In Camera

by Gerald Hammond

  She dropped the parcel on her father’s desk. ‘This was in Charlie’s library among the junk. More tatty old Bibles than you could shake a stick at. We think it’s probably the right one, but if there are any secret messages in it we couldn’t find them.’ She turned back for the door.

  ‘Don’t you want to hear all about our morning?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Tell me later. I must see if I can catch up with Ian.’ She vanished and they heard the jeep start up again.

  ‘Young love,’ Paul said tolerantly. ‘Not a comfortable state, but I wish I could live it again. You know, if I’d wanted I could’ve taken that pistol off you.’

  ‘That you couldn’t,’ Keith said.

  ‘I could too. I used to teach that sort of combat.’

  Keith put down his glass, empty again. ‘Shall we look inside that parcel? Or shall we take that pistol outside, put a blank up the spout and see if you’re suffering from delusions of adequacy?’

  ‘Now that’s a challenge I can’t resist,’ Paul said. ‘What say a bottle of this whisky against ten of your pounds?’

  Chapter Seven

  Chief Superintendent Munro was enjoying himself far too much for Detective Superintendent McHarg’s comfort.

  Munro had played his cards with care and ingenuity, making full use of the good offices of the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime). The latter detested McHarg and had been pleased to set the seal on Munro’s triumph by convening a hasty meeting in Edinburgh, attending it in person and then driving a coach and horses through all established protocol by insisting that Munro take the chair. Nearly twenty officers, of varying seniorities and specialities, had arrived from seven different forces, plus an observer from the Anti-terrorist Squad at Scotland Yard who had travelled up overnight and was in evident danger of falling asleep. Ian Fellowes was the most junior officer present.

  Copies of the various statements had been distributed, but Munro led the Sergeant through his account, point by point. When they produced Sheila’s drawing of the Tay with the figures in the foreground, an inspector from Strathclyde leaned forward.

  ‘This is Dora Braddle to the life,’ he said. ‘With this and the two witnesses, even if the adapted rifle never surfaces, we can put her away for attempted kidnapping. When we find her,’ he added soberly.

  They heard the Sergeant out in silence to the end.

  ‘But most of this . . . this farrago could be sheer paranoia,’ McHarg said desperately. ‘“The wicked flee when no man pursueth.” The Sergeant here was stealing boats and running away from imagined dangers, but the existence of a professional killer with a sophisticated assassination weapon is the merest conjecture. And there’s no evidence of a massive coast-watch except for one incident at sea which could have been a bit of bad seamanship blown up out of all proportion.’

  Ian Fellowes looked down at his white bandage but held his peace.

  ‘We experienced a statistical drop in the crime rate,’ said the man from Strathclyde. ‘It seems that every known hard man was out of the Region.’

  ‘And we know where they were,’ said a chief inspector from Kirkcaldy. ‘The harbourmasters are telling a consistent story. There was somebody hanging around every harbour-mouth. And they weren’t waiting to buy fish.’

  Somebody laughed.

  ‘We’ll move on,’ Munro said. ‘Sergeant Fellowes will be available to answer questions later. Mr Cardinal is waiting outside.’ He nodded to Ian Fellowes, who went to the door.

  The inadequate room seemed even more crowded when Paul Cardinal’s bulk entered. The man from Strathclyde had gained elbow-room by lighting a large pipe, but at Munro’s invitation the American pulled a spare chair into the space.

  ‘Mr Cardinal is a retired officer from the Los Angeles Police Department and a former member of the Anti-terrorist Task Force,’ Munro said. The man from Scotland Yard woke up suddenly.

  Ian laid a copy of Sheila’s sketch-portrait in front of Paul. ‘You know this man?’ Munro asked him.

  ‘I know him. Real name believed to be Raymond Munster. Out of Philadelphia, of German extraction. I won’t trouble you with all the aliases he’s used, because he never uses the same one twice. Most probably he uses the name of whoever’s identification he’s bought or stolen. He started as a bodyguard to hoodlums who’d made the grade and he worked on up from there.’

  ‘An example to any ambitious yuppy,’ said the man from Strathclyde.

