A man was lying on his side, his hands tied behind him. Keith recognised the face as belonging to Steven Clune, assuming that it had been Clune who had collected his mother after the meeting in Mr Enterkin’s office. It was less pretty than when Keith had last seen it, being disfigured by several lumps and stained with blood. Keith was relieved to note that most of this had come from a nose which appeared to be broken. His body showed the welts and bruises of a thorough beating.
Clune had been wearing a silk dressing-gown but this was now up around his shoulders. His body was nude. Well, Keith thought with a sidelong glance at Deborah, that at least could have been worse. He bent down and pulled as much of the silk robe as he could gather over the man’s nakedness.
For the first time, Clune became aware of somebody else outside of his personal cocoon of misery. He jumped and uttered a strangled sound which Keith interpreted as ‘No more’.
‘Relax,’ Keith said. ‘I’m not an enemy.’ He tried to untie the other’s wrists but the many turns of fishing-line defeated him. He reached behind him for the knife in the sheath taped across the back of his belt, at the same time speaking over his shoulder to Deborah. ‘Find the phone. Call the police and an ambulance.’
‘No.’ Clune spat out a tooth. His voice was slightly stronger. ‘Nobody else.’
Keith finished cutting the bonds and helped Clune to bring his upper arm round to the front. Clune relaxed, half on his face. He seemed prepared to wait there until the pain went away.
‘Any bones broken?’ Keith asked.
‘Don’t . . . think . . . so.’
‘Can you wiggle your toes?’ He saw Clune’s toes move. ‘Any stabbing pains when you breathe?’
Clune breathed noisily through his mouth for a few seconds. ‘Not what you’d call stabbing,’ he said faintly.
‘Then I guess it’s safe for you to move. Deborah, see if you can find the kitchen. Bring a bowl of very cold water and a soft cloth. Now, laddie, let’s get you on to the settee.’
‘Don’t want . . . bleed on to the upholstery. It’s new. And it cost . . .’
‘Only your nose seems to have been bleeding and it’s stopped.’
‘Right.’ With Keith’s help, Steven Clune got as far as a sitting position and then stopped. ‘No police,’ he said again. ‘And no ambulance.’
‘Your nose is broken. You’ll have to have it set.’
‘I’ll get my own doctor. Will it hurt?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Dear God! And I’ve messed the carpet.’
‘Only a few spots of blood,’ Keith said comfortingly, as if to a child. ‘We’ll soak them in cold water. Give them a wash in salt water later. They’ll come out.’ Keith had had a rough youth and was not inexperienced with bloodstains.
When Deborah came back, carrying with great care a bowl of black Wedgwood and a soft duster, Clune was on the settee, his dressing-gown more modestly disposed about his person.
‘Well done,’ Keith said. ‘Now, hot, sweet tea. I’ll come and get you started.’ She showed him the kitchen, a bright, clean room which did not seem to lack the feminine touch. ‘Go through the place,’ Keith said urgently. ‘See if there’s any sign of those guns. Don’t bother about places which could only take pistols, it’s the Scottish long guns we’re after. Don’t miss any sheds.’
‘All right, Dad.’ She was as eager as a pup in training. This was the first time that she had been allowed an active part in one of Keith’s more adventurous undertakings.
While Deborah was left to follow his instructions, Keith got on with cleaning up Steven Clune and applying cold compresses to the worst of the bruises. If he had remembered that the body under his ministration belonged to a homosexual he would probably have turned away in revulsion; but from outside it seemed such a normal body that the thought never entered his head, although he did pause to wonder what on God’s earth Deborah might be finding. Well, as long as she didn’t tell her mother . . .
‘What were they after?’ he asked suddenly.
It took Clune a few moments to gather his wits and bring his mind back from his own miseries and the condition of the furniture. Then realisation hit him. He stared in horror at a comparatively innocent photograph of The Boy David. ‘Oh my God!’ he said. ‘What have I done?’
‘Tell me, then.’
