The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

by Desmond Bagley

  He looked up and frowned in annoyance as he saw me. ‘What the devil…I won’t be badgered like this.’

  ‘Just a few words, Professor.’

  ‘Now look here,’ he snapped, ‘I have work to do, and I haven’t time to play post office between two love-birds.’

  I strode to his desk and pushed the telephone towards him. ‘Ring Penny.’

  ‘I will not.’ He picked up the card I flicked on to the desk, then said, ‘I see. Not just a simple policeman, after all. But I can’t see this makes any difference.’

  I said, ‘Where’s the laboratory?’

  ‘In Scotland.’

  ‘Where in Scotland?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Who runs it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Some government department, I believe.’

  ‘What’s being done there?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Something to do with agriculture, so I was told.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ I held his eye for a moment and he twitched irritably. ‘You don’t really believe that guff about agriculture, do you? That wouldn’t account for the secretive way you’re behaving. What’s so bloody secret about agricultural research? Cregar told you it was agriculture and you accepted it as a sop to your conscience, but you never really believed it. You’re not as naïve as that.’

  ‘We’ll leave my conscience to me,’ he snapped.

  ‘And you’re welcome to it. What’s Penny doing there?’

  ‘Giving general technical assistance.’

  ‘Laboratory design for the handling of pathogens,’ I suggested.

  ‘That kind of thing.’

  ‘Does she know Cregar is behind it?’

  ‘You’re the one who brought up Cregar,’ said Lumsden. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘What did Cregar do to twist your arm? Did he threaten to cut off your research funds? Or was there a subtlyworded letter from a Cabinet Minister suggesting much the same thing? Co-operate with Cregar or else.’ I studied him in silence for a moment. ‘That doesn’t really matter - but did Penny know of Cregar’s involvement?’

  ‘No,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘And she didn’t know what the laboratory was for, but she was beginning to have suspicions. She had a row with you.’

  ‘You seem to know it all,’ said Lumsden tiredly, and shrugged. ‘You’re right in most of what you say.’

  I said, ‘Where is she?’

  He looked surprised. ‘At the laboratory. I thought we’d established that.’

  ‘She was very worried about safety up there, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was being emotional about it. And Cregar was pushing Carter hard. He wants results.’

  ‘Who is Carter?’

  ‘The Chief Scientific Officer.’

  I pointed to the telephone. ‘I’ll lay you a hundred pounds to a bent farthing that you won’t be able to talk to her.’

  He hesitated for a long time before he picked up the telephone and began to dial. Although he was being niggly on secrecy, on security he was lousy. As he dialled I watched his finger and memorized the number. ‘Professor Lumsden here. I’d like to speak to Dr Ashton. Yes, I’ll hang on.’

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘They’ve gone to call her. They think she’s in her room.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it.’

  Lumsden hung on to the telephone for a long time, then suddenly said, ‘Yes?…I see…the mainland. Well, ask her to ring me as soon as she comes back. I’ll be in my office.’ He put down the telephone and said dully, ‘They say she’s gone to the mainland.’

  ‘So it’s on an island.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked up and his eyes were haunted. ‘They could be right, you know.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Something has happened up there. You referred to your conscience; I’ll leave you with it. Good day, Professor Lumsden.’

  I strode into Ogilvie’s outer office, said to his secretary, ‘Is the boss in?’ and breezed on through without waiting for an answer. There were going to be no more closed doors as far as I was concerned.

  Ogilvie was just as annoyed as Lumsden at having his office invaded. ‘I didn’t send for you,’ he said coldly.

  ‘I’ve cracked Benson,’ I said. ‘He was Cregar’s man.’

  Ogilvie’s eyes opened wide. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  I tossed the letter before him. ‘Signed, sealed and delivered. That was written on the fourth of January, 1947, the day Benson was discharged from the army, and signed by the Honourable James Pallson who is now Lord Cregar. Christ, the man has no honour in him. Do you realize, that when Ashton and Benson skipped to Sweden and Cregar was doing his holier-than-thou bit, he knew where they were all the time. The bastard has been laughing at us.’

