by Malcolm Rose
“Your request is highly unconventional.”
“Is it illegal?”
“The law does not cover this eventuality. Attempting to gain unauthorized access to my data is illegal. Giving it away was not considered a possibility.”
“So, it’s legal,” Luke replied.
“It is certainly against the spirit of the law, but it is not expressly forbidden.”
“If it makes you happier, protect the file with high-level security. Then only you and me can get into it. No one can fiddle with it.”
“I do not experience...”
“Yes, all right. You’re never happy. But contact Sadie and let’s get it sorted out. She’ll agree because it’s to her advantage. Proving The Authorities have acted illegally is the only way she’ll get off a charge of forgery. She can claim she was forced to do it by Mollie Gazzo acting on behalf of The Authorities. Clear incitement.”
“Attempting to establish a connection.”
The cab continued to weave between the snowbound mountains. If it had been moving at full speed, it would have felt like a bobsleigh hurtling through an icy channel. But it was maddeningly slow as it began the long descent towards the village of Ballachulish. At least the extended journey gave Malc enough time to link with Sadie Kershaw and transmit the corruption case notes into a spare processor in Derby.
Half an hour later, the mountains rolled back from the corridor and the view opened up in front of Luke. All of a sudden, the isolated village appeared on his left and the glassy lake on his right. This far north, it was so cold that the stretch of water was partly frozen. The electric cab pulled into the station and ground to a halt. Luke wrapped himself up in a thick coat and said, “Okay, Malc. Take me to Constance Robertson’s address.”
There was a picturesque triangle of solid stone-built cottages. No high-rise here. The houses seemed to be squatting down to shelter from the worst of the highland weather. Malc glided through the light snowfall and Luke crunched the fallen snow under his boots until they came to a halt by Constance Robertson’s door.
Even after the third push of the old-fashioned doorbell, no one answered. Luke shook his head miserably and stamped his feet to keep the chill from his toes. It was turning out just like the visit to Anne Roberts’ empty quarters in Newcastle.
Giving up for the moment, Luke trudged to the hamlet’s restaurant. Grateful to be indoors again, he ordered a meal and asked the owner, “Do you know Constance Robertson?”
The woman behind the counter chuckled. “You come from a town or city, don’t you? In a place like Ballachulish, it goes without saying that everyone knows each other.”
“When did she move here?”
“Two years ago. Sticks out like a sore thumb.”
“Why’s that?”
“She’s a newcomer. That’s all. She’s not one of us.”
Luke nodded. “Do you get on with her?”
The woman looked him in the eye. “I just said. She’s not one of us.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“That’s another thing. Everyone knows where everyone else is, particularly in this weather. I have to admit she’s making the most of being here. Yachting on the lake, hill walking, working in Fort William, skiing. She’ll help anyone with an electrical problem. She’s been a boon like that. But...”
“She’s an outsider who doesn’t belong,” Luke suggested.
“Aye. And an awkward customer. She’s willing to help out, but folk say they don’t like her. She’s never said much about her past, either. Only that she didn’t like it down south but loves being up here.”
“So, where is she right now?” asked Luke.
“She took the ferry to Fort William. She was having a weekend skiing. That’s what she said.”
Luke sighed. “Skiing. So now I’ve got to chase her up – or down – a mountain.”
“What’s she done?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Like you,” Luke replied, “I just want to talk to her about her past.” He shrugged. “It’s probably nothing. Just a formality, you know.”
For some reason, the restaurant owner smiled and nodded at him. “Enough said. I’ll go and get your dinner.” Plainly, she’d somehow decided that Luke’s sly words had confirmed all her doubts about an outsider.
Luke turned to Malc and said, “You’d better book me into a hotel.”
Chapter Nineteen
Luke woke with a start in Fort William on Sunday morning. He thought that he’d heard something like the chilling whoosh of a gust of wind or the slicing of a sword through air. He jolted, sat up in bed, and shivered. “Brr. It’s freezing in here!”
