“He’ll go back on the pipeline right away?”
Stuart nodded vigorously. “You bet he will. His know-how will speed the job enormously, and time’s vital. It’s not just oil, you know.” He looked at Shard over the top of his spectacles. “You do know, I take it?”
“Water?”
“That’s right. After the drought of 1976, people forgot, didn’t they — till it happened again this year. Even now, even though we’re right back in it, no-one worries publicly — we got over it in ’76 so we’ll get over it again, right? All the same, we still have a problem.”
“Yet there’s plenty of water in the United Kingdom —”
“Sure, but largely concentrated in the wrong places. So twin pipelines are being built, both ostensibly for water, but in fact one of them’s scheduled to take oil the moment the Government gives the word to start stockpiling.”
“There’re being laid contiguously, are they?”
“Yes, both in the same trench.” Stuart got to his feet. “Come over here and I’ll show you the route plan.”
Shard followed the managing director across the big room to a locked steel cabinet near a window: the building was tall, of almost skyscraper dimensions, and the office, high up, showed a splendid panoramic view of the city and its surroundings, and the great wide sea that held the oil deposits and the fragile platforms many miles from shore that carried the rigs, one or two of them within visible distance. From the cabinet Stuart brought a roll of heavy paper which he spread out on a table nearby. Shard’s eye traced the embryo pipeline down from a point to the north of Aberdeen, from a pumping station behind a sea-beach between Cruden Bay and Peterhead, down behind Montrose, Abroath, Dundee, Perth to pass on the sea bottom beneath the waters of the Forth and swing easterly beneath the Southern Uplands, the Cheviots, and on down into England, under the great range of the Pennines in North Yorkshire, down through the Midlands — Derbyshire and its peaks, Leicestershire, Northamptonshire, Oxfordshire, Berkshire and into Wiltshire. In the southern part of Britain, largely beneath the great area of Salisbury Plain, land owned by the Defence Ministry, but also beneath the various series of downs — Marlborough, Lambourn, the Hampshire Downs — the oil would flow into vast natural chambers of virtually unlimited capacity that had recently been found by the geologists. These, together with offshoot lines into more reception areas both natural and man-made deep beneath the Yorkshire Dales, would form the strategic reserve of oil.
“And the water?” Shard asked.
Stuart indicated ringed areas on the route plan. “One of the pipelines, the one allocated strictly to water, will discharge into existing reservoirs at these junctions. It’ll join into the main trench from the areas of most water in the highlands. Some of it will go on to keep the aquifers in the south of England supplied.”
“Aquifers?”
Stuart said, “Aquifers are huge underground sponges, in effect — porous rock, chalk, sandstone or greensand chiefly, that holds the water, when there is water. One spreads across half Berkshire, south and west of Reading, and there’s another under London. There’s already a number of boreholes drilled as a drought insurance, but even the aquifers have a limit and in bad times could need topping up. These Berkshire boreholes — they’re from about 260 to 700 feet deep — they discharge into tributaries of the Thames — Letcombe Brook, Lamourn, Pang, Loddon, Blackwater, Rennet, Foudry Brook, Ginge Brook — using the Thames as a conduit to reservoirs in West London, such as the New Datchet.”
Shard nodded; the man-in-the-street’s preoccupation with water always vanished the moment it rained, as Stuart had said. On the other hand, oil’s relevance to the country’s well-being was both manifest and permanent even to that same man-in-the-street. Shard said. “I take it there’s not, in fact, much hope of concealing the eventual presence of oil in the grid — if that’s the word? I mean, it’s going to be common knowledge before long if it isn’t already?”
Stuart shrugged. “Rumours abound, of course, but no confirmation is being given. The start of the pipeline from the rigs-up here, south of Peterhead — that’s ostensibly for discharge into tanks outside Aberdeen. Although the line’s laid already as far as Dumfermline, the onward connections won’t in fact be made for some while yet — I refer to the oil connections — and the inflow of water from the Scottish reservoirs will be the first to be linked in.”