‘I can’t.’ Clune lowered his face into his hands. It took several tries before he could find unbruised areas to support.
‘What did they take away?’
‘Nothing! I can’t tell you! Leave me alone!’ Clune’s voice began to rise hysterically.
‘Don’t get your . . .’ Keith paused. He had been about to use an expression which, in the context, would have been less than tactful – ‘. . . bowels in an uproar,’ he substituted. ‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘It is.’ Clune raised a face which Keith saw was now marked with tears. ‘It’s awful. It’s the worst thing that could have happened. And it’s my fault.’
‘What is?’
‘I can’t tell you. Please, stop asking me.’
‘You told them.’
‘That was different. You can’t imagine how terrible they were. I can’t stand physical pain. I told them all they wanted to know almost straight away. And – would you believe? – they went on beating me up anyway, not bothering to ask any questions. And calling me names.’ Clune was sobbing now, like a child, not attempting to hide his tears.
Keith decided to approach from another direction. ‘Did they know exactly what they were after?’
Clune’s sobs broke off while he thought about it. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘They’d guessed or heard that there was something. They just started bashing me and telling me I’d better come up with what I’d . . . Never mind. And – oh Jesus Christ! – I told them the whole thing.’
Faintly, Keith heard the sound of a loft-ladder being pulled down. He spoke up to cover the noise. ‘You told them where the guns are?’
‘I don’t know anything about guns. This was far worse. What have I done?’ he wailed. ‘It was nothing much when it started. But now . . .’
Keith was getting lost. ‘You know that your mother—’
‘The old bitch! This is all her fault,’ Clune said petulantly. ‘I hope it costs her.’
‘Her fault? For selling the guns?’
‘No, no, no. For . . . for . . . oh, never mind! For what I did. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘No. I can’t tell anybody. That’s what makes it awful. And there’s no way I can stop it happening.’
‘I may be able to stop it,’ Keith said hopefully. ‘Once they’d got what they wanted out of you, whatever it was, where would they go next?’
‘To . . . to my stepbrother, I suppose.’
‘Would he be in any danger?’
‘I don’t know. It would depend what he . . . I’m not going to tell you any more.’ Clune looked up as Deborah came in and he struggled to recapture some shreds of dignity. His sobs had already subsided to hiccups. ‘You’ve been very kind, but please go.’
Deborah put down a tray with a teapot, cup, sugar, milk and biscuits on an ornate coffee-table. She gave her father a surreptitious headshake.
‘Can you manage now?’ Keith asked.
‘I’ll be all right,’ Clune said. ‘I can always phone Bobby to come home if I need him. He went in to open the shop. Fabrics, you know. But our customers are mostly trade, so Saturday’s very quiet.’
‘Will your stepbrother be at home?’
‘Probably not. He might be at the surgery. He’s a vet and they’re busy on Saturdays.’
Keith considered sending Deborah away and extracting the information from Clune by the method which the earlier visitors had found so effective. But he could not bring himself to inflict pain on so abject a creature. ‘We’ll go now,’ he said. ‘You’d better phone your stepbrother and warn him not to be caught alone. If you decide to tell me any more, here’s my card.’<
br />
‘I won’t,’ Clune said. ‘But thanks.’ He seemed to be speaking only to Deborah. ‘I’m sorry you had to see me like that. I’m not usually a total coward but you can’t believe how awful they were, beating me for fun and accusing me of spreading that awful new disease. And we’re no more promiscuous than anybody else. Probably less.’
‘It’s all right,’ Deborah said. She kissed Clune at the side of the mouth. Keith got her out of there in a hurry.
Chapter Five
Rather than use Steven Clune’s phone, Keith set off but stopped at the first phone-box to call Molly. Ronnie had already phoned her. His quarry had stopped for lunch at Dalkeith.
That ruled out a visit to Michael Winterton, who lived and practised near Dunbar. On the other hand, Dalkeith was on the shortest route to Halleydane House which stood in open country near Penicuik. Keith set off in pursuit and wound the low-geared jeep up to a frenzied 70 m.p.h. when the road allowed.
