In Camera

by Gerald Hammond

  *

  Ian Fellowes spent most of the Sunday with his Deborah. Thoughts of assassinations seldom crossed his mind and Deborah was at first only interested in bemoaning the gust of wind which had set her goal beyond her reach for another year; but he did manage to ask a few supplementary questions of her. Deborah was almost as knowledgeable about firearms as her father and was better able to make allowance for the ignorance of the listener while expounding. Thus before the day was over Ian at least knew what a banana clip might be.

  It was on the Monday morning that, as he later expressed it, the Flymo passed over the dog-turd. The first sniff to waft his way came in the form of a phone-call from Keith. Robert Hall had failed to show up to start his new job.

  The Sergeant’s report had been faxed to Edinburgh but, as a matter of routine, a copy had circulated locally and Chief Superintendent Munro had read it. Although Mr Munro’s authority over him was primarily administrative, Ian would not have been surprised if he had been summoned to the presence. Instead, however, there was a token tap on the door and the Chief Superintendent’s scrawny figure entered and folded itself into a visitor’s chair.

  ‘Sit you down, Sergeant,’ Munro said amicably. ‘I just wanted a word. That report you put in about the Dundee gunsmith. Have you seen the witness Hall yet?’

  The Sergeant tried to hide his anxiety. ‘Not yet, sir. Mr Calder’s going to phone me whenever he arrives. No doubt he’s missed the first bus.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Munro said. ‘Tell me what you make of the evidence so far. The matter, after all, is still one of crime prevention – and crime prevention is my responsibility, locally.’

  ‘Locally,’ the Sergeant said musingly, as though merely repeating the Chief Superintendent’s last word.

  ‘That is what I said.’ Munro’s voice had all the pedantic lilt of the West Highlander plus a sharpness which was forgivable in a Chief Superintendent who had just been reminded of his limitations by an underling. ‘We do not know that the planned assassination – if that is what it is – would not be local. The Moderator of the Church of Scotland is to visit here in two weeks’ time. So tell me what you think of the evidence.’

  The Sergeant had his own opinion as to whether the Moderator would be a worthy target for a professional assassin, but he kept it to himself. ‘Mr Hall may have been romancing,’ he said, ‘but if he told Mr Calder the truth it adds up convincingly. A small rifle, cut down and converted to automatic fire – I’m told that that’s a much easier conversion than the other way around – installed in some sort of case, with a trigger worked, probably, from inside the handle and with a “banana clip” – that’s a magazine – taking anything up to thirty rounds at a time. Discounting remote possibilities such as that it’s intended for use in a James Bond film, it can only add up to a murder weapon, intended to be brought close to somebody who would otherwise be difficult to approach.’

  ‘That is much what I thought myself,’ Munro said comfortably and lapsed into silence.

  When a minute had passed without another word spoken, the Sergeant said, ‘Was there anything else, sir?’

  ‘No, nothing. Carry on with your work. I am waiting for Mr McHarg to phone you, as he surely will.’ Mr Munro glanced disapprovingly at his plain, silver wrist-watch. ‘Mr McHarg does not keep early hours. When he phones, switch on that little gadget.’

  All was now clear. Chief Superintendent Munro and Detective Superintendent McHarg were old acquaintances, rivals and enemies. Each had an unerring instinct for those moments when the other was exposing, or could be induced to expose, his jugular vein. Such moments were not good times for subordinate staff to be around. The Sergeant tried and failed to think of a good excuse to get out of the room, out of the building and preferably out of the country.

  But he was still doodling Deborah’s lips on the back of a blank firearms certificate when the telephone rang. He snatched it up, hoping against hope that Keith’s voice would announce the safe arrival of Robert Hall.

  ‘Sergeant Fellowes?’ barked Mr McHarg’s voice.

  The Sergeant switched on his telephone amplifier. ‘Speaking, sir. I have Mr Munro with me.’

  ‘What does the Chief Superintendent want?’

  Munro leaned forward towards the amplifier. ‘I was discussing the Sergeant’s report about the weapon being built in Dundee.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask, Hamish, just what the hell it has to do with you?’