Shard raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And the Nationalists, Mr Stuart? Will they like to see Scottish water being diverted from the whisky?”
Stuart laughed. “No more than we’ll like the oil going south, unless its paid for!”
“We, Mr Stuart?”
Again Stuart laughed, but this time there was an edge to the sound. “I’m not a member of the Nationalist Party, but I’m a Scot and I think as a Scot as is only natural. And I certainly don’t see the Scots blowing up any pipelines, if that’s what you have in mind.”
Shard murmured something polite and dismissive of any such thought: but the basis of the thought remained with him as he left the company’s magnificent headquarters and was driven back to the police station, a somewhat more lowly edifice. He was about to call London on the closed line to report the absence from home of Mrs Mackintosh when a call came the other way for him: Hedge. The voice battered at his ears, loud but at first incoherent; Hedge sounded in extremis.
“A little more slowly, please, Hedge.”
“Is that Shard?”
“Yes!”
“Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? It’s so damned undignified to be told by a detective sergeant that my senior man has gone without saying where or why!”
“I apologise —”
“All right, all right! Hesseltine’s been on to me.” There was bitterness and fury in Hedge’s voice: Hesseltine, Assistant Commissioner Crime at Scotland Yard, was sheer gall to Hedge. He was also Shard’s former boss, in a sense still was since Shard was still basically an officer of the Met. “He’s come up with something that we haven’t — and you’re supposed to be in charge of the Mackintosh case.” There was a pause while Hedge hissed and clacked. “A fingerprint on Harcourt’s car — Hesseltine had the impertinence to do his own check while it was in the police pound. He found one your men failed to find, a light touch on the back of one of the wing mirrors.”
“Well?”
“A man with a record, Shard. A man who once worked on the North Sea oil rigs. A roughneck — they’re the men who help the drillers. He’s a Libyan, by name Uthman, and he was an oil worker in his own country.”
“And the record?”
“Terrorism, hijacking. That was after he left the oil rigs, by the way.” Hedge added, “He was last heard of, I gather, in Leeds.”
“Doing what?”
“No known occupation, but not short of cash. I’m handing you this on a plate, Shard. You’d better do something about it.”
“In good time,” Shard answered, “I will. Currently I’m going over to —” He broke off: a click had come in his ear. Hedge had had his say. Sighing, Shard put through his call to his DI. His report made, he asked the nick for transport to Aberfeldy.
Three
IT WAS MAINLY a slow and caravan-infested road from Aberdeen, by way of Balmoral and Braemar and a twist through the mountains; and Shard had not got away especially early. It was late afternoon as he entered Aberfeldy, coming past the Dewar distillery on the A827 from Ballinluig. Outside the distillery a man walked, making for the little highland town, a man of small stature, dark and, somehow, cocky; whistling a cocky tune too — ‘Cock o’ the North’, loudly. Shard watched the swagger, the swirl of Scotland even though the kilt was absent. The man turned his head as Shard came level, and their eyes met, and at the back of his detective’s mind Shard registered evil: he’d grown accustomed to summing people up. The whistling smote through his wound-down window. Aberfeldy was sweltering, not a trace of last winter’s snows remaining on the nearer mountain peaks, though more distantly towards Ki
llin at the other end of Loch Tay there was a trace of white on the summit of Ben Lawers, rearing in his majesty to the south of Glen Lyon, traditional home of the Campbells of Breadalbane.
Breadalbane was in the air today: coming into the little square and moving slowly along the road that led to Kenmore and Loch Tay, Shard saw the sign for the Breadalbane Arms Hotel: Mrs Mackintosh might or might not be in. Shard followed the sign for the car park, turning hard right opposite the entrance to the birks. Today he was his own driver: he had preferred the greater anonymity. Two coppers together tended to stand out rather more than one copper on his own. Entering the hotel, he pressed a bell at reception: reception was a counter and hatch, currently shut. The bell brought no result; Shard went through a door over which an electric-lit sign read BIRKS BAR. Nearly 6 p.m: it was open, and it was crowded — mainly, judging by the Sassenach accents, with tourists: Aberfeldy, the heart of Scotland — almost dead centre geographically — was popular for its scenery and in due season its salmon fishing on the Tay, the great river that rushed and tumbled its way from Glen Dochart to Dundee.
