all the way from gulag commander to concerned confidante.
‘We’re sorry for your loss.’
McCoull licks chapped lips. ‘Whit aboot Coira?’
‘What about Coira?’
He leans right forward now. Confidential. ‘I’m daein this acause o Coira. Ye dinna ken whit these people can dae.’
‘We have a pretty good idea what they can do,’ Lorna tells the man.
‘Naw. I dinna think sae. The air strike wisna the hauf o it.’
Sebastian holds his breath. Lorna Ainsworth mirrors McCoull’s stance. The man’s close enough for her to touch.
‘Why don’t you tell us, then? Tell us everything, Kenneth. It’ll be off the record, and you won’t have to be identified. We can act on the intel you give us, as an informant. There’s no way to avoid trial in the long run, I’m afraid, but your co-operation will be taken into account, and you’ll be protected. Witness protection rather than prison is a possible option.’
‘Ye mean – wi a locator chip in ma airm?’
Lorna’s forehead is puckered in the middle. ‘We want to protect Coira as well. We can’t do that without information. Please. Help us.’
‘We know someone was monitoring you before the bombing,’ Sebastian tells McCoull, going out on a limb. ‘They knew all about what you were planning. Yet they did nothing to stop you. Why was that?’
This earns him a sharp glare. ‘Wha says we wis plannin onythin?’
The man is no fool. Sebastian throws his head back.
‘Fuck’s sake, we don’t have time for this.’
Making sure he’s beyond striking range, he leans his knuckles on the table and looks McCoull right in the eye.
‘Kenneth, Ken, Kenny, Mister McCoull, Mungo … Whatever the fuck you want to be called. Let me make this very simple for you. If you and your little lonely insurrectionists’ club didn’t plant that bomb, then it looks like whoever did has so far killed another fifty-odd people, that we know of so far, just to hush it up and keep the blame pinned on you. The fact you’re breathing is a threat to them. Same for Sinclair-Kohli and Keir. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
He jabs an arm at the interview room door.
‘If you thought for one moment you were safe out there, you would never have responded to the message I sent, let alone let us take you in. My hacker says you weren’t even that hard to find. So stop jerking us about, and tell us what you fucking know!’
‘Or whit? Goin tae waterboard me, are ye?’
‘Of course we are. If we have to.’
Sebastian thinks he can interpret McCoull’s look. The man’s afraid he’s made a terrible mistake, and is evaluating options.
Bloodshot yellow eyes flick up at Lorna’s.
‘I’m sayin naethin. No til I ken Coira winna come tae hairm. Then I’ll mak a video for ye. Whitever ye want: fu confession. Put it oot on the ’net. That wye naebody’ll be able tae delete it.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not how it’s done, Kenneth. We have procedures.’
McCoull spasms, slamming a hand on the table. ‘Fuck procedures – youse think these people gie a toss aboot procedure? That’s why youse are daein this aff the record! Ye ken as weil’s I dae that procedure’s gonnae mak ye as deid as aw the rest o us. Ye promised me a safe-hoose, ya bastards. No a fuckin cell – ye really think I’m safe in here?’
‘You’re in solitary confinement, Kenneth.’ Both Lorna’s long arms are on the table now. Her hands are palm-down. ‘In a maximum security prison, under a fake ID. Nobody here knows who you are. Trust us: this is the safest place for you now.’
‘Trust ye?’ McCoull snorts.
‘Please.’ Lorna’s all melted now. A damsel needing a white knight. ‘Tell us what you know. Tell us about the bombing. If you weren’t responsible, let us know. On or off the record, it’s up to you.’
McCoull chews his lip, eyes working from side to side. He doesn’t look much like a mass murderer. He looks terrified.
‘Have you really had no word from Rajiv? Doctor Sinclair-Kohli?’
McCoull rolls his eyes. ‘Like I tellt ye. Havena seen him in weeks.’
Sebastian whirls towards Lorna. ‘This is pointless. We should put a chip in him. Put him out on the street.’
That got to the bastard. Lorna half-rises. ‘Look, will you shut up!’ She reseats herself, glaring at Sebastian, and turns back to the man. He’s shaking. ‘Come on, Kenneth. We want to help. Help us to help you. We can cut a deal for information.’
‘I want a lawyer.’
Sebastian stops his pacing and laughs. He makes sure it’s a good, hearty cackle.