  Ogilvie shook his head. ‘No, it’s too incredible.’

  ‘What’s so incredible about it? That letter says Benson has been Cregar’s man for the past thirty years. I’d say Cregar made a deal with Ashton. Ashton was free to do as he wanted - to sink or swim in the capitalist sea - but only on condition he had a watchdog attached: Benson. And when the reorganization came and Cregar lost responsibility for Ashton he conveniently forgot to tell you about Benson. It also explains why Benson was lost from the computer files.’

  Ogilvie drew in his breath. ‘It fits,’ he admitted. ‘But it leaves a lot still to be explained.’

  ‘You’ll get your explanation from Cregar,’ I said savagely. ‘Just before I skin him and nail his hide to the barn door.’

  ‘You’ll stay away from Cregar,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ll handle him.’

  ‘That be damned for a tale. You don’t understand. Penny Ashton has gone missing and Cregar has something to do with it. It will take more than you to keep me off Cregar’s back.’

  ‘What’s all this?’ He was bewildered.

  I told him, then said, ‘Do you know where this laboratory is?’

  ‘No.’

  I took a card from my wallet and dropped it on the desk. ‘A telephone number. The post office won’t tell me anything about it because it’s unlisted. Do something.’

  He glanced at the card but didn’t pick it up. He said slowly, ‘I don’t know…’

  I cut in. ‘I know something. That letter is enough to ruin Cregar, but I can’t wait. Don’t stop me. Just give me what I need and I’ll give you more than that letter - I’ll give you Cregar’s head on a platter. But I’m not going to wait too long.’

  He looked at me thoughtfully, then picked up the card and the telephone simultaneously. Five minutes later he said two words. ‘Cladach Duillich.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Cladach Duillich was a hard place to get to. It was one of the Summer Isles, a scattering of rocks in an indentation of the North Minch into Ross and Cromarty. The area is a popular haunt of biological dicers with death. Six miles to the south of Cladach Duillich lies Gruinard Island, uninhabited and uninhabitable. In 1942 the biological warfare boys made a trifling mistake and Gruinard was soaked with anthrax - a hundred years’ danger. No wonder the Scots want devolution with that sort of foolishness emanating from the south.

  I flew to Dalcross, the airport for Inverness, and there hired a car in which I drove the width of Scotland to Ullapool at the head of Loch Broom. It was a fine day; the sun was shining; the birds singing and the scenery magnificent - all of which left me cold because I was trying to make good speed on a road which is called in Scotland, ‘Narrow, Class 1 (with passing places)’. I felt with a depressing certainty that time was a commodity which was running out fast.

  It was latish in the day when I arrived in Ullapool. Cladach Duillich lay twelve miles further, out in the bay; say a four hour round trip for a local fishing boat. I dickered with a couple of fishermen but none was willing to take me out at that time. The sun was an hour from setting, clouds were building up in the west, and a raw wind blew down the narrow loch,
ruffling water which had turned iron grey. I made a tentative deal with a man called Robbie Ferguson to take me out to the island at eight the next morning, weather permitting.

  It was not yet the tourist season so I found a room in a pub quite easily. That evening I sat in the bar listening to the local gossip and putting in a word or two myself, not often but often enough to stake a conversational claim when I decided to do a small quiz on Cladach Duillich.

  It was evident that the rising tide of Scottish nationalism was in full rip in the West Highlands. There was talk of English absentee landlords and of ‘Scottish’ oil and of the ambivalent attitude of the Scottish Labour Party, all uttered in tones of amused and rather tired cynicism as though these people had lost faith in the promises of politicians. There was not much of it, just enough to spice the talk of fishing and the weather, but if I had been a bland habitué of the Westminster corridors of power it would have been enough to scare the hell out of me. Ullapool, it seemed, was further removed from London than Kalgoorlie, Australia.

  I finished my half-pint of beer and switched to scotch, asking the barman which he recommended. The man next to me turned. ‘The Talisker’s not so bad,’ he offered. He was a tall, lean man in his mid-fifties with a craggy face and the soft-set mouth found in Highlanders. He spoke in that soft West Highland accent which is about as far from Harry Lauder as you can get.

