by Alan Hunter
‘Show me.’
They pored over the map. The porter traced the road up Glengarry. Hatched lines departed at Tomdoun and wriggled their way north through close packed contours. Causeways carried them across two lochs, but marked habitations there were none. At Tomdoun, a phone box. Across the mountains, Cluanie Lodge.
‘Thank you.’
The porter departed. They remained staring at the swirls of the map. A far country indeed: even along Glengarry marked houses were few and distant from each other. From Kinloch-hourn, at the head of the glen, the road faded to a track departing into Knoydart.
‘Monsieur’, Frénaye said, ‘can obtain guns?’
‘Possibly one gun,’ Gently said.
‘He has transport?’
‘He has.’
‘Then, tomorrow . . .?’
‘What have we to lose?’ He gave Frénaye a hard stare. ‘We could perhaps lunch at Invergarry.’
Frénaye avoided his eye. ‘Possibly a packed lunch . . .?’
Gently said nothing; went to close the window.
‘The police have gone back down the glen,’ he’d told the bearded man. ‘With the glasses I could see them plainly. They parked by the phone box, two men with a van. While one made a call, the other exercised a dog.’
‘Jesus,’ the bearded man had said. ‘Did they have a dog?’
‘Yes, monsieur, I think an Alsatian. It was off the leash for several minutes, running this way and that. Then the man came out of the box and he and the second man had a conversation. They looked once or twice in this direction, but then whistled the dog and drove off down the glen.’
‘They didn’t catch sight of you, Frenchie?’
‘Monsieur, I have played these games before.’
‘Aye, you’re a useful lad, Frenchie,’ the bearded man had said. ‘I’m thinking you’ll have earned that stake in Aden. Will you be for South America?’
‘I think so, monsieur. I have friends and contacts in Rio.’
‘A fine place, Frenchie, when you’re flush – no lack of senoritas there!’ The bearded man had patted his shoulder. ‘But I don’t like to hear of the dog.’
‘Monsieur, they are satisfied. They have gone.’
‘Maybe, maybe,’ he’d said. ‘Ach, well! Get in and relieve Dusty, who is itching to stretch his legs. And Frenchie.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘Keep your mouth shut, comprenez? I don’t want you gabbing to the old Jew.’
FOUR
BUT AFTER ALL it wasn’t going to be so easy to slink off unnoticed on a private venture. By morning the affair had taken a fresh turn, with Gently catapulted back to stage centre. At breakfast Empton slammed down a Scotsman by Gently’s plate.
‘This is what they call press cooperation!’
With as much pedal as The Scotsman ever permitted itself, the story had been spread across the front page:
MYSTERY POLICE SEARCH IN INVERNESS-SHIRE
‘Tight Security’ comment
Connection With Wrecked Plane Riddle
Top Yard Man’s Presence ‘Coincidental’
And there was a picture of a smiling Gently over a caption loaded with innuendo; it hadn’t escaped The Scotsman’s attention that he had recently been involved with French Security.
‘Guthrie’s called a Press Conference,’ Empton said. ‘You’ll have to play it tighter than tight, old man. I’ve rung London, and they’ll confirm any tale you care to tell about swopping observers. And just remember it’s dynamite. The French story is that Barentin’s cruising in the Med.’
‘What is Guthrie going to tell them?’ Gently said.
‘Ah,’ Empton said. ‘I like the cannabis angle. About half a ton makes good reading. Everyone’s conditioned to half tons of cannabis.’
‘You’ll be letting him in for it.’
‘I’m crying, old man. His job is to keep them off my back.’
From a single table in the corner of the dining room Frénaye observed them with mournful eyes.
At the police station Guthrie was in a sweat; he was on the phone explaining to someone. People were dashing in and out of the office and a pile of paper was mounting on his desk.
‘That bastard, that sod Empton—!’
Red-faced, he grabbed Gently’s arm. But then the phone went again immediately and he was snarling instructions to someone at Beauly.
‘Listen! Apart from all the lies I’ve got to tell there’s this bloody Frenchman called Gautier – an honorary consul or some damned thing – rings up and wants to talk to Mossoo Gently.’
‘I’ll handle him,’ Gently said.