He raised his voice to be heard. ‘You’re sure you couldn’t have missed them?’
‘Positive.’ Her higher voice penetrated the rush of sound from the speeding engine, off-the-road tyres and the wind. ‘I looked everywhere. The attic—’
‘I heard you.’
‘—the sheds, under the beds and in the wardrobes.’
‘Oh.’ Keith tried to forget the implications. ‘What about under the floorboards?’
Deborah adopted her most patronising tone, the one which made her parents want to slap her. ‘There aren’t any floorboards,’ she said. ‘It’s all parquet flooring and solid. I think it’s on concrete.’
‘I think you’re right.’
A few miles went by before Deborah said, ‘Mr Clune’s queer, isn’t he?’
Keith felt his ears go hot. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Gay,’ Deborah said. ‘A poof.’ The fact that she had almost to shout made the words on her lips the more shocking.
‘What do you know about such things?’
‘Quite a lot. Kirstie’s brother’s queer.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Keith said. He stayed calm with an effort. Kirstie was Deborah’s bosom friend. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. He can’t let on to his parents until he leaves home. But he’s quite open with us. We buy clothes for him sometimes, when he has the money. But I think it’s sad. I try to let him see that girls aren’t enemies. Don’t tell Mum,’ Deborah added. ‘She’d be shocked.’
‘I bet she would. Even I’m shocked. Knowing . . . what you know, you kissed Steven Clune!’
‘Why not? He needed comforting.’
‘Not from you.’
‘He liked it,’ Deborah said. She sounded confident.
‘Am I coming on like a heavy father?’
He heard her clear laugh. ‘A bit. But you don’t often, so I’ll forgive you.’
Thinking back to Kirstie’s brother, it occurred to Keith that Deborah, at her present stage of development, was a tomboy, almost half boy. A boy who was half girl would only be meeting her halfway. He had not been looking forward to the day when he would have to explain homosexuality to Deborah. It now seemed that she was better placed to explain such things to him.
Keith admitted to himself that, like most parents, he often thought of Deborah as she had been as a child and not as she now was, an incipient woman. She had her own friends but, being an only child, perforce spent much time in adult company.
‘Do you ever feel that we’re robbing you of your childhood?’ he asked.
‘That old thing!’ Deborah said. ‘I’ll make you a present of it.’
Keith was suddenly conscious of the passing years, a subject which he usually avoided except when the occasional twinge of stiffness forced it on his attention. One of these days, she would make him a grandfather. He found it impossible to think of himself in that light. They passed Dalkeith in comparative silence.
Returning to present problems, Keith decided that he had been playing his cards too close to his chest. There was no reason to be secretive. The more people knew the better. What he needed was an army of inquisitive observers who would maintain such a watch that no surreptitious movement of the guns would be possible.
Mention, by Molly, of lunch had reminded him that he was hungry.
In Eskbank, he stopped for a few minutes. While Deborah visited a ‘carry-out’, he phoned Philip Stratton. When they drove on, Deborah was feeding him scampi and chips and giving him drinks from a screwtop of lemonade.
*
Halleydane House was a slightly larger version of the Calders’ home at Briesland House – a substantial early Victorian dwelling, built as the hub of a small estate but now separated from most of its lands. Beyond the stone pillars in the boundary wall, a quarter of a mile of drive, lined with rhododendrons and shaded by mature trees, insulated the house from the passing traffic. The house and its gardens were surrounded by more trees, rhododendrons, azaleas and a variety of other shrubs of which Keith could have named only half.
Only careful observation of the verge for tyre-marks enabled Keith to track down the deserted Land-Rover deep in the bushes, but he found his brother-in-law comfortably established under a conifer on the far side of the strip of jungle bordering the drive, seated with his back against the trunk. Ronnie had binoculars in his hand, a rifle across his knees and a box of beer-cans nearby. Keith and Deborah squatted beside him and Keith accepted a can of lager.