  ‘Not at all, Gordon,’ Munro said affably. Only two discs of colour, high on his cheeks, betrayed his anger. ‘It is a matter of crime prevention.’

  ‘I suppose it would be, at that. All right, sit in if you want. Sergeant, have you seen this man Hall yet?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. He’s due in Newton Lauder this morning.’

  ‘According to your report, he was due to start a new job in Newton Lauder this morning. If he existed at all. We have only Calder’s word to go on.’

  Munro leaned forward again. There was a hint of mischief on his dour countenance. ‘Mr Calder has always proved a reliable witness in the past.’ He sat back, satisfied that he had planted the needle where it would do most good.

  He was not disappointed. ‘Reliable! If by that you mean that the courts have sometimes been persuaded to agree with his warped viewpoint, than maybe. The Sergeant may be sweet on Calder’s daughter, but you know and I know, Hamish, that the man’s sailed so close to the wind, and so often, that he lives in a state of imminent capsize. Tayside police don’t have a whore’s prayer of a chance of getting a warrant to search the premises of a reputable firm on the basis of hearsay evidence transmitted through that source. Sergeant!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You are not, repeat not, to make any moves in this matter until the man Hall has turned up, if then. In fact, if he exists and shows his face, I’m to be told. I’ll see him myself.’

  ‘I gather then,’ said Munro, ‘that you have no particular need for the Sergeant’s services in the immediate future? I was considering sending him on a course on the Firearms (Amendment) Act.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said McHarg. ‘Keep him out of harm’s way for a bit. You’ll let me know if Hall turns up?’

  ‘I certainly will,’ said Munro.

  The connection was broken. The Sergeant put down his telephone and switched off the amplifier. He met Munro’s eyes and braced himself. Something was coming and he thought that he might not like it.

  ‘You really believe,’ said Munro, ‘that a serious crime is in train?’

  For a moment Ian Fellowes wondered where his best interests lay, but he decided to be forthright. ‘I do. And if I may say so, I think you were playing with fire to provoke Mr McHarg into taking the opposite view.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The Chief Superintendent smiled thinly. ‘And perhaps I know exactly where I am hoping to put the fire. Mr McHarg should not let himself be so easily provoked. Tell me, Sergeant, are you so sure that a crime is imminent that you’d be prepared to gamble on it?’

  Ian thought for a moment and then said, ‘Yes. I am.’

  ‘Then so you shall. We both will. You already know more than enough about the Firearms (Amendment) Act. Instead, I am going to give you a week’s leave – and more if necessary. If you can come up with some real evidence, it won’t count against your annual leave. That is what you gamble. You follow me?’

  Sergeant Fellowes nodded without speaking.

  ‘I will put our discussion with Mr McHarg on record. And I’ll give you your instructions in writing, to protect you. But if you come up with positive evidence, Mr McHarg will be in no position to make trouble; while, if you do not, he need never know of it. Are you agreeable?’

  The proposition was, to say the least, unusual. Sergeant Fellowes frowned. ‘May I think about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. After all, Mr Hall may still arrive and the matter settle itself one way or the other. Let me know this afternoon and, if you agree, you can make a start in the morning.’ Munro paused an
d dispensed a look which reminded the Sergeant of a mother wondering whether the baby’s spots were really only nappy-rash. ‘You do understand that this would be unofficial and, being unofficial, there would be little or no back-up? No search-warrant, no phone tapping. I’ll make a telephone-call to an old friend in Tayside, off the record, and he’ll help if he can. If there’s an arrest to be made, call on him. No rough stuff, and for the love of the Almighty no publicity – not, at least, until the case is rock-solid. You understand me?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the Sergeant. ‘I understand you all right.’

  As soon as he was alone, he left his office and went in search of Keith Calder. He urgently needed the advice of one whose experience of bending the rules far exceeded his own.

