Mad Dogs and Scotsmen (Three Oaks Book 7)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘More or less,’ I said hesitantly. Mike looked at me sharply. ‘You’ve correctly quoted the statements she made to us. We decided later that she was trying to warn Donald Aggleton off. But according to Miss Laidlaw it was Harriet Williams who was sweet on Donald Aggleton.’

  ‘You’ve been onto Madge have you?’ Noel asked. ‘I wouldn’t rely too much on her news. She was always inclined to sniff romance where none existed and she was usually several years out of date. Kate Otterburn had come into and gone from Donald’s life for many a long month.’

  Mike paused and pinched his upper lip, apparently as a help to thought. ‘That seems to add up. So let’s take it that Jake Spurway really had turned his coat. With what in mind?’

  ‘Blackmail, I should think,’ Noel said.

  ‘That seems possible. Now let’s have your story . . . from the theft of John’s car onward.’

  ‘For comparison purposes? You don’t trust anybody, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Mike said frankly, ‘I don’t. Not when I’ve got to make up my mind whose side I come down on in print. If I get it wrong I lose my reputation and get sued for libel.’

  ‘By me? I suppose that’s perfectly possible,’ Noel said. ‘How much are you good for?’ He was trying not to smile – because, I think, smiling still hurt his face.

  ‘Don’t get any big ideas. You went with John to see the burning car?’

  ‘As soon as John said that it wasn’t his car,’ said Noel, ‘I became no more than a bystander as far as the police were concerned. They let me tag along and I recognized the body as being Harriet. That, you may guess, shook me right down to my socks.’

  ‘You never let on,’ I said.

  ‘How could I? The police wouldn’t have let me out of their sight for days. I still had the microfiche on me. I was ready to cut and run. But I wanted my dog and I was damned if I was going to run off and leave him to be shot as an escapee from quarantine. I went to Myresie and took a room for the night. I wanted to be alone to think it over. You may guess that I didn’t sleep much that night. By morning, I’d decided that I could trust John to look after Jove’s interests, probably better than I could.’

  ‘Your faith seems to have been more than justified,’ Mike said.

  I thanked them both.

  ‘Not at all,’ Noel said politely. He looked at Mike. ‘So I decided to phone John, tell him that I was leaving Jove’s fate in his hands, and beat it.

  ‘But the pub didn’t have a phone where I wouldn’t have been overheard by the landlord, his staff, the other guests and even by passers-by in the street. Before I could find a safer phone I heard about another estate car being found dunked in the Tay at Lindhaven. At the pub, I was told that the only taxi in the village was away for its MOT test and not expected to pass; but a salesman, the only other person stopping over at the pub, said he was going through Lindhaven and that there was a taxi at the garage there.

  ‘So I took a lift with him. Just short of Lindhaven I spotted what I thought looked like your travelling boxes near the road so I got out there and let my lift go. When I walked round the bushes to take a good look at the boxes – I was whistling for Jove as I went, I remember – I saw Donald Aggleton lying on the ground. I bent over him to see if he was still breathing – he was and I’m told that he still is. Then a rug came down over my head and I was trussed up like a turkey in about ten seconds flat.’

  ‘We must have missed you by minutes,’ I said.

  Mike was frowning. ‘You didn’t see a car?’

  ‘Not at that stage. I heard a car drive up shortly afterwards.’

  Mike’s frown cleared. ‘Driven by Miss Otterburn?’

  Noel shook his head carefully. ‘I never saw her, or heard her voice.’

  ‘Let’s get this straight,’ Mike said. ‘It was Jake Spurway who gave you a hammering?’

  ‘More than one hammering,’ said Noel. ‘And no, it wasn’t Jake.’

  ‘But he told Miss Otterburn—’ Mike began. ‘No, come to think of it, he didn’t, if John relayed his words correctly.’

  ‘He certainly implied it,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. Well, if he didn’t, who did?’

  ‘Jake talks a good game,’ Noel said. ‘In point of fact, he’s a fairly good security man. The really tough cookie’s his assistant.’

  Mike looked stunned.

  I remembered Henry’s report of Miss Laidlaw’s information. ‘Spragg,’ I said.