‘It’s a bloody nightmare. Who’s going to believe this crud about cannabis? You’ve seen the paper. If I mention cannabis they’ll laugh like a hundred drains.’
‘Say illicit cargo. Let them jump to conclusions.’
‘The trouble is I’m a godawful liar. And as if that wasn’t enough he’s making this an excuse to step up the hunt still further.’
When he’d cooled off, Gently mentioned the gun, and Guthrie stared meanly for a moment. Then, without a word, he sat down and dashed off a requisition.
‘Take this to Tate. But . . . off the record?’
‘Let’s say I’ve got a hunch. From studying the map.’
Guthrie shook his head. ‘That’s more than I have! You don’t want to tell me?’
‘Not at this stage.’
About to let it go, Guthrie added: ‘For chrissake don’t go sticking your neck out. Leave it to the man – if he stops a bullet, you and I can laugh all the way to the mortuary.’
The press conference was timed for ten-thirty and there the questions came fast and curvy. Besides The Scotsman half-a-dozen nationals, three locals and the BBC had sent representatives. Flashlights fizzed: empty-eyed men prodded and wheedled the unhappy Guthrie, got to the cannabis in no time flat, set him quivering with adroit insinuations. Then it was Gently’s turn:
‘Is this a one-off, Chiefie?’
‘London will give you full details.’
‘But why Inverness?’
‘Its problems are typical of policing in a scattered area.’
‘Chiefie, how much of a coincidence is a coincidence?’
‘Every four minutes a crime is committed . . .’
Nobody was believing anybody: you might have cut the incredulity with a rusty dirk. But it was the Frenchman, Gautier, an oil-company executive, who had his finger closest to the pulse. Meeting Gently later in Guthrie’s office, he said:
‘Monsieur, a contact in the Quai D’Orsay informs me . . .’
Did he really know what was afoot? A short, stout man with five o’clock shadow, he mingled compliments with knowing assertions. After dead-batting him for twenty minutes Gently was still uncertain how they stood; then the Frenchman reached into a bag he had with him and produced a magnum of champagne:
‘A tribute from the Minister . . .’
It appeared that he actually did hold an official position!
Time wasted: before he could get away it was nearly noon. He found Frénaye fretting in hotel reception with a picnic basket beside him.
‘Monsieur has the guns?’
‘One gun.’
It was a standard service revolver: its muzzle velocity about one third that of a Czech M52.
They unravelled Inverness’s tiresome one-way and struck the Dores road from town. Suburbs gave way to wooded country and then to the old military road along the loch shore. The day was misty; Ness, a pale panel drowning the reflections of purplish hills. Broken wake-lines suggested mysteries by their illusory motion down the loch. On the far shore uneasy traffic showed through gaps in screens of trees; on their own side traffic was light, though cars were parked on a succession of laybys.
‘Monsieur . . .’
Frénaye broke a silence apparently devoted to a study of the scenery. Dressed today in a neat-fitting windcheater, he looked every centimetre an earnest tourist.
‘If I dare to
speak it . . . while monsieur was absent, I took the opportunity to make a phone call. Merely to confirm, it is understood, that the situation persists as reported.’
‘And?’ Gently said.
‘That is all, monsieur. There have been no developments. But I made use of the occasion to pass on the intelligence with which monsieur surprised me last night.’
‘Thanks,’ Gently growled.
Frénaye stared ahead. ‘I must stress, monsieur, there have been no developments. Our mission remains a reconnaissance on the information in hand.’
Tight mouthed, Gently drove on. In other words, she still wouldn’t see him! For a moment the knowledge stung him, filled him with a bitterness of despair. Had she ceased to love him . . .? Thrusting into his mind came images pre-dating the nightmare in the forest: if they were as valid for her as for him, how could they fail to bridge this crevasse? Trust her, Frénaye had said. Yet, if she loved him, would there not have been a word, a sign . . .?
They climbed through Foyers and were diverted into the rugged country behind the loch. At last the road emerged high above Fort Augustus, a small, white town beside a stairway of locks. Here mountains heaped upon the Great Glen, which seemed to lose its way in the misty confusion; below, the toe-end of Ness lay clear and reflecting, