by Vince Vogel
“Who’s he?” Dorring asked.
“That’s the auld detective here. John Chalmers.”
“Why’s he on the board?”
“Because he helped cover up the murders of those poor young darlings. But he got his comeuppance in the end.”
“You mean burning in his house today?”
“Not only burning,” Patricia Johnston remarked.
“What does that mean?” Dorring said, turning from the board and gazing at her.
“Despite appearances,” she said, “I still have friends here on McGuffin. Friends who inform me of things. I found out from someone who was there that when they brought John Chalmers’ charred body out of his smoking house, he’d had all his teeth smashed in.”
“Someone had injured him?”
“Yes. I was told that his mouth was wide open and that all of his teeth were either pulled out or broken. My friend says it looked like someone had gone at him with a claw hammer.”
“Who?”
“You tell me,” she said, shrugging her wide shoulders.
Dorring turned back to the board. Underneath the picture of Patrick Appleby was a line leading to a question mark. It was parallel to the picture of Bruce Appleby.
“What does the question mark mean?” he asked.
“That’s the great mystery. I’ve been wondering that for nigh on twenty-two years. Ever since I came down here after Craig.”
“He never explained it to you?”
“We never talked shop in the house. This was his place to have a wee think when he was home. Hidden down here away from me. I knew he kept something like this, but I never bothered to come an’ see it. Just used to knock on the hatch when his tea were ready.”
“Why’s Fergus on here?”
“He’s part of the cops. Craig must’ve believed he was behind a lot of it.”
Then Dorring recognized another of the men. One joined by a line to Fergus. The face wasn’t so bitter as when Dorring had witnessed it the day before. Rather, it was smiling. Still, Dorring couldn’t mistake the gray whiskered countenance that belonged to the landlord at the Mermaid and Anchor. The man named Mac.
As he ogled the photo, Dorring began to understand something. See it clearly where before it had been opaque.
“That’s the landlord at the Mermaid and Anchor, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes. Leon MacMillon. Otherwise known as Mac.”
“Why’s he here?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I haven’t drunk in the Mermaid since I first saw his photo down here.”
“Is there anything else?” Dorring asked.
“I’m afraid that’s all there is.”
“What about your husband’s notebooks?” Dorring said, turning to her from the board. “He kept notes, right?”
“All taken. Like I said, they broke in. They didn’t know about this place, so they didn’t come down here. Unfortunately, my husband didn’t keep his notebooks here either. Only this. He used to keep his notes in the hoose in case he suddenly needed them. He was forever waking in the middle o’ the night and grabbing a book up. Either reading some lines or adding some more.”
“So this is all that’s left?” Dorring put to her.
“Yes.”
“And he never told you anything more?”
“All he told me was that he suspected Patrick Appleby was behind it all. Even the killings.”
But Patrick Appleby would never have been in Helmand, Dorring said in his head.
“Why do you think your husband suspected Patrick Appleby?” he asked her.
“Because the only man powerful enough to keep a lid on something like this would be him.”
“And I take it his son, Bruce, would have that power now?”
“Oh yes.”
15
By the time Dorring returned to the cottage, it was nightfall. He came via the coast, staying tight to the edge of overhanging cliffs. The whole way, he expected an imminent attack. That’s why he hugged the cliffs and used the cover of the rocks wherever he could.
When he reached the area of the cottage, he didn’t use the wooden steps to get to the top. Instead, he climbed up the clay cliff on the other side, grappling along the half fallen trees that had come down when the cliff edge was washed away. Using the woodland that cradled the cottage as cover, Dorring spent a minute or so watching the property.
The lights were off, but he soon saw movement inside. The curtains were open and a shadow moved about on the other side. He didn’t see Mo’s car either.
Cautiously, Dorring made his way around the cottage to the side where he knew the window to the bathroom was open a little way, having left it like that earlier. Sliding his hand through the gap, he lifted the sill so that it was completely open. When he’d climbed inside, he stood at the door listening to the sounds of someone creaking about on the wooden floor of the main room. The footsteps approached the bathroom and he took a firm grip on the doorknob.
The second the handle turned, he pulled the door sharply to him and the person on the other end came flying into the room. In the darkness, he twisted their body around easily and placed his arm across their throat and his hand over their mouth.
She screamed into his hand and he recognized the smell of her hair.
It was Mo.
He let go and she pushed herself away from him and turned with a frightened look on her face. He pulled the light cord and the bulb flickered on. The frightened look didn’t immediately leave her. She stood with her back pressed to the corner of the bathroom opposite him, wide eyes fixed to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and her face finally softened. “I didn’t see your car.”
“Were you in here the whole time?”
“No. I was watching the place. I saw you moving about inside. I thought you might be someone else.”
“Who?’
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Where’s your car?”
“The rain made the dirt track muddy. I didn’t want to get stuck, so I parked on the road and walked here.”