‘We really d
o want to help you.’ Lorna is beseeching now. She leans back slightly, expression hardening. ‘But how can we know we can trust you? Look at it from our point of view. So far, in exchange for our protection, we’ve yet to see anything concrete except what someone uncharitable might see as you selling out one of your closest friends. We need you to give us something to work with.’
McCoull’s eyes bulge. ‘Ye think I’m prood o this?’
He stands suddenly. His hands are jerked down by the chain, hitting the table with a thump.
‘Awright,’ he says, ‘that’s me: I’ve haed it wi youse clowns. Jaist get me back tae ma fuckin cell, ya uppity cunt.’
CHAPTER 52
______________
Hope
LORNA WALKS SILENTLY to a corner of the corridor where two wardens are waiting to take McCoull back to his cell. Nodding, she escorts them back to the interview room, where they unlock the man from the floor and drag him away. Finding herself alone, she lingers. Her eyes study the peeling, scuffed walls without quite seeing them.
Could this finally be it? she wonders. The turning point?
She had expected to feel relieved. Perhaps even excited. What she mostly feels is scared.
Sebastian is waiting outside, leaning against the door frame. ‘Seems too good to be true,’ she mumbles, snatching the real cigarette he’s smugly proffering. ‘Think he’s playing straight?’
They walk towards the exit, Sebastian taking his time to reply.
‘I think he’s a snake. But … he’s sincere enough about protecting Keir. And he must be frightened out of his wits. If he thinks we’re safer than the alternative.’
‘Sebastian, have you ever been waterboarded?’
He stops, dead.
‘That’s a funny old question. Why would you ask that?’
‘I don’t know. Have you?’
She watches his weathered features stiffen. For a moment his gaze is elsewhere.
He relaxes slightly.
‘Not just waterboarding.’ Eyes lowered, he pulls up his top lip, revealing teeth that are obviously implants, and what looks like an area of artificial gum. ‘Trust me, you’ll do anything after a while. No matter how tough or principled you think you are.’
‘My God, Sebastian. Where …?’
‘Somewhere not very nice.’ The way he says this tells her this line of conversation is over. ‘Anyway, as far as McCoull’s concerned, we’ll know for certain soon enough. Do you think we got what we needed for now?’
She nods. ‘We’ll need to work him for detail, of course. It would be good to have him on record if this ever goes official.’
‘I’m starting to worry this won’t be that kind of case.’
‘Makes two of us. For now though, I think we’ve more than enough to bring things forward. It’s not as though McCoull’s the only iron we have in the fire.’
She feels a funny little stab as she says this.
‘Christ, Sebastian. I hope he’s alright. He’s such a … stubborn …’ Teeth clamp down on her lips, momentarily sealing them. ‘How am I supposed to control him? It’s two days since we heard anything.’
She feels an arm go around her shoulder. She’s grateful. ‘You’re overly protective, Lorna. He’s a grown man. And not a team player, to put it mildly. I hate to admit this, but despite his, ah … eccentricities, that boy of yours gets things done. Seriously, he’s the best profiler I’ve seen, let alone field officer. I never knew anyone work a target so many steps ahead. I’m sure that once he’s worked through this current wrinkle, he’ll be back on form.’
Lorna doesn’t mention the bad feeling she’s had, or that she’s spent the last decade and a half wishing her son had a desk job. She starts walking. Towards the lobby where Shegen Tomlin and Sara Bojko will be waiting, expecting someone to explain why the man they brought into custody – the man topping Britain’s most wanted list, with a reward on his head big enough to retire on – hasn’t been processed formally or placed in custody under his own name.
Feeling Sebastian still beside her, she murmurs: ‘Let’s hope so.’
CHAPTER 53
______________
Juggernaut
THERE’S AN OPPRESSIVE CEILING of bruised-looking cloud next morning as Otter’s Pocket slides from the shallow entrance of Soay Harbour. Alistair insisted they rise early, to leave while the tide was high.
Coira is down in the cabin. He can hear her singing quietly to herself, and faint noises as she skins and guts the rabbit he found at dawn in one of the snares. While he suspects it’s something she hasn’t done before, she goes about it without complaint or hesitation. He has little doubt she’ll make a good job of it.
The wind is from the West. Faintly medicinal, it reminds him of the whisky he’s heard is still made in the Talisker distillery, not far from here. The sound separating Soay from the stealth-dark flanks of the Cuillin isn’t wide. Funnelling between the two islands, the wind’s sufficiently gusty and strong for him to drop the mainsail by almost a metre and put in a couple of reefs so the boat’s not overpowered. A nasty short chop is also squeezing through the gap, causing the bow to thump down off the wave crests every few seconds in bursts of spray. Alistair has to tack pretty hard to reach open water. He’s not surprised to hear groans and cursing from below decks.