“Technically, you are wrong. It is nine point seven degrees,” Malc told him. “That is cold for a human being.”
“What’s going on?”
“I have been informed that the hotel’s heating system has broken down.”
“Well, fire your laser – low power – at my clothes for a bit. Can you warm them up without burning them?”
“It is improper use of my sophisticated system, but it is possible.”
“Just do it, Malc. I want to get up, not freeze to death.”
The date glimmering at the bottom of the telescreen was Sunday 5th February. As soon as Luke saw it, he realized why his imagination had conjured up a swishing blade. It was exactly a week until the execution of Everton Kohter and Luke still had a picture of a sword hanging over the boy’s head. The figures underneath the date told him that it was 07.21. Still dark outside. Sunrise was about half-an-hour away. Luke shuddered again. The death penalty would be enacted at dawn next Sunday.
While Luke slipped hurriedly into his newly warmed clothes, he thought about the day ahead. Before the sun went down again, he aimed to prove that Rowan Pearce had been murdered by Camilla Bunker, now posing somewhere in Fort William under a false name. He’d failed to find her yesterday. Today, he’d be the first person to arrive at the chair lift on the edge of the town and he’d stay there until a woman called Constance Robertson swiped her identity card through the reader.
In a way, he was grateful to that uncanny dreamlike noise and the cold for waking him. He didn’t even complain about the lack of pomegranates on the breakfast menu at the hotel. As quickly as he could, he made a dash for the control room beside the ski slope’s chair lift. And there, he waited for his suspect.
He was still waiting after lunch.
Bored and annoyed, Luke reviewed the details of the case in his mind. When he came to think about the downed flight to Glasgow, he saw a parallel with Fort William Hotel this morning. One had a fatal flaw in its fuel line, the other had a crippled heating system. Camilla Bunker had been on-board the aeroplane to advise on its electrical system. Now, she was somewhere in Fort William when the hotel needed an electrician to fix its heating fault. With a queasy feeling in his stomach, Luke realized that his strategy of waiting at the base of the ski slope could be a waste of time and a mistake.
He said, “Contact the hotel, Malc. Have they had an electrician in yet?”
A minute later, Malc replied, “Yes. The heating system is now being tested.”
“Who’s doing it?”
After another thirty seconds, he answered, “Constance Robertson. She was on call in the town.”
Luke muttered under his breath and grabbed his coat. “Come on. We’re going back.” Out in the open air, he ran through the snow towards the town.
By the time that he reached the hotel desk, though, the electrician had finished the repair and gone. “Where did she go?” he gasped.
The receptionist shrugged. “She wasn’t in a good mood, to say the least. I don’t think she liked having her weekend interrupted. She said it wasn’t worth going skiing any more. I don’t know, but I assumed she was just going home.”
“Thanks.” With that, Luke raced out of the hotel and made for the ferry terminal.
Leaving a trail of misty breath behind him, he sprinted towards Lake Linnhe. Yet, as soon as
he reached the waterfront, he knew that he was too late. Three hundred metres ahead, a ferry was pulling away from the main jetty, churning the calm surface of the water. Luke came to a halt and, hands on hips, let out a weary sigh. “This,” he said irritably, “is turning into a farce.” Trying not to lose heart, he added, “At least we know where she’s going.”
“The ferry does not have a human captain,” Malc told him. “It is piloted by computer.”
“What are you saying? Can you take control remotely and bring it back?”
“In principle, yes. However, you do not have sufficient evidence against Constance Robertson to justify such an intervention.”
“All right. Can I get back to Ballachulish quickly? Quicker than the ferry would be good.” Luke didn’t want to waste more time, waiting hours for the boat to return. “How about a cab?”
“At this time of the year, the Lake Leven bridge is impassable. Cabs must take a long detour around the lake to reach Ballachulish. That is why the ferry is popular.”
“The mountain rescue people will have a helicopter or two.”
“Do you wish to request...”