  ‘You could say so. He’s now a professional killer. More than twenty hits to his credit that we know of, but could be many more. He’s worked for organised crime, for individuals, for activist organisations and for foreign powers – in fact, for whoever can afford his fees.’

  ‘Go on,’ Munro said.

  ‘If you played your cards right, you could get his file over within a day.’

  ‘A good photograph would help,’ McHarg said.

  Paul Cardinal laid a finger on a copy of Sheila Blayne’s sketch-portrait. ‘A photograph would only give you his physical appearance at one moment in the past. But this is the essence of the man. Off the top of the head, he’s five-nine, a hundred and sixty pounds, nearing forty years old. Brown eyes. Hair brown, greying and receding, but that’s easily changed. You want to know his modus operandi?’

  ‘Too true,’ said a voice.

  ‘He works anywhere in the world but prefers English-speaking countries. He never carries weapons across borders so I guess you can count on his target being in Britain. He’ll be lying low until his target’s ready for him.’

  Munro’s friend, a superintendent in Tayside, said, ‘With that picture circulated, we should be able to find him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Paul. ‘But he has a knack of melting into his background. He’s not great at languages but he’s a wow at accents. Two days in a new place and he could pass for a native. His natural voice is deep but he’s got a good range. A few minor changes to his appearance and a different voice and posture and you could walk right by him. No known weaknesses for drink or drugs or sex. Fussy about good food and he’s a first-class cook when he has to look after himself.’

  ‘What about this weapon?’ asked the man from Strathclyde.

  ‘Is it typical of his methods?’

  ‘He’s flexible,’ Paul said. ‘He’s a good shot, doesn’t need to depend on automatic weapons. You notice the case that’s being handed over in the larger drawing? All credit to the young lady, she’s got a sharp eye for details. Looks to me like a commercial camcorder case.’

  ‘A recording video camera such as the TV people use?’ the man from Scotland Yard said. ‘I think you’re right. Doesn’t that suggest that his target’s the sort of VIP who attracts the media?’

  ‘It might,’ Paul said thoughtfully. ‘I guess you’ll need to spread his picture around anywhere that’ll get that sort of coverage. But notice that what she’s drawn isn’t the camcorder but the carrying case for one of them. If he’d intended to use it at a press conference, which is the only way he’d get close enough to a political big wheel or a head of state, he’d have had a target pistol built into the shell of a camcorder with the viewfinder acting as a telescopic sight. I’ve known that done.’

  ‘He may have done that,’ said the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime). ‘The case could be holding it.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘A cut-down Ruger ten-twenty-two with a banana clip wouldn’t fit,’ he said. ‘Most likely, he’s using the camcorder case to get him into some area where the press and TV might be expected, like asking a big businessman for an interview. Or maybe he just figures that attaché cases are old hat. I wouldn’t know. One thing I’m sure of, he’ll want to test the weapon if he hasn’t already.’

  Munro made a note. ‘A good point,’ he said. ‘But when this man is using a special weapon such as this adapted and concealed rifle, does he usually carry other weapons?’

  ‘Not that I heard. He’d prefer to be able to dump the camcorder case and be clean. I can’t promise, but I think that if
you separate him from the case you can assume he’s disarmed.’

  Munro looked around the faces at the big table. ‘I have asked Mr Cardinal to be available for the next day or two, in case we have more questions. But for now, I think that we should be discussing the measures to be taken. So unless there are any urgent questions for Mr Cardinal . . .’

  ‘I’ll say one thing more and then leave you in peace,’ Paul said. ‘Ray Munster’s good at unarmed combat, but he isn’t as good as he thinks he is. I nailed him good when he tried to knock off a visiting Colombian dignitary. He was convicted but he got off real light . . . and he’s out again earlier than you’d expect. I told you that he’s worked for all and sundry. I’ve heard it whispered that he’s even done work for the CIA. Good morning, gentlemen.’

  He left behind him the silence which falls when each man is afraid to say aloud the thought which is in each of their minds.

