by G R Jordan
Hope’s lungs were feeling like they would collapse but the man ahead of her was in full flow. She believed it to be the same man on the beach where Karen Gibbons had died, the one who Jona would never forget, callous and brutal in dispatching his victim. Despite his two rucksacks, the head start he had was enough to keep him ahead as he reached a small tender by the shore. Flinging both bags in, he pulled the cord of a motor and stared back, presumably looking for his sister.
Hope could not see what was behind her, but the man clearly did not like it and he started the tender as Hope got close. With a last-minute sprint and a dive, she managed to grab hold of a rope running around the top of the inflatable and pulled herself up through the water. The man reached down to punch her but as he threw his fist, Hope yanked hard on the rope causing the tender to wobble and change course. The man fell down and Hope was able to pull herself up and onto the tender.
A boot struck her face, but she managed to turn her head and most of the impact slipped past her. But she rolled over like it was a knockout blow. With half an eye open, she watched the man check her movement and think she was out cold, before turning the tender towards the boat. The sea pitched here and there, and she was glad she was lying down now.
It was a short journey to the waiting boat and Hope heard someone calling. The man stood up and threw a rope. As he did, he was standing directly over Hope and she raised her leg suddenly, driving her foot up into his groin. He cried out in pain and she rolled up, driving her shoulder up into him and knocking him over. The tender wobbled and she thought she was going over into the water but something kept it afloat and she dove on top of her foe. Grabbing a pair of handcuffs from her back pocket, she took a wrist and cuffed it to the tender’s rope.
‘Andy, are you okay? Is that Cheryl with you?’
It was a girl’s voice, a teenager perhaps and Hope stood up as the tender came alongside. Maybe in the swirling sea and driving rain the fight looked more like a struggle of fellow crewmates but however the girl was seeing it, Hope was not for hanging around. She turned and reached up from the side of the boat, hauling herself onto it. There was a cry beside her and Hope felt something cut across her arm.
Bikers wear leather jackets for a reason and Hope was glad of hers despite how heavy it felt. The knife had gone through but not deeply and Hope pulled her arm towards herself and looked at her attacker. Stewart had described the teen who had attacked her in detail but Hope could have guessed who this was from the clothes she was wearing. A night like this and the girl was in a pair of denim shorts and a sodden t-shirt that left little to the imagination. And if she was dressed like that . . .? Hope saw the look in the girl’s eyes and ducked.
A pair of arms appeared over Hope’s head and she elbowed hard behind her, catching the bladder of the person behind her. They stumbled back and Hope turned around to see a strapping young man of at least six foot. She did not dare wait to assess him but instead drove a fist into his face followed by another, and then a third, watching him topple to the ground. But as he fell, Hope found herself being jumped upon from behind and a knife appeared at her throat.
Hope had managed to get an arm up blocking the knife and had grabbed the girl’s wrist. She had not looked strong, but the girl was seething like a wild thing and Hope felt her ear being bitten into. Pain rolled across her and Hope felt like she would have to move her hands to assist her ear but that would be her last move, because the knife could then go for her throat. The boat pitched and they stumbled into outside wall of the main cabin.
Her ear was now going numb and Hope swore it had ripped. Bit by bit the girl’s stronger position was causing Hope to weaken and Hope knew she had to do something. Again, the boat lurched and they stumbled backwards in their clinch. But the boat then pitched the other way and Hope went with it, half running and then bending down, placing the head of the girl, who was still gripping onto Hope’s back at a horizontal angle, before Hope’s head. And Hope threw herself into the exterior cabin wall.
The girl’s grasp fell apart as her head struck the cabin side and they both collapsed but Hope was ready for it and rolled out from underneath the girl. As the girl tried to get to her feet, Hope punched hard and the girl dropped like a stone. Looking down at bare legs, a sodden white top and buttocks half hanging out of her denim shorts, Hope took a moment for a word of victory. ‘Tart!’ It was not professional, but it felt good.
She staggered to the side of the boat and looked towards shore where Hope saw Macleod staring out to the boat. He had a thumb raised to the air. Hope looked around her, at the man on the tender, handcuffed and going nowhere, the six-foot giant who was still lying unconscious, and to the girl who had ripped her ear. Hope needed rope to tie them up, a pilot to bring this boat to a harbour somewhere, and someone to look at her ear. A raised hand brought back in front of her showed blood. But otherwise, situation under control. Hope raised her hand, thumb in the air.
This is what Macleod needs me for. Let’s see Stewart handle this sort of action. You don’t get to shove your glasses up your nose at this!
Chapter 24
Macleod was sitting in the rear seat of the police car as it drove back to the station. He was exhausted due to the all-night work at the scene of the MacPhail’s foiled escape. Hope had stayed with him after being brought a change of clothes and in fairness, she had been sharp because he had been lacking something. Inside, he should have been delighted, should have been celebrating but there were other things on his mind.