“No,” Luke replied, cutting Malc short. “I know the answer already. ‘You do not have sufficient evidence to justify a helicopter.’ No chance.”
Luke looked up and down the quayside for an alternative. There were several yachts but, with barely a hint of a breeze, they weren’t going anywhere. Luke also spotted an old man preparing to go out fishing. His boat looked as rickety as the man himself.
Even so, it was Luke’s best bet. He went along the narrow quay, greeted the fisherman, and then nodded towards his boat. “It’s seen better days, hasn’t it?”
The man stared at Luke in astonishment. He touched the wooden cabin tenderly, his hand coming to rest on an immaculately polished brass rail. “She’s got plenty of life left in her,” he replied gruffly, as if defending a loved one from a monstrous insult. “Best vessel in Fort William. Believe me.”
Luke smiled. “I bet it couldn’t beat the ferry to Ballachulish.”
The man had wrinkled leathery skin and the white flakes of snow in his hair made him look even older than he really was. He peered round at the receding ferryboat. Then he laughed. “You’re wrong, lad. She can still outrun that thing.”
Winding him up a bit more, Luke shook his head. “Not a hope.”
“Aye. She goes like a youngster.”
Luke walked across the gangplank, followed by his Mobile Aid to Law and Crime. “Okay. How about showing me? Prove it!”
The man couldn’t backtrack now. Crying off would have insulted his treasured boat further. He checked out the distance to the auto-ferry once more and then said, “You’re a forensic investigator. What’s your name?”
“Luke.”
“Tom,” he replied. “And you’ve got yourself a ride on Highlander. Here. Give me a hand with these ropes and I’ll show you what she can do.”
Untied, the boat chugged slowly backwards, away from the jetty. Once Tom had spun the wheel and turned the prow to the southwest, he engaged full throttle. Maybe Highlander was more used to sedate crossings and lazy fishing expeditions, but it did lift its bow a little and get up some speed.
Luke leaned against the rail near the front. “Hey. You’re right,” he shouted above the growl of the motor. “It’s faster than it looks.”
“She’s a beauty.”
Luke thought of any boat as it. He couldn’t sense female character in the wood, plastic or metal. There again, someone like Tom might not see Malc as male. Luke’s mobile was just a metal machine after all. But referring to Malc as it seemed to Luke to be a slur. Like Highlander, though, Malc could not feel insulted.
Luke joined Tom by the wheel where a cover sheltered them from the worst of the weather.
“I hope I’m chasing an international criminal,” Tom said with a hearty laugh. “Something I’ve always fancied doing.”
“You’re pretty close,” Luke replied.
Grinning, he shook his head. “Excellent! Wait till I tell my wife – if she believes me.” He beamed at Luke and then added, “I must say, you don’t look old enough to be going round chasing international criminals.”
Luke smiled. “Between us, we’ve got the right average age.”
Tom hooted with laughter. “Aye. That we have, lad.”
Highlander’s bow pushed aside floating chunks of ice as it narrowed the gap slightly on the boat in front.
“The ferry’s got fancy radar equipment to avoid the bigger lumps of ice. Huh. I’ve got my eyes,” said Tom, spinning the wheel again.
“Has an iceberg ever sunk a boat here?” With a worried frown, Luke watched a large piece of floating ice bob past.
“Once, I remember. A long time ago. It was just a dinghy, not built like Highlander. Or the ferry.”
A sudden flurry of snow wiped out Luke’s view of the ferryboat’s stern for a few seconds. “Just to make sure, Malc, go and sit on the prow and scan for large lumps of ice, will you?”
“Define what you mean by large.”
“Big enough to be dangerous to the boat,” Luke replied.
Lake Linnhe was two kilometres wide and absolutely straight for as far as Luke could see. It lay in a steep-sided valley, a narrow carving through the mountain range. On either side, thick ice lined the bank. Beyond, there was narrow strip of evergreens, silvered by snow, and then a rock face. The mountains peaked somewhere above the heavy cloud. The channel made a dramatic straight for a race. Highlander was catching up the auto-ferry, but only slowly, like a distance runner who didn’t have the energy for a sprint.