Once the boat’s past the low headland guarding the mouth of Loch Brittle on Skye he’s able to relax a bit, bearing Otter’s Pocket away from the wind to follow the coast north-west. It’s close to the boat’s favourite point of sail and, despite hammering through oncoming swell at forty-five degrees, the GPS is soon showing a true speed just shy of eight knots. Spray deluges along the boat as though Poseidon is having fun with a bucket. As it pours off his Gore-Tex oilskins, Alistair is grinning like a madman.
The swell is substantial. He suspects it must be monstrous further north, out in the waters of the Minch. The boat’s corkscrewing motion as it climbs each wave diagonally and launches off the top means he’s having to work the tiller hard to keep her on course. He brings Otter’s Pocket into the wind a few degrees. The boat leans a bit more and its motion grows a little more violent, but less unnatural.
He wasn’t quick enough.
A scrabbling blur of obscenities bursts into the cockpit and does something he’s seen done by flame throwers, except this time what’s being projected is liquid yellow vomit. He dodges most of it. Then he’s clutching a fistful of clothing as its wearer noisily coughs, chokes and dry-retches over the stern.
‘Careful! If you go overboard, I’m not guaranteed to find you.’
If he’s honest, he’s feeling fragile as well. The smell of bile and stomach acid is almost enough to set him off.
A face appears: Coira’s jaundiced, saucer-eyed ghost. Its voice has dropped an octave and is uttering phrases he’s heard in criminal gangs, but never in such variety or density. He’s reminded of a scene from William Friedkin’s twentieth-century film The Exorcist. ‘Keep your eyes on the horizon,’ he tells her, flicking unidentifiable chunks off himself. ‘Eat something. You’ll feel better.’
‘Only thing I’m in danger … of eating’s … a bullet.’ Her eyes bulge, and then she’s bent once more over the stern rail. He’s glad she had the foresight to put on his spare oilskins. They’re comically too large for her.
‘Steer,’ he says. ‘Concentration helps.’
‘Fuck off. Kill me.’
‘Take the tiller. Captain’s orders.’
‘Arr, Cap’n.’ As female Blackbeard impressions go, it’s convincing. Coira feebly grabs the tiller and shuffles her bum along the uphill bench, feet braced on the bench opposite.
‘Don’t let go of it! Aim about ten degrees from the shore. Further out than you think. The waves and the sea will be pushing us shoreward.’
‘Arr.’ Drool is hanging from her chin. She looks half dead. He very much wants to hug her. Can hardly restrain himself, in fact.
What th
e hell is he doing?
He clambers up to sit on the coaming next to the cabin. The boat is leaning steeply enough for it to make a good seat.
He can’t believe this is happening. It makes no sense. They got on so badly before. Now, the thought of being alone on his boat again makes him feel … empty, with a kind of panic thrown in. He curses Coira. Curses himself, for being a fool. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows they will sail over the Minch to Lochmaddy, in North Uist. If they push hard and the weather gets no worse, they can make the safety of Lochmaddy Harbour today. The next day will be a stiff haul, but with luck they can make Stornoway. And then – one way or another – he’ll be on a flight south.
The same, but in nothing like the same.
Traces of pink have returned to Coira’s face. He wonders how she’d cope on a crossing. Most people adapt after their first bout of proper seasickness. Some never do.
Coira.
There’s no running away from the juggernaut that’s about to smack him down. One way or another, when he reaches Stornoway, part of either his life or his soul will have come to an end.
CHAPTER 54
______________
Ginger
YOUR PATIENCE, both with boats and those who sail in them, is wearing thinner by the day.
You can’t believe it. You’d been up, as agreed, at the crack of dawn, stiff and sore from the collapsed old mattress you’ve been sleeping on and the inadequate blanket you were wrapped in, ready and raring to go. Not only was your captain still drunk, but when you finally managed to rouse him he had refused point-blank to set sail.
‘Why?’ you demanded.
‘Well now, it’s the tide, you see.’ He’d muttered something in what you’re guessing was Gaelic. You hadn’t realised anyone still spoke the language. ‘We need to wait for the tide to turn. It’ll be against us.’
You give him your blankest stare. ‘You mean, there’s a tidal current?’
He nods, digging a knuckle in one eye socket and drooling slightly.