Their position looked across a field or paddock and an acre of lawns to the corner of the house. The Granada stood on the left, under the pair of large rowan trees which sheltered the house’s front door from the north wind. To the right was the garden front of the house containing most of the principal windows. The arrangement, Keith was pleased to note, was architecturally less satisfying than that of Briesland House.
‘They only got here a half-hour since,’ Ronnie said. ‘One of the men took a walk round the house just now, otherwise nothing.’
Keith pondered. He would have liked to have waited for further developments. But Mary Bruce and her friends might be giving the widow a rough time and, while he had no great liking for the autocratic lady, he could hardly leave her at their mercy.
But a few more minutes would be neither here nor there. He gave Molly’s brother a quick summary of what had gone before.
Inevitably, Ronnie had picked up from Keith some knowledge of antique guns and their values. His eyes widened. ‘An’ you offered they buggers five per cent of a’ that. You must be dottled!’
‘I’d no intention of paying it,’ Keith said indignantly. ‘I mentioned the figure as a come-on. Trouble is, I think she guessed. So if she comes by the collection, she’ll go elsewhere or offer the guns back to me at a figure the estate’ll have to pay.’
‘Sounds to me,’ Ronnie said, ‘as if there was a fiddle set up between Danny Bruce and the family and it went wrong. Danny Bruce sent yon dealer mannie to buy the stuff, for much more than the figure she owned up to, but the widow cheated on him somehow. He had the dealer put down and now he’s after what he’s paid for.’
‘Could be. But I don’t get that feeling. Danny Bruce never used to set out to be violent. And I can’t see what the family stood to gain. The money from the guns was coming to them anyway and the capital transfer tax would have been no more than Danny Bruce would expect for his cut. I think I’ll go in and give Mary a surprise.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ Ronnie said with a wink hidden from Deborah. He had always rather fancied Mary Bruce himself.
‘She’s got two very hard boys with her,’ Keith pointed out. ‘And they’ve just given Steven Clune a damn good beating. Just in case they think to do the same to me, I want some back-up. You two bide here. If you see me signal from outside the door or wave a handkerchief at a window, fire a shot. Don’t hit me,’ he said firmly, ‘but let there be no doubt that I’ve got friends out here with live ammunition. If they carry a heavy load out to the car, don’t let them leave. But if all’s peaceful
and they’ve put nothing into the car, let them go by and see if you can follow them again. If they head for Glasgow, let them go and meet me back here. If not, I’d like to know where they are. Got that?’
‘Aye,’ Ronnie said. ‘And Deborah?’
‘Better take her with you.’
*
Keith drove the jeep up to the front door. Well-maintained grass bordered the last of the narrow, tarmac drive. He would have preferred the open, if only to avoid the careless defecation of the birds, but to park on the grass would surely have incurred more of the widow’s displeasure and he could imagine circumstances in which he would prefer Mary Bruce to make an unimpeded departure. He drove on to the gravel sweep under the spread of the rowan trees and parked beside the Granada.
He was not looking forward to a confrontation with a violent group while he had only the vaguest idea of his own objectives, but he had no time to develop doubts. The front door, in its formal, arched portico and flanked with beds of berberis blazing with berries, opened as he walked up to it. One of the men whom he had seen in Mary Bruce’s car came out. The man was large, well-built and blond. His mouth and chin were weak, but he had the aggressive confidence of the habitual tough, born out of training or armament or both.
‘Mrs Winterton is not receiving visitors,’ he said, formally but with an air of amusement. He then spoiled the effect by adding, ‘Fuck off.’
‘I’m not a visitor,’ Keith said. ‘I’m the executor of her husband’s estate and this house is part of it. You fuck off.’
‘You’re Calder, are you? Well, today isn’t convenient. You’re not coming in.’
‘You’re wrong, Sonny Jim,’ Keith said. ‘In is exactly where I’m coming. Try and stop me.’
The Executor (Keith Calder Book 10) Page 7