  Chapter Two

  Ian Fellowes sat in the back of the borrowed van. Thanks to the benevolent interference of the Calder family, he was not uncomfortable. He was seated in an old armchair which had once graced Keith’s study. A pair of binoculars was held ready at eye-level by a clamp of the type usually associated with laboratory apparatus but which found an occasional use in Keith’s workshop. And at his elbow were a bottled-gas stove and all the necessities for the making of simple snacks. It was the second fruitless morning of his vigil, but a radio, playing softly, helped to relieve the monotony of looking along a street, empty but for parked cars and a few children playing some incomprehensible game, to where the doorway to Bruce Ailmer’s workshop faced him from the cross-street beyond a changing screen of vehicles. Between the rooftops, the Tay estuary shone in the bright sunlight.

  Behind him, the door of the van slid back softly. Ian jumped and twisted round. His mind had been on weapons and assassination. But the man who climbed in and sat sideways in the driving seat had the calm solidity and the neat haircut that enables one policeman to recognise another.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Fellowes?’ said the newcomer. ‘DS Bert Angus.’ He wrinkled his nose at the atmosphere in the van.

  Ian flushed. Twenty-four hours of almost constant vigilance had allowed little time for sleep and none for bathing. ‘I was expecting DC Fettes,’ he said.

  ‘He’s helping at a warehouse break-in. You’ll have to make do with me.’

  ‘Did Fettes manage to get me a radio?’

  ‘He tried, but there was no way. Officially you’re not here at all and the chief doesn’t want a lot of messages passed through the Control Room. If anybody collects what you’re looking for, follow until you can get to a phone. You need spelled for a while?’

  ‘I’ve just been for a pee in the pub,’ Ian said. ‘Hope I didn’t miss anything. That Jag wasn’t there when I left.’

  DC Angus twisted further round and tried to look through the back window of the van which, except for a small strip at eye-level, was coated with a carefully preserved layer of traffic grime. ‘Shouldn’t think so, if it’s still there,’ he said. ‘All the same, you should have stuck it out – tied a knot in it or something. You knew somebody’d be along. No sign of your girlfriend?’

  ‘Two women have called and come away with guncases, but neither answered the description. I put them down as wives collecting their husbands’ guns after overhaul.’

  Bert Angus nodded. He had an unsmiling face and cold eyes. ‘Seems reasonable,’ he said. ‘My chief told us the background. He said he’d buy Champagne for the whole department if you can get him a good reason to give the place a thorough searching. In our book, Ailmer’s been getting away with it for too damn long.’

  ‘Trading in illegal, off-register weapons?’

  ‘You can set that to music. The law gives us a certain right of access, but there’s a limit. I told the chief that his chances of one man riding in from out of town and doing a Lone Ranger were less than his chance of winning the pools two weeks running.’

  Ian smiled wryly. ‘I told Chief Superintendent Munro much the same when I phoned him last night. He said to stick at it.’

  ‘The missing witness hasn’t turned up yet?’

  ‘Not as of last night. Probably lost his nerve and done a bunk.’

  Angus lit a cigarette, dropped the match on the floor and made a sound intended to convey contempt and disbelief. ‘Probably made the whole thing up, to explain why he left his last job in a hurry. Ailmer probably caught him with his hand in the till or trying to muscle in on the illegal arms dealing. Not that that would bother the man Calder. He’s tarred with the same brush.’

  ‘That isn’t the impression I have of him,’ Ian said carefully.

  ‘Around here, his reputation stinks.’

  Ian’s first instinct was to rush to the defence of the friend who might well become his father-in-law. He bit back some hot words. ‘When Mr Calder’s consulted by the defence in a firearms prosecution, he can drive a coach and horses through a sloppily prepared case. That doesn’t endear him to senior officers.’

  ‘I’m told that his daughter’s a looker. You sound as if you’ve been getting your share.’

  For a moment, Ian was lost for a suitably devastating retort. The moment passed for ever when the door of Bruce Ailmer’s workshop opened and a stout woman came out.

  ‘There she is,’ he said. ‘Hatchet face, bleached hair and all. And, by God, I’ve seen her before! She’s carrying a case but the Jag’s hiding it.’ He grabbed Keith’s binoculars but left the rest of his gear to look after itself. The woman entered the front of the Jaguar. ‘Get the hell out of the driving seat. No, wait! She’s turning this way.’

  ‘Hellfire!’ DS Angus said. ‘My car’s round the corner.’

  ‘Try to catch up. If you lose us, I’ll phone your HQ.’

  The Jaguar swept past, climbing the steep street. DS Angus got out of the van. ‘Right. Or would you prefer I came with you?’

  Ian settled into the driving seat and started the van’s engine. ‘Two vehicles would be better, in case she has a meet.’

  ‘It’s your case. Good luck!’ Angus slammed the door and patted the roof.

  Ian fed some revs to the engine and let the clutch out. The van fluffed twice and then pulled away with a whine of gears.

  The Jaguar was already far up the hill and climbing easily. Ian Fellowes cursed the sluggish van, fought with the gearbox and looked in his mirror. Where the hell was Bert Angus?

  A flow of traffic at a mini-roundabout halted the Jaguar. Ian arrived and came to a halt, four cars behind. He could see the woman’s head with its tight bright hair-do, nodding impatiently. The column moved out, too soon for DS Angus to come in sight. The Jaguar shot away and Ian clung on, ignoring the Highway Code, the statutory speed limit and the protests from the van’s engine just to keep the hurrying vehicle in his sights. He knew Dundee fairly well and thought that she was making for the Kingsway.

  Another traffic check enabled him almost to overtake the Jaguar before it crossed above the Kingsway and took a slip road down onto it, heading east. There was a forty limit but the Jaguar ignored it and shot ahead again.

  It passed out of sight. But the Kingsway ends in a monster roundabout where seven roads converge and there he saw it waiting while a column of traffic followed a juggernaut up from the city centre and onto the Arbroath road. The Jaguar moved out but Ian was cut off again by renewed traffic. The Jaguar circled past the Arbroath road. City centre? he wondered. Or the Tay Road Bridge? But the Jag turned off between the two main roads, descending at right angles towards the river.

  There came another gap in the traffic – less than enough, but Ian forced his way through in a blaring of horns and set off in pursuit. The street had a long name but he went by too fast to read it.

  He came down to the small roundabout on the road between Dundee and Broughty Ferry. There was no sign of the Jaguar. He conjured up a faint recollection of the map. The Jag would not have come by this road only to turn right towards the city centre. The minor road ahead led nowhere. He turned left and put his foot hard down, uttering aloud an ill-assorted mixture of prayers and curses which, he thought later
, must seriously have damaged his chances of getting into Heaven.

  Either the prayers or the curses bore fruit. Just before reaching Broughty Ferry he came over a crest to see the Jaguar, some way ahead, make a slow turn into the driveway of a substantial house. To have braked from that speed might have drawn the woman’s attention. He swept past and came to a set of traffic lights which seemed to have stuck at red. When they changed he turned off, drove round a small block and came back to the lights. Red again. Green came at last.

  As he approached the house where the Jaguar had turned in, the woman came out of the driveway on foot and carrying a case which looked very much like the one that she had brought out of Ailmer’s workshop. Three or four men appeared out of nowhere and followed her, as if by chance. She crossed the road and entered the grounds of the Royal Tay Yacht Club. Ian cruised slowly past the opening. The woman had not entered the clubhouse but was making her way down through the garden towards the River Tay. Three of the men followed at a distance. They were not dressed for sailing.

  *

  Sheila Blayne sat uncomfortably on the caravan’s tow-bar. The handbrake lever was digging into her hip and she thought that she was probably getting grease onto her new summer skirt.

  The small caravan had appeared overnight, parked and apparently abandoned on the very spot where on the previous day she had started her sketch. On seeing it, she had almost decided to abandon her project. But the sketch had progressed with miraculous fluency, developing towards a finished drawing. For once, the mysteries of perspective had resolved themselves and the whole panorama of the Tay estuary receded faultlessly into the distance. The composition also was doing her work for her. A black-backed gull had perched for a moment in the left foreground, just where a point of punctuation was needed. For the first time since she had given up her work as a secretary in order to be reborn as an art student, she felt a rising sense of expectation. This one was going to be good. Good enough to work up into a painting which would certainly impress her tutor. It might even – the ultimate accolade – sell.