“I am sorry, Mo,” he said sincerely.
She snapped out of it, came away from the wall and a smile ignited her face in joy. She went up to Dorring and threw her arms around him, nestling her head into his shoulder.
“You frightened me,” she said softly.
“I am sorry.”
Then she noticed his shoulder and stepped back.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Oh, this?” he said, glancing at the bleeding shoulder. “I fell in the woods. Caught my arm on a sharp piece of branch.”
“It’s bleeding pretty bad,” she pointed out. Then coming completely away, she added, “Take your coat off.”
She walked out of the bathroom and he followed.
“Why’s the light off?” he asked as he came into the pitch black main room of the cottage, a bar of light shining out of the bathroom.
“The bulb went when I came in,” she replied. “I guess the rain made the electrics wet. I was looking for another one or a candle.”
Going back into the bathroom, he turned the light off, stood on the edge of the bathtub and removed the warm bulb. He then placed it in the other room, switched the light on and sat himself down on the bed.
While he took his coat off, Mo stood before him and gasped when she saw the open wound on his right shoulder. It was four inches long and the bullet had passed right along it, burrowing about half an inch into the flesh as it roared by. A little deeper and it would have hit the bone and buried itself in there. Probably blown the whole shoulder away.
Then she glanced up at his face and frowned.
“Your stubble is gone,” she pointed out. “And your hair’s a wee bit shorter too.”
“I went to the barber.”
“I like the neat hair, but you should have kept the stubble. It made you look like a wolf.”
He grinned at her.
“Right,” she said next. �
�I’ve got a first aid kit in the glovebox o’ ma car. It’s got some surgical thread and a needle. I’ll go fetch it. So you be washing the wound in the kitchen sink while I do.”
“Okay.”
She walked out of the cottage and into the rain. Dorring stood up from the bed and came to the kitchen sink at the front of the place. Through the window, he watched Mo go down the muddy track as he turned the faucet on and began washing down the wound with a cloth.
As he did, Dorring glanced to his right and saw that she’d left her handbag. Glancing back out the window, he saw that she was halfway down the track. She’d be at least another minute.
He grabbed the bag, snapped the metal clasp open and began going through it. Soon, he found what he was looking for. A mobile phone. It was off, so he switched it on. The screen lit up and he saw that it had bars.
They must have their own network, Dorring said to himself.
He looked through the address book of the phone. Names he didn’t recognize. Then one he did: Fergus. Then one that made him stop.
K.
Kevin, flashed through Dorring’s head.
When Kevin had left the message, he’d called from a private landline. One Dorring had been unable to trace. He’d guessed it was from somewhere on the island. The closest he’d traced it was to Scotland. The call had been rerouted in Inverness, the closest city on mainland Scotland. No record of where it came from before then, though.
It can’t be, Dorring said to himself.
He pressed dial and the number was called. He waited several seconds as it rung, but then saw Mo returning down the track.
Quickly switching off the phone, he returned it to the exact place he found it in the bag, having been careful not to mess the contents up too much when looking through it.
When she walked through the door, he was busy cleaning the blood away from the wound.
“I found this,” she said, holding a bottle of iodine up to him.
He smiled at her and she came over to him. As she did, she spotted the handbag so close to him on the sideboard and went red. She quickly turned her eyes back to him, smiled lasciviously and threw her arms around him, pulling Dorring close and kissing his lips passionately.
She’s good, he thought. But not good enough not to let the act drop every so often.
In truth, he wasn’t sure what to do. He now knew that it had been her who’d tipped them off about the body. That morning, after he’d returned and told her about it, she’d insisted upon getting dressed in the bathroom behind a closed door. At the time, it had struck him as a little odd. After all, he’d already seen every part of her—there was no shame between them. What did it matter if he watched her get dressed?
Now he knew why. She was either calling or texting someone on the mobile phone.
But what to do about her?
His training told him to grab her at the next opportunity and torture it out of her. But he’d lost the heart for that lately. If it became the only choice, then he would. But not until every other possible avenue had been explored.
Should he interrogate her? Get straight to the point and make her take him to the killer? Threaten her?
But then what if she doesn’t know who it is? She was obviously sent to spy on Dorring, but how much does she actually know? Dorring gathered that she probably never sent for someone to pick the body up specifically. Only reported it in to someone. Someone who’d personally want the body removed.
Then I should find out who that is.
But then this may only lead so far up the ladder. It may not lead to the killer. She may not be working for the killer. Doesn’t have any idea who the killer is.
No, it was too dangerous to expose her now. So far the islanders weren’t being openly hostile to him. Sure, there’d been two serious attempts on his life, but that was all done in secret. Back alleys and deserted woodland. A single man. Not the whole island. They stared and they warned him, but they didn’t openly attack him. If he went in too hard, he could find himself in an impossible situation. They may all turn on him at once.