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll have. Will you join me?’

  He gave me a speculative look, then smiled. ‘I don’t see why not. You’ll be from the south, I take it. It’s early for folk like you.’

  I ordered two large Taliskers. ‘What sort am I, then?’

  ‘A tourist, maybe?’

  ‘Not a tourist - a journalist.’

  ‘Is it so? Which paper?’

  ‘Any that’ll publish me. I’m a freelance. Can you tell me anything about Gruinard Island?’

  He chuckled, and shook his head. ‘Och, not again? Every year we get someone asking about Gruinard; the Island of Death they used to call it. It’s all been written, man; written into the ground. There’s nothing new in that.’

  I shrugged. ‘A good story is still a good story to anyone who hasn’t heard it. There’s a rising generation which thinks of 1942 as being in the Dark Ages. I’ve met kids who think Hitler was a British general. But perhaps you’re right. Anything else of interest around here?’

  ‘What would interest an English newspaper in Ullapool? There’s no oil here; that’s on the east coast.’ He looked into his whisky glass thoughtfully. ‘There’s the helicopter which comes and goes and no one knowing why. Would that interest you?’

  ‘It might,’ I said. ‘An oil company chopper?’

  ‘Could be, could be. But it lands on one of the islands. I’ve seen it myself.’

  ‘Which island?’

  ‘Out in the bay - Cladach Duillich. It’s just a wee rock with nothing much on it. I doubt if the oil is there. They put up a few buildings but no drilling rig.’

  ‘Who put up the buildings?’

  ‘They say the government rented the island from an English lord. Wattie Stevenson went over in his boat once, just to pass the time of day, you know, and to say that when the trouble came there’d always be someone in Ullapool to help. But they wouldn’t as much as let him set foot on the rock. Not friendly neighbours at all.’

  ‘What sort of trouble was your friend expecting?’

  ‘The weather, you understand. The winter storms are very bad. It’s said the waves pass right over Cladach Duillich. That’s how it got its name.’

  I frowned. ‘I don’t understand that.’

  ‘Ah, you haven’t the Gaelic. Well, long ago there was a fisherman out of Coigach and his boat sank in a storm on the other side of the island out there. So he swam and he swam and he finally got ashore and thought he was safe. But he was drowned all the same, poor man, because the shore was Cladach Duillich. The water came right over. Cladach Duillich in the English would be the Sad Shore.’

  If what I thought was correct it was well named. ‘Do the people on Cladach Duillich ever come ashore here?’

  ‘Not at all. I haven’t seen a one of them. They fly south in the helicopter and no one knows where it goes or where it comes from. Not a penny piece do they spend in Ullapool. Very secret folk they are. There’s just one landing place on Cladach Duillich and they’ve put up a big notice about trespassers and what will be done to them.’

  I noticed that his glass was empty and wondered when he’d sunk the whisky. He must have done it when I blinked. I said, ‘Have another, Mr…er…’

  ‘You’ll have one with me.’ He signalled to the barman, then said, ‘My name is Archie Ferguson and it’s my brother who’ll be taking you out to Cladach Duillich tomorrow morn.’ He smiled sardonically at my evident discomfiture, and added, ‘But I doubt if you’ll set foot there.’

  ‘I’m Malcolm Jaggard,’ I said. ‘And I think I will.’

  ‘Malcolm’s a good Scots name,’ said Ferguson. ‘I’ll drink to your success, anyway; whatever it may be.’

  ‘There’s certainly something odd about the place,’ I said, ‘Do you think it’s another Gruinard?’

  Ferguson’s face altered and for a moment he looked like the wrath of Almighty God. ‘It had better not be so,’ he said sternly. ‘If we thought it was we would take the fire to it.’

  I chewed that over together with my dinner, then made a telephone call - to Cladach Duillich. A voice said, ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Dr Ashton. My name is Malcolm Jaggard.’

  ‘Just a moment. I’ll see if she’s available.’