At the bar Shard bought himself a large whisky: Lang’s — he’d had it before in Scotland, very smooth, the equal of a liqueur whisky of much greater price. Savouring it, he made an enquiry for Mrs Mackintosh.
There was a smile from the barman. “Och, she’ll likely be awa’ up the birks. It’s a favourite spot of hers.”
“She’s stayed here before?”
“Aye, she has that, many times.” The barman polished a glass, turned to another customer, threw a further word back over his shoulder at Shard. “You’re the second person to ask after her today.”
“I am? Who was the first?” The barman hadn’t heard: he was busy. Shard waited, caught his eye again, and repeated the question, The answer was a shrug: evidently a stranger, and no name given. Shard finished his drink and left the bar. This time when he pressed the bell he was answered by a girl with a bright smile and an approving look through the hatch.
“Mrs Mackintosh? She’s not been in all day, not even for lunch the dining-room said.”
“I see. When did she go out, d’you know?”
“Well, I’ll not say for sure, but it was soon after her breakfast. She handed in her key, and it’s still on the board, so she’ll not be in now unless she’s in the lounge. Along to the right, the passage behind the stairs.” The girl gave him another approving look: Beth, with a wife’s jealous eye, always impressed on him that now he was past thirty girls would regard him as a dirty old man … but he knew his stomach was still as flat as a pancake and his hair was a crisp brown, and he had that tall, athletic look. “You’ll be staying yourself?” the girl asked.
“I don’t know yet. It’s possible, if you have a room.”
“There’s just the one. A cancellation. Will I hold it, Mr —?”
“Shard. Yes, please do — I’ll confirm or not within an hour or so if that’s all right. And thanks for your help.” He returned the smile and followed the directions to the lounge. No Mrs Mackintosh, just two geriatric couples devoutly watching the TV. Shard turned back, left the hotel, and walked across to the birks, passing under a war memorial arch to Aberfeldy’s warrior dead: too many of them for a small town. He walked past mown grass, beds of flowers, over a small bridge crossing a rock-strewn stream with no more than a cupful of water in it. In spring, he guessed, this place would be carpeted with daffodils and bluebells; but today, for no real reason, he felt a curious chill as of approaching winter that would deaden all plant life. There was a wrong feeling in the atmosphere, something that was attacking his nerves most unusually: senior detectives could not afford nerves, and he shook himself physically in an effort to dispel what might be a feyness inhaled from his surroundings. Coming through the trees to an upward-leading path, he heard the man before he saw him, going the same way as himself: whistling still, though this time it was ‘Highland Laddie.’ Shard, still for no real reason, decreased his pace rather than overtake. At the head of the path was a gate, an exit to a steeply-climbing road out of the town, and across the road was a parking area, almost empty now and signs indicating the birks proper ahead. Going through the gate the man looked back, seeing Shard. Still whistling, he crossed the road and went through the parking area towards thickly-set trees. The track to the three separate falls was clearly indicated; the whistling Scot turned aside and stood looking down into a small gorge. Shard went on, following the track. The whistling died away behind him. There was no-one around: Scots and tourists both were thinking of whisky and dinner. The climb was steep: a stout wire fence lay on his right, preventing drops into the increasingly deep gorge with its jagged rocks and its pathetic trickle of what would normally have been tumbling water. Progressing he came to the first of the falls, smallest of the three. A little further and he found a recess cut into the rock face rising to his left, and in it a stone seat. Here, said the legend on a notice-board, had sat Robbie Burns himself some two hundred years ago, wanting ‘The Birks O’ Aberfeldie’:
The braes ascend like lofty wa’s
The foaming stream, deep roaring fa’s
O’erhung wi’ fragrance-spreading shaws,
The birks o’ Aberfeldie.