Ross and Stewart had flown in and arrived at the coast across from Eolaigearraidh that afternoon. Her male colleague had been on good form and as usual was helping to tidy up any loose ends. But Stewart had been distracted behind her smiles and she had asked to see Macleod that evening for a ‘chat’ about the case. For the last week, Hope had been going on about Stewart not being the one to have gone to the mainland and she was right, except for Macleod’s state of mind. Stewart was not ready and he would have preferred Hope with Ross. But if Macleod had not been functioning, then Stewart would not have been able to pick up the loose ends. At least not like Hope could.
At Castlebay, Macleod was delivered to the police station where an array of newshounds awaited. Still, now that the case was solved, all be it for the elusive Dudley, Drummer, or whatever else he was calling himself, the press would be all but gone by tomorrow. And he would not be too far behind them. Stepping out of the car, he actually smiled at the vultures and announced he would be giving a briefing in fifteen minutes. Coffee first but he did not let them know that. No, the smile was lost to a busy expression until he got through the station door.
Wrapping up a case took care and focus but he knew Hope was on top of it. And he was glad she was as his mobile rang. It was Mackintosh’s number and he took the call inside the small office. The woman was a mess and Macleod sat and listened for ten minutes before explaining that he really had to go and that they could talk more tonight. He then spoke briefly to Jane, who was with Mackintosh, but had to run for his press briefing. He had barely spoken with Jane, almost always with Mackintosh since the operation, but he knew they needed time as a couple.
Someone handed him a statement before he stepped out the door and Macleod stood on a small wooden platform as the cameras faced him. Reading off the paper as if he had drafted it himself and not simply scanned it thirty seconds before, Macleod held the attention of the news media and many locals behind them. It was for them he felt glad that this hunt was over. Barra had a charm all of its own and he had not had the chance to experience it properly. Staring at Kisimul castle, he vowed to himself to bring Jane back here one day. Good times often flushed away the horrors he saw in the job.
It was six o’clock when the team sat down for dinner together; an idea from Hope but he was happy to embrace it. They had been stretched and had been communicating on the telephone and by email a lot of the time and she said a little camaraderie would do wonders. Jona Nakamura had also joined them and Macleod made a
point at dinner of stopping and toasting the young woman who had performed well despite his admonishment of leaving the community hall open. He wondered if the next case would also be with Miss Nakamura.
Stewart was quiet throughout the meal, not even fiddling constantly with her glasses and Macleod felt a worry growing inside. He would meet her at eight and she had asked to meet in her room to keep others at bay. The station would let people see that she had an issue; they may even overhear and she did not want that.
Hope was full of life at the meal, and between Ross and Jona, she found good companions to talk to. When everyone had got up from the table, she sat beside Macleod, but he waved her away. ‘I’ll see you at nine for a drink,’ he had said. ‘You deserve one.’
When Macleod knocked on Stewart’s door, he felt weary, as if he were about to take on the weight of the world on his shoulders. Well, it was half true. He was taking Stewart’s troubles on his shoulders which were already carrying Mackintosh’s. At least the pressure of the case had fallen from them.
The door opened and Stewart stood in a pair of black trousers and a white blouse, her hair tied up behind her.
‘Sir, thank you for coming to see me. I want to make a few things clear about how I have been feeling.’
‘Shall I step inside?’ asked Macleod and gently pushed his way in. ‘And if it’s that serious, Kirsten, drop the sir. What’s up? Nothing goes from here to anyone—just tell me what’s the matter.’
Stewart turned and walked to her bed, sitting down on it, while Macleod made for a chair. But then he saw her shoulders shaking and sat down directly beside her. He heard a snivel and then saw red eyes as she looked at him. There were tears streaming down her face and she was leaning forward trying to control the juddering that was coursing through her body.
‘She would have killed me but for him. She would have simply disposed of me. And then she just . . . slit his throat. I couldn’t save him, couldn’t stop her. She killed Green, too. Blood everywhere, all over Ross. Standing there, looking at me, hanging all to show for him and then she killed him. I can’t do this, sir. I can’t. Not that.’
Macleod thought about saying something but instead simply held his colleague as she cried. By procedure, he should, of course, have Hope with him and this should be in a police station, but Kirsten had not wanted that. Holding her tight, all Macleod said was, ‘I know’ and let the woman sob.
Kirsten was not the first officer to fall apart; he had done so himself and was feeling no anger or any less of her for it. Instead, he had a worry that she might not get over it. The woman was a thinker, someone who delved into people and things with a fine-tooth comb. But there are some parts of people that should not be looked into, at least if you want to keep on the front line of the job.
Before he left her, Macleod talked to Stewart about getting proper help and doing it discreetly. She was worried how it would look but he told her it would help and that he would put Hope in charge of seeing Stewart got the required help. The two needed to bond better.
When he entered the bar at ten o’clock, Macleod saw Hope holding a Mojito amongst several locals and travellers. She pointed to a cup of coffee and he gladly took it up. There were cries of congratulations from several local people and Macleod acknowledged them. They were victims too, having lost one of their own by accident. It was then his mobile rang and he saw Jona Nakamura’s number.
‘Sir, I’ve been called out back to the site of last night’s activities at Eolaigearraidh. One of the team was surveying the land and saw a patch of land that looked odd. We didn’t get to it until later today because of the obvious other work, but there’s a body here. It looks like the old man who was in the gang—Drummer, or Dudley, as we now believe him to be called.’