  ‘Harry Spragg,’ Noel confirmed. ‘I told the police about him. My God! Haven’t they got him?’

  ‘I’d have heard if they had,’ said Mike.

  ‘Then all and sundry had better watch their backs. Spurway put up the better front but Spragg was the natural leader of the two of them in toughness and general villainy, though he preferred a background role. It was Spragg who was determined to make me cough up my evidence and he didn’t give a damn how permanent was the damage he did.’ Noel raised his chin. ‘But he never broke me. I was more determined than he was. And I had more to lose.’

  ‘Apparently,’ Mike said. ‘But why was that? We come now to the crunch question. Can you prove that you were on the side of the angels?’

  Noel smiled grimly. ‘I bloody well hope so,’ he said. ‘That’s why I wanted the paper from the Bothy. The only document I hadn’t transferred to the microfiche, because it was last of all, was a copy of the genuine fax I sent to Uncle Joe, certified by the solicitor whose office I sent it from. It demanded a withdrawal of all the faulty stock, its replacement by equal stocks of the earlier, better products at no greater cost, and an information pack to the WHO. Spragg came across it in my briefcase but he only glanced at it, saw that it wasn’t what he was after at the time and ripped it up and across. The police have the rest of it but a vital quarter is still missing.’

  ‘You didn’t have the solicitor keep a copy?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Hell, no! At that time, I still looked on myself as a loyal member of the company. For that matter, I still do. I was trying to reach a satisfactory compromise without making a scandal. I didn’t even let the solicitor read the document. I made him hold it, upside down, and certify it as the original of the fax which his secretary was sending on my behalf.’

  ‘Then you’d better pray that it turns up.’

  ‘Believe me, I am.’

  I had been growing uneasy. ‘Did the fax which was sent include that endorsement?’ I asked.

  Noel paused for a moment. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘The solicitor signed it and then it was sent off. Why?’

  ‘Because I think that you two are missing one important point,’ I said. ‘That fax isn’t just important for proving Noel’s good intentions. Think about it. In turn, it also brands everybody else who came chasing after your microfiche as intending to make criminal use of it, because if you, Noel, were acting with the best intentions, anyone trying to frustrate you had to be acting with the worst; above all, of course, it shows up Uncle Joe – Mr Heatherington – as a liar attempting to pervert the course of justice by fabricating evidence. Now that it’s all coming out into the light of day, Uncle Joe and others, who anyway knew that there had to have been an original of the fax, will be much better placed if they can get their hands on that original, destroy it and pass off their version as the one true writ. It may not be a defence, but it would, as Mike said, make a forceful argument in mitigation.’

  ‘It wouldn’t mitigate murder,’ Noel said.

  ‘It might go a long way towards it if they could also argue that death was not intended,’ I said. ‘Somebody is killed but only moderate violence was meant. If that death occurred as part of a criminal action it would be classed as murder and everybody involved would be tainted by it. If it occurred, possibly by accident, during a well-intended effort to recover confidential papers being used for purposes of blackmail . . . think for a moment about the different view a court might take of it.’

  ‘Would Uncle Joe see that?’ Mike asked Noel.

  Noe
l was looking ashen. ‘Uncle Joe doesn’t miss a thing,’ he said. ‘And Harry Spragg is still on the loose. Mike—’

  ‘I’m ahead of you.’ Mike handed me his mobile phone. ‘You’d better warn that weird-looking young woman.’

  I keyed in the number of Henry’s phone. To my great relief, Daffy answered almost immediately.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked her.

  ‘At the Bothy.’

  ‘You’d better finish up very quickly and get the hell away from there,’ I said. ‘Others may come looking for bits of paper and they won’t be friendly. Be ready to run like a rabbit.’

  ‘Okey dokey.’ Daffy sounded, as usual, quite unperturbed.

  ‘Just a moment.’ Noel held out his hand and I passed the phone to him. ‘Er – Daffy, is it? Have you finished looking?’

  ‘As finished as I’ll ever be,’ Daffy said. Noel held the instrument slightly away from his ear. I could hear her words, faint but clear.