And right now, between the braes, something was descending rather than ascending and it was not the once-foaming stream: Shard, above the small sound of the falls, heard the crunch of footsteps, several pairs of feet coming down ahead and, seemingly, above. Looking up through fading light, he saw that the track ahead turned back upon itself, a hairpin bend to accommodate a steep incline, and along it were coming three men and a woman. Looking down, the woman caught his eye. He read a plea for help: the woman was dead scared. His mind registered beauty and fragility: the woman was in her late twenties, had fair hair worn in a flick cut, and tight-fitting jeans that left little to the imagination of a healthy, active man. Her companions, who had also spotted him, looked dangerous: dead-pan expressions on all three faces, an air of dedication to duty, and for a certainty shoulder-holsters beneath the denim jackets that they wore like a uniform. The man in the lead immediately behind the girl carried a kind of cudgel — a cromack, a shilleleagh, call it what you would, it was something to help hill walking but something also with which to kill or maim. The girl’s skull could crack like an eggshell.
Shard had no doubts that this was Mrs Mackintosh — Fiona Mackintosh, a fitting name to go with Mackenzie Edinburgh Castle, and never mind the difference of colour. He stood firm, blocking the track, hand ready to go fast for his own gun, but not yet pulling it: in a shooting match he would be at some numerical disadvantage, so there was no point in provoking it.
The cudgel man, as Mrs Mackintosh stopped close to Shard, said: “Out of the way if you don’t mind.”
Shard grinned coldly. “The track’s narrow. Me, I don’t like heights.”
“Go the safe side, then. Flat to the rock.”
“Just one moment. A few questions first.” He addressed the girl. “Are you Fiona Mackintosh?”
She didn’t answer: she’d been warned, no doubt, but he read yes in her eyes. There was, behind her, a suggestive movement of the cudgel as the man asked over her shoulder, “Who are you?”
“That’s what I’m now asking you, friend.”
“You the police?”
“No.” Strictly, this was true: Hedge would have said so, anyway. To Hedge, the police were infinitely lower than FO security, not to be mentioned in the same breath if possible. “Should I be?”
“I don’t know what you should be. Just shift.”
Shard grinned again. “And when I don’t? Because I’ve reason to believe the lady’s not happy with present company, and —”
He saw the warning in the girl’s eyes, the warning that was quickly followed by a gasp: “Look out!” Too late: the whistling man had come up from behind in dead silence. Shard, swivelling on the spot, caught just a glimpse of him and his upraised arm with gun poised, then he went down and out.
<
br /> *
Two men stood looking down at where Shard lay, caught and held away from the rocks of the gorge by an out-thrust tree trunk growing almost horizontally from the bank: a police sergeant and a constable. On feet like those of mountain sheep they had climbed down in the encroaching darkness. The sergeant said, “God’s truth, laddie, but he’s had the luck of Auld Nick himself!”
“Alive, Sergeant?”
“Aye.” A strong heartbeat had met the sergeant’s hand, a hand that had gone on to feel that no bones even had been broken. There was a lot of blood; head, face, both legs and an arm, all had suffered gashes from small rocks, tears from brambles. But active life was returning already. The body stirred and an eye opened, shut again fast. Shard groaned. The police sergeant produced a first-aid kit and did some dabbing and tidying, then brought out a flask. “Whisky,” he said. “Try to take a wee drop, man.”
Shard did so, managing to keep his head lifted with the aid of the constable’s hand. He said, “Christ.”
“Tch, tch. There’s no need to blaspheme.”
“Isn’t there? Who’re you?”
“Aberfeldy Police.”
“How come?”
“An alert young lady at the Breadalbane Arms. She thought there was something funny when you didn’t show up, and the barman gathered you might be coming up here to the birks. We were contacted. Now, then: what happened, and who exactly are you?”
“Detective Chief Superintendent Simon Shard of Foreign Office Security. You’ll keep that to yourself. I only hope I can keep my lunch to myself. I feel bloody ill, but don’t you suggest hospital.”
“You’ll need —”
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