‘I thought he had run,’ said Macleod. ‘How was he killed?’
‘Knife across the throat. Bled out by the looks of it and then was buried. I’ll need one of you up here but there’s no rush.’
‘I’ll be up there in an hour,’ said Macleod. Clearing the call, Macleod nodded to Hope to join him outside and they stepped into a damp night, but the wind had died away and there was a break in the cloud. Before them, they saw Kisimul castle bathed briefly in a tight shaft of moonlight before it moved away as the clouds drifted on.
‘That was Miss Nakamura. Dudley is dead, found in a shallow grave close to where we were last night. I’m going up in an hour to do the formalities. But I need a coffee first and then I have a telephone call to make.’
Hope looked at him with concern. ‘You’ve been up all night. Let me do it, or maybe even Ross or Stewart.’
‘I’ll take Ross with me.’ He saw Hope’s disenchanted face. ‘He can do the bulk of the work. I need an excuse to cut off my call. And you need to go and see Stewart. Kirsten needs help, Hope. The young MacPhail was seconds from killing her and she then saw her saviour killed before her. It isn’t dropping from her. I want you to help her out. Full works, whatever’s needed but let her direct. Understand?’
‘Aye, sir. But she did go to you I take it?’
‘She did, Hope, and not you—which is an issue. You both need to get closer and stop this competition. You’re both on the team because I need you and you’re both damn good officers. So just stop competing. I have enough to do without that. And besides, you’re her Sergeant so she should go to you.’
Hope was about to respond and deny any competition, but she stopped short. Good, thought Macleod, she’s starting to self-assess. ‘One day, Hope, you’ll be in charge, fully in charge so stop thinking about what others think of you and just do the job how you want it done. You’re too good to be worrying about what people like me think of you or how we want to deploy you. Just get on with it and own what you’re given.’
‘Thanks, Seoras.’
‘For what?’
‘Trusting me.’
‘Rather you with Kirsten than me. Trust me, I’m in for a long night. Now go see her.’
Macleod watched Hope walk back to the hotel and he remembered when he had first seen her. Yes, she had been attractive—well, she still was. But he had missed the fire and drive, and the decency of the woman. Maybe he had a problem that way with women. He got Ross in an instant when he had met him. But Mackintosh had taken time to get to know—Jane too, and Stewart. He totally missed that she would struggle with such a personal threat. They did not build you back home to understand women, merely see their place. No wonder it had taken him so long to be free of that.
Macleod pressed the image of Jane’s face on his mobile and he heard her answer in a quiet but hopeful voice.
‘Hi, Seoras, I’ll just get her for you.’
‘Jane, hang on. Let her be; she’ll have plenty of time to talk to me. First, you. How’s it been for you?’
Read on to discover the Patrick Smythe series!
Start your Patrick Smythe journey here!
Patrick Smythe is a former Northern Irish policeman who after suffering an amputation after a bomb blast, takes to the sea between the west coast of Scotland and his homeland to ply his trade as a private investigator. Join Paddy as he tries to work to his own ethics while knowing how to bend the rules he once enforced. Working from his beloved motorboat ‘Craigantlet’, Paddy decides to rescue a drug mule in this short story from the pen of G R Jordan.
Join G R Jordan’s monthly newsletter about forthcoming releases and special writings for his tribe of avid readers and then receive your free Patrick Smythe short story.
Go to https://bit.ly/PatrickSmythe for your Patrick Smythe journey to start!
About the Author
GR Jordan is a self-published author who finally decided at forty that in order to have an enjoyable lifestyle, his creative beast within would have to be unleashed. His books mirror that conflict in life where acts of decency contend with self-promotion, goodness stares in horror at evil, and kindness blindsides us when we at our worst. Corrupting our world with his parade of wondrous and horrific characters, he
highlights everyday tensions with fresh eyes whilst taking his methodical, intelligent mainstays on a roller-coaster ride of dilemmas, all the while suffering the banter of their provocative sidekicks.
A graduate of Loughborough University where he masqueraded as a chemical engineer but ultimately played American football, Gary had worked at changing the shape of cereal flakes and pulled a pallet truck for a living. Watching vegetables freeze at -40’C was another career highlight and he was also one of the Scottish Highlands “blind” air traffic controllers. These days he has graduated to answering a telephone to people in trouble before telephoning other people to sort it out.
Having flirted with most places in the UK, he is now based in the Isle of Lewis in Scotland where his free time is spent between raising a young family with his wife, writing, figuring out how to work a loom and caring for a small flock of chickens. Luckily, his writing is influenced by his varied work and life experience as the chickens have not been the poetical inspiration he had hoped for!
You can connect with me on:
https://grjordan.com
https://facebook.com/carpetlessleprechaun
Subscribe to my newsletter:
https://bit.ly/PatrickSmythe
Also by G R Jordan
A Personal Agenda (Highlands & Islands Detective Book 7)
http://a-fwd.com/asin-uk=B08HQG9GML&asin-ca=B08HQG9GML