Luke must have looked concerned because Tom said, “She’s on schedule, lad. Twenty-five kilometres to Ballachulish. Plenty of time to overtake.”
“I’m sorry I conned you into...”
Once again, Tom roared with laughter. “You didn’t fool me. I knew what you were up to and I was happy to play along. Aye. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Luke wandered out from under the protection of the hood and stood at the brass rail. A couple of snowflakes lodged on his eyelashes and he wiped them away with his gloved fingers. He’d been in a few races, but never on a track like this.
Eventually, Highlander edged closer until it was only a few metres behind. When the lake tapered to a width of about three hundred metres, Luke could feel the ferry’s wake rocking Highlander. Coming out of the bottleneck, the waterway opened up again and Lake Leven appeared on the left. Tom steered into it, taking a shorter course than the auto-ferry. Within minutes, Highlander was alongside and it was Tom’s boat that got its nose under the snowbound Ballachulish Bridge first.
Tom steered Highlander expertly round a headland and a small island, blanketed in white, and then headed directly for Ballachulish pier with clear water between his old cherished boat and the modern ferry. Pulling alongside the wooden structure, Tom jumped out as if he were a young man again. “Throw me the rope, lad. And then tell me I’ve got the best vessel on Lake Leven.”
It was Luke’s turn to laugh. He hurled the heavy rope towards Tom and shouted, “Agreed. No contest.”
Tom tied up his boat, arched his back and put his fists in the cool air. “Victory!”
Behind them, the computerized ferry manoeuvred itself carefully up to the other side of the jetty.
Luke leapt onto dry land and shook Tom’s hand. “Thanks. You’ve been great. Looks like I’ve got work to do now.”
“You go and catch your international criminal, son. I’m going fishing. Then I’ve got a tale to tell my wife.”
As Luke dashed towards the terminal building, he heard Tom’s loud cackle behind him.
One by one, passengers from the ferry disembarked and pushed their identity cards against the security panel. In the controller’s office, a succession of names appeared on the monitor. With a pounding heart, Luke was looking alternately at the list and the line of travellers.
Eventually, the name of Const
ance Robertson appeared on the screen and Luke muttered, “That’s her!” Looking up, he saw a small severe woman with only the bony features of her face showing out of masses of clothing. She was carrying her skiing gear over her shoulder. Even though she was dressed in many layers, Luke could tell that she was slender. He dashed down the steps from the control room and into the entrance hall.
Constance gasped in surprise as Luke appeared suddenly in front of her.
He held up his identity card and said, “Constance Robertson. I’ve got a few questions for you.”
Chapter Twenty
After unwinding her scarf and peeling off her coat and thick jumper, a slight woman in her late twenties emerged. A sapphire brooch in the shape of a butterfly decorated the coat that she draped over the back of a seat. Her face was not riddled with guilt, Luke noted, but she didn’t seem to be puzzled either. If she were innocent, she would have been very curious about an FI who’d travelled such a long way to ask her a few questions. Her manner smacked of confrontation more than curiosity.
Luke took her identity card and let Malc scan it for any imperfections.
Constance adjusted the thermostat setting in her living room and then sat down. “I don’t know what this is all about,” she said tersely.
“I want you to hold up your hands so my mobile can record your fingerprints,” said Luke.
Constance let out a groan. Grudgingly, she did as she was told.
Luke took a good look as well. He could hardly contain himself when he saw her right forefinger. “Can you tell me how you got that scar?” he said, pointing at it.
She examined her fingertip as if she were unaware of any injury. “Oh, that. Just a slip with wire strippers.”
“When did it happen?”
“No idea. It’s not like it’s a big thing. Not very memorable.”
Malc interrupted. “I have a significant result from fingerprint analysis.”
Luke smiled. “Yes?”