So all Dorring could do was wait. Keep Mo close and see what turned up. Maybe try and needle something out of her while pretending to still be oblivious to her actual intentions.
Hell, maybe get some more sex out of it.
Once Dorring had finished cleaning the wound, they sat opposite each other at the round table. Dorring held his arm out while she first wiped the wound with the iodine and then stitched it together, pressing the needle through the flesh, pulling the thread along with it, and then pressing it through the other side of the wound, gradually pulling the thing together. Not once did Dorring flinch. The whole time, he merely sat staring into her eyes as she went to work with great care. Occasionally, she would ask him if it hurt and he would merely answer with a blank “Yes”. On other occasions, she would be so engrossed in her work that she would look up into his eyes and instantly smile at his blank look. Her cheeks would go red and she’d blush. He realized that though he’d been played, she’d obviously enjoyed the work.
Once the wound was closed, Mo tore some fabric off the bottom of her skirt and wrapped the wound in lieu of bandages. It made the skirt very short and it finished somewhere close to the top of her thighs. He couldn’t help looking at the top of her legs as she wrapped the cloth around his shoulder. She caught him and smiled.
Finishing the knot, she leaned forward, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him passionately.
16
That night, Dorring let Mo sleep while he took a chair from the table and sat in front of the window with his eyes peeled on the rain covered track outside.
Dorring had no intention of sleeping. He didn’t really sleep anyway. Suffered insomnia and had been trained to do without. It suited him right now. Suited him because he’d need it. Need to keep going. He suspected something big was happening on McGuffin. And not just with the killer either.
The ships in the night came back to him. The Morse code. Then the body the next day. Could it have been thrown off of one of those ships? If only he’d have realized it was Morse code earlier. He might have been able to get part of the code. Maybe it would have given him an extra clue.
At the manor, everyone had a gun. Why so many guns? An age old custom couldn’t encourage so many. Were they expecting war? Because it looked like it. Surely, protecting pharmaceutical patents didn’t need quite so much firepower.
Yes, he thought. They’re up to something big here and everyone seems worried that it will be ruined. My turning up is the last thing they wanted.
Because of what happened in the woods, Dorring felt sure that the hooded figure would come for him at some point. That meant he had to be ready at all times. He also planned on somehow getting ahold of a gun himself.
All in good time.
However, it wasn’t the hooded figure that came for him that night. It was something else.
Dorring spotted the first red laser cutting through the rain. It was coming from up the lane. He never mounted a laser on his own gun. Sure, it helped a little with your midrange aim, but it gave off a warning. A red line leading straight to you.
Another laser joined the first and they both bobbed about as the men on the other ends approached along the lane. Dorring couldn’t see the men holding the guns yet because of the trees that lined the track, but he was sure that there’d be more coming from other areas. Coming to surround the cottage.
Dorring burst up out of the chair and ran to the back. Sliding the curtains an inch to the side, he spotted two more lasers coming through the woodland. Running to the bathroom, he saw two others coming up the wooden steps that led up from the beach.
Going back to the kitchen window, he saw the two men coming up the dirt track for the first time. They were dressed in black combat clothing. They had helmets and masks. He spotted the rain splashing off their night vision goggles. These guys were dressed like the real thing and the way they moved, low and steady, told Dorring that th
ey were professionals. He wondered if Conner was one of them.
Six men, Dorring said to himself.
He ran to the bathroom and hid with his back to the wall beside the window. The two men coming from the woods split up, one going around the cottage one way and the other coming around the side where the bathroom was. While the man approached the window slowly, Dorring carefully pushed the pane up so that it was fully open.
The moment the guy came beside the window, Dorring reached out into the rain and grabbed him. He couldn’t kill him. Didn’t know who he was or how much it would come back on him if he was to murder the man. So he merely held the guy around the throat with his forearm, pulled him off the floor and strangled him. His boots kicked against the wooden cottage, but the hard rain lashed everything so loudly that it drowned the sound out.
The kicking stopped and the guy passed out.
Five.
Dorring dropped him in the mud and stepped out through the window. Searching the guy, he found that he was carrying a taser. So he took that, ignoring the assault rifle. Then he leaped up onto the windowsill and pulled himself up onto the roof. There, he moved low across the tiles while the men closed in on the place. Two of them set up a perimeter, covering the side opposite the bathroom and the back of the cottage, while three of them came to the front door. Everything they did was communicated in hand signals. Dorring gathered that the guy he’d just robbed was supposed to take that side of the cottage. Luckily, none of his colleagues had noticed his absence yet.
Dorring crouched down and watched them from the safety of the roof, the rain beating off his body. Another hand signal and one of the men at the door lurched forward and kicked the frail panel of wood off its hinges. The men ran inside, shouting loudly as they did.
“Down on the ground! Hands where we can see them!”
Mo screamed out so piercingly that Dorring could hear it over the rain. The lights of the cottage went on.
“What’s going on!?” she cried out. “Who are you!?”