  ‘Have you found a torn part of an A4 sheet of typing paper with my writing on it? It’s—’

  ‘I know your handwriting,’ Daffy said. ‘It’s bloody awful, worse than a doctor’s. I have something here that could be it. As near as I can make it out, the beginning reads, “It is with great reluctance,” then there’s a bit missing, then something about “common humanity”—’

  ‘That’s it,’ Noel almost shouted. ‘Keep it safe, but go, go, go.’

  There was a pause. ‘I think it’s too late,’ Daffy said. ‘There’s a car pulling up outside. I’m going to hide myself away.’

  I grabbed the phone. ‘They’ll know you’re there by my car’s presence.’

  ‘I left your car in a track. I think it’s where you parked last time. I mistook your route and turned too soon, so it seemed easier to cut through the trees. Got to switch off now. Bye.’

  Noel grabbed the phone again. ‘Keep yourself safe,’ he said quickly. ‘And keep that page even safer.’ But the phone was dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  I took back the phone. My mind was racing without going anywhere.

  ‘It could be somebody perfectly innocent,’ Noel said hopefully. ‘Dog-walkers or bird-watchers or something similar.’

  My mind clicked into gear. I shook my head. The arrival had come too pat. ‘We can’t chance it,’ I said. The phone in Daffy’s hands would be dead but even if it had still been switched on I would not have been able to call her without betraying her chosen hidey-hole. And if I dialled the emergency services from Ninewells I would come up in Dundee and there would be endless questions before anyone would relay a message to Fife. I keyed in my own number. Henry’s voice answered.

  ‘Daffy’s at the Bothy,’ I told him. ‘She has visitors and they’re probably hostile. Can you get on to the police at Cupar and get them to send somebody? Quickly?’

  Henry was nobody’s fool. ‘Can do,’ he said. The line went dead.

  I was looking for reassurance. ‘What sort of man would attack a girl like Daffy?’ I asked the world in general.

  ‘A brave one,’ Mike said. Remembering Daffy’s get-up for the day, leaning heavily on black leather and metal studs, I hoped that he might be right.

  ‘A man like Harry Spragg,’ Noel said grimly.

  The day was Sunday. Smaller, local police stations would be unmanned and the few officers on duty would be out dealing with firearms certificates or traffic problems. There might be no urgent response to such a vague alarm. We would be no less in touch in the car. ‘Let’s go,’ I said to Mike.

  ‘Keep me posted,’ Noel called after us.

  We hustled through the long corridors, unsettling the throngs of visitors with their flowers in polythene and fruit in baskets. Mike had to bully his way out of the car park and onto the service road. The big car took the ‘sleeping policemen’ in its stride. Ahead I could see the low hills of Fife. I could make out the line of the through road and could almost pick out the Bothy, but a broad river lay between.

  Mike swept us through the thin traffic and round the Riverside at a speed that made my stomach curdle. He said later that he was quite prepared to ignore any police interference in the hope of bringing a trail of police cars with us. But the police, that day, were elsewhere.

  I had money ready. As we slowed at the tollgate I leaned across Mike, and then we were away again and hurling ourselves across the Tay Road Bridge. Mike’s phone, which was still in my pocket, began to sound.

  It was Henry. ‘Your friend Tirrell’s off duty,’ he said. ‘They’re sending a car but the duty inspector wants you to call him and give more details, plus detailed directions for finding the place.’

  Henry gave me a Kirkcaldy number and disconnected. I keyed the number. The duty inspector sounded young and unsure of his powers. I gave him directions for finding the Bothy before we ran into the area of heavy interference under the radio mast at the Fife end of the bridge and the connection was broken off. I decided not to renew it just yet. Keeping my eyes open and retaining control of my bowels was quite enough effort without trying to verbalize the situation to a disbelieving officer while Mike took the shortest route and slashed through Newport and Wormit. He had made his turn towards Perth and was ripping along the unclassified road which twists and turns towards Newburgh above the Tay, when the phone, still in my hand, woke up again. I answered it.

  A voice which I had hoped for but not dared to expect whispered in my ear.

  ‘Daffy?’ I said.

  Mike slowed down to a mad rush.

  ‘I got out through a window,’ she said softly. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can’t speak any louder, I think they’re looking for me. I’m trying to get back to your car.’

  I gestured to Mike to get a move on. ‘The police are on the way,’ I said. ‘And we can be there in about fifteen minutes. More like ten,’ I added as Mike put his foot firmly down again. ‘Maybe less. If you get clear, watch for Mr Coutts’s car.’

  I received no direct answer from Daffy. ‘Oh, shit!’ said her voice.

  ‘Daffy?’ I said. ‘Daffy?’ But the line was dead.

  Mike went through a dip and blind bend in one long slither, still picking up speed.

  *

  I sat rigid with tension for the last few miles. When the village of Ardunie was breaking the skyline half a mile ahead, Mike slowed for the turning into the by-road towards the Bothy. My heart may not have been in my mouth – a literal impossibility – but there was certainly a major obstruction in my gullet. Daffy was entitled to many years of laughter and loving. Her life added colour to ours by her very eccentricity. She was a friend, a worker and a topic of sometimes scandalized discussion. Without her . . . no, it was, had to be, inconceivable.

  In my anxiety, I nearly missed the one, crucial sight. I took a second look past Mike’s head and a third. I could produce only an inarticulate croak. Then I recovered my voice and I was shouting at Mike to make a right. Mike braked hard and slid. We were almost on top of the insignificant junction.

  ‘What?’ Mike said. He slewed his car into the track. It was more than a ninety degree turn but he held the skid and pumped the throttle again.

  ‘That’s my car . . .’ I said.

  It was clear that history had repeated itself. My car had again been starved of fuel by the anti-thief device, had conked out in much the same place and, while the car was still rolling, the driver had seized his chance to swing off into the same farm track as Mike had chosen, and stopped in the same open space beside the upturned tine harrow. A blue Granada estate was parked nose to tail with my new car and both tailgates were open.

  Mike stamped on his brakes. Downhill on dirt, the car slid, gripped and slid again, and came to a halt a few yards short of the Granada which, I noticed, was wearing the number-plates from my old car.

  The human figures resolved themselves. A man and a woman were pulling another out of the back of my car. The other was Daffy. Her hands seemed to be fastened behind her. The woma
n was Catherine Otterburn.

  We were out of Mike’s car almost before it had settled back on its springs.

  There was no hope of discussion. The couple were already beyond reasoning. Aggression was open. War had already been declared. Daffy was dropped, forgotten.

  The Amazon came at me, swinging a sawn-off pick-handle. I stepped back and felt the wind of her first violent swing against my cheek. She swung back, determined to knock my head over the furthest trees, and again I had to dodge.

  She was making no attempt to protect herself, confident either in the effect of her blow or in the reluctance of a man to hit a woman. But I had served in Northern Ireland, where a woman who had been carrying guns hidden in a perambulator on behalf of a terrorist hit-squad, understandably resenting her arrest, had come at me with a knife and but for the quick action of my sergeant I might well have been nearly filleted.

  So I had no inhibitions about defending myself. I caught her between swings, grabbed her wrist with my left hand and with the other I jabbed with straight fingers up below her breasts. The club went flying and I held her by both wrists but in seconds she was recovering her breath and I had the proverbial tiger by the tail.

  The business-like Miss Otterburn was as athletic as she had looked. Half winded, she was still a hissing, swearing, struggling bundle of elbows, fingernails and heels. In self-defence I pulled her to me, face to face, and gripped her wrists behind her back. She was not tall enough to reach my jaw with her head or my throat with her teeth – she tried both – and she was too close to kick me in the groin.

  During the few seconds that our tussle had lasted I had been half aware of activities outwith our tiny arena. While another car braked hard on the nearby road, making a great hullabaloo, there had been a flurry of activity between Mike and the man. Now I took in that Mike was sitting and nursing his jaw and that the man had retrieved the sawn-off pick-handle. He was middle-aged but wiry, and from the harsh angles of his face I would have doubted that he had ever smiled in his life. In his movements I read absolute confidence in his own violence. He knew for a fact that he would triumph as he had in the past; and that piece of knowledge tends to be self-fulfilling. Moreover, it seemed that I could not count on any help from Mike Coutts. If I released my hold on Miss Otterburn I would be outnumbered and if I did not he would have me at his mercy. I picked her up by the waist, preparing to use her as a shield or a club and deciding that my best bet would be to hit the man with the woman, kick them both where it would hurt most and run for it.