  The ACC (Crime) decided that somebody had to voice it. ‘If that wasn’t a hint,’ he said, ‘I’ve never heard one. So among possible targets we must include anyone who might be unpopular with the US Government – along with those who may be disliked by Arabs or Israelis, the Irish, Libyans, Bulgarians, South Africans, big business, organised crime or any well-heeled bigot. I suggest that that can only be checked by local forces, because no central body keeps track of every person flying in to open a factory or have dinner with one of the Royals. We’ll have to circulate every force in mainland Britain – every possible target and scrap of information to be reported back here. I suggest that Superintendent McHarg co-ordinates.’

  McHarg scowled. ‘If I could have the uninterrupted services of Sergeant Fellowes—’

  ‘With respect . . .’ Ian Fellowes began. There was another quick silence. The words usually preceded some piece of gross impertinence.

  The Sergeant was not anxious to meet Ray Munster again, but he was damned if he was going to hang around where Superintendent McHarg could vent his fury on him. ‘I’m the only officer who’s set eyes on this man Munster,’ he said. ‘I think that I should be available to join in observation if and when we pick up his trail again.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ Munro said before McHarg could object. The ACC (Crime) nodded.

  The Detective Superintendent tried to smile compliantly but he only succeeded in looking bilious.

  *

  Paul Cardinal, in his rented Jaguar, was back in Newton Lauder by the middle of the afternoon. He found Keith again behind the counter in the empty shop.

  ‘Come in and keep me company,’ Keith said. ‘Otherwise I’ll fall asleep and the shop will get robbed.’

  The two men were becoming firm friends. The previous morning, after consuming most of the whisky bottle, they had adjourned to the garden for a contest to be settled by the best of three attempts by Paul to disarm Keith, but after two bouts, during which Keith had suffered bruised ribs and Paul’s fingers had been scorched by the flame from the discharged blank, Molly had come out to read the Riot Act and the contest had been declared a draw. Of such episodes are friendships made.

  Paul sat down in the customer’s chair. ‘I thought your partner was back from his vacation,’ he said. ‘I looked in here before I went to Edinburgh and there was a thin, intense-looking character looking after the place. He was determined to sell me a fishing rod.’

  ‘That was Wal. But he’s buggered off again for the moment, delivering clay pigeons to the Pentland Club, and our wives have gone to Kelso, shopping, taking Miss Blayne with them. So I’m lumbered. When do you suppose it would be safe to let that young woman go home?’

  ‘When Ray Munster and Dora Braddle are both in the slammer.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Keith said glumly. Something about Sheila Blayne seemed to be troubling Molly and when Molly was troubled Keith knew that he would usually be troubled in his turn. ‘How did the Edinburgh meeting go?’

  ‘About what you’d expect. They bled me dry and tossed me out. Now they’ll be wiring Miss Blayne’s portrait of Ray Munster all over the country and advising other units to guard any prominent cookies as if they were the Ayatollah paying a call in Baghdad. Saturate any high ground, check media passes, cut down on contact with the public and all that jazz. And I guess they’ll be trying to identify the target.’

  ‘That’ll be a long list.’

  Paul nodded soberly. ‘You always find that. But the list can be whittled down. If big bucks are going to change hands, bigger bucks are at stake. Except occasionally you find a millionaire with hatred in his gut. Well, it’s not my kind of problem any longer. How’s things in this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Quiet,’ Keith said. ‘It always is at this time of year. If it wasn’t for the fishermen and clay-busters, we’d starve. But I sold a good Browning this morning, which should keep the wolf from the door for today at least.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But I was more concerned to ask about that Bible your daughter brought back from Aikhowe.’

  ‘I’d almost forgotten it, what with all the fuss and flapdoodle. Don’t get your hopes too high. As I thought, the Earl of Jedburgh’s a direct descendant of Ilwand of Aikhowe. The book date’s about right. There’s no saying that it’s the right one, but Deborah’s adamant that there was no other Bible there of that age. On the other hand, she’s been through and through it. If there was ever a message tucked into the spine it’s long gone and so has the spine.’

  ‘What about marks in the text?’ Paul asked. ‘Words underlined?’