  There was a four minute silence, then another voice said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Jaggard, but I’m told Dr Ashton went to the mainland and is not yet back.’

  ‘Where on the mainland?’

  There was a pause. ‘Where are you speaking from, Mr Jaggard?’

  ‘From London. Why?’

  He didn’t answer the question. ‘She went to Ullapool - that’s our local metropolis. She said she’d like to stretch her legs; there’s not much scope for walking where we are. And she wanted to shop for a few things. May I ask how you got our number?’

  ‘Dr Ashton gave it to me. When do you expect her back?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. The weather has closed in, so I don’t think shell be back until tomorrow morning. You could speak to her then.’

  ‘Where would she stay in Ullapool? I don’t know the place.’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, Mr Jaggard. But she’ll be back tomorrow with the boat.’

  ‘I see. May I ask who I’m speaking to?’

  ‘I’m Dr Carter.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Carter. I’ll ring tomorrow.’

  As I put down the telephone I reflected that someone was lying - other than myself - and I didn’t think it was Archie Ferguson. But to make sure I went into the bar and found him talking to Robbie, his brother. I joined them. ‘Excuse me for butting in.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Ferguson. ‘I was just talking over with Robbie your chances of getting out to Cladach Duillich the morrow’s morn.’

  I looked at Robbie. ‘Is there any doubt of it?’

  ‘I think there’ll be a wee blow,’ he said. ‘The glass is dropping as the weather forecast said. Have you a strong stomach, Mr Jaggard?’

  ‘Strong enough.’

  Archie Ferguson laughed. ‘You’ll need one of cast iron.’

  I said, ‘The people on Cladach Duillich also said the weather is closing in.’

  Archie raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been talking to them! How?’

  ‘By telephone - how else?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Robbie. ‘They had the cable laid.’ He shook his head. ‘Awful expensive.’

  ‘A man there told me a woman came ashore today from Cladach Duillich - here in Ullapool. She’s about five feet eight inches, dark hair, age twent…’

  Robbie interrupted. ‘How did she come?’

&nb
sp; ‘By boat.’

  ‘Then she didn’t come,’ he said positively. ‘All the comings and goings are by that bluidy helicopter. There’s no boat on Cladach Duillich.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘O’ course I’m sure. I pass the place twice a day, most days. You can take my word - there’s no boat.’

  I had to make sure of it. ‘Well, supposing she came anyway. Where would she stay in Ullapool?’

  ‘Ullapool’s not all that big,’ said Archie. ‘If she’s here at all we can put our hands on her - in a manner o’ speaking, that is. What would be the lassie’s name?’

  ‘Ashton - Penelope Ashton.’

  ‘Rest easy, Mr Jaggard. You’ll know within the hour.’ He smiled genially at his brother. ‘Do you not smell something awful romantic, Robbie?’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The wind whistled about my ears as I stood on the pier at eight next morning. The sky was slate-grey and so was the loch, stippled with whitecaps whipped up by the wind. Below me Robbie Ferguson’s boat pitched violently, the rubber tyre fenders squealing as they were compressed and rubbed on the stone wall. It looked much too fragile to be taken out on such a day, but Robbie seemed unconcerned, He had taken the cover off the engine and was swinging on a crank.

  Beside me, Archie Ferguson said, ‘So you think the young lady is still on Cladach Duillich?’

  ‘I do.’

  He pulled his coat closer about him. ‘Maybe we’re wrong about the government,’ he said. ‘Could this be one of those queer religious groups we’re importing from America these days? Moonies or some such? I’ve heard some remarkably funny things about them.’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Mr Ferguson, could you do me a favour?’

  ‘If I can.’

  I estimated times. ‘If I’m not back in eight hours - that’s by four this afternoon - I want you to get the police and come looking for me.’

  He thought about it for a moment. ‘No harm in that. What if Robbie comes back and you don’t?’

  ‘Same thing applies. They might spin Robbie a yarn, tell him I’ve decided to stay. They’ll be lying, but he’s to accept the lie, come back here, and raise the alarm.’