  ‘Marks galore. What would you expect in a book more than two hundred years old? Whether any of them are significant Deborah hopes to discover. Between helping out at the Pentland Gun Club and following Ian Fellowes around like a mother hen, she’s poring over the book as if it was the Holy Writ – which, of course, it is,’ Keith added hastily. ‘You realise that, if there ever was a message in it, Aikhowe may have discovered it and lifted any valuables while your ancestor was still up and kicking?’

  Paul nodded. ‘I know that. But you say there’s been no sign of any of the pieces surfacing in museums?’

  ‘True. But there are private collections. I’ve never seen the Queen’s collection, for one. If the Constable of Carlisle grabbed anything, it might well have ended up in the royal collection.’

  ‘It’s still worth a try,’ Paul said doggedly. ‘Just imagine,’ he said with more enthusiasm, ‘one of those pistols hanging in a case over my mantelpiece and being able to say “My great-to-the-nth-power granddad was hanged for stealing that off the envoy of Czar Peter the Great.”’

  ‘A conversation stopper,’ Keith admitted. ‘But don’t work up a head of steam just yet. Deborah spotted some tiny pinholes in the pages and she’s tabulating them to see whether any message comes out. But, to start with, some of the pinholes may have closed up with the years while others may have been accidental. Then, there’s nothing to say which side of the page they mark. And, again, a lot of the pages are missing. Finally, she’s trying to recognise a message written by an eighteenth-century Scot in the dialect and with the highly eccentric spelling of the day, and referring to place-names which may have changed over the years.’

  They were interrupted by a customer in search of a new reel for a trout rod. When they were alone again, Paul said, ‘You got me worried now. You think they might have had some code arranged in advance, like “Only count every third pinhole and move up one letter every time”?’

  ‘They might,’ Keith said. ‘But I can’t see why they should. They couldn’t have foreseen a need to pass secret messages.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘Lowsing time, as we say. Could you fancy a Scotch over at the hotel?’

  ‘That I could,’ Paul said. ‘I tried their Scotch last night and it couldn’t hold a candle to that malt you gave me yesterday, but I guess I can make do.’

  ‘You didn’t know what to ask for,’ Keith said. ‘Wait while I lock up and then get your notebook out. You’re due for another lesson in the superiority of malt Scotch
over Bourbon.’

  *

  Ian Fellowes found himself firmly implanted in Chief Superintendent Munro’s good books and enjoying the patronage of the ACC (Crime). For the moment, he was secure against the malice of Detective Superintendent McHarg. No doubt Mr McHarg would seek his revenge later, but the ACC (Crime) had hinted that changes were in the wind. Meantime, Ian had been admitted to the councils of his superiors.

  An intelligence room had been set up in Edinburgh. They refused to call it an incident room on the theory that fate might be tempted thereby to allow the very incident which they were trying to prevent. Here, a dozen officers of both sexes and various ranks were collating, comparing and distributing information. Chief Superintendent Munro and Superintendent McHarg, with Sergeant Fellowes in attendance, were reviewing progress or the lack of it.

  Nothing had been seen of Raymond Munster, but in other respects the news was satisfactory. Hanratty, scared out of his wits, had presented himself to the Tayside police and was bargaining for immunity by telling as much as he knew.

  Mary Bruce had slipped up. As a natural reaction to Dora Braddle’s difficulties she had transferred all their joint assets into her own name. This had left Dora unable to settle up with the legion of hard men who had been called out to watch for Lonely Lady and her crew. The result was that those men, when cornered by the police, had abandoned the usual rule of silence and had taken great pleasure in incriminating Dora Braddle and, with her, Mary Bruce. When Dora herself was recognised in a small Kensington hotel and taken into custody, she was understandably furious – so furious that, by the time she recovered her wits, she had already said far too much to be able to recant.

  ‘Which is all very well,’ Munro said. ‘Strathclyde will have a field day. We have a wealth of information and even evidence to back it. But we do not have Munster and we still do not know his target.’

  The Inspector responsible for the hour-by-hour collation of intelligence produced a sheet of telex. ‘Another report here you should see,’ he said. ‘A burst of automatic gunfire was heard yesterday evening on Montreathmont Moor, between Arbroath and Brechin. They thought that it might be another military exercise, but the local units deny any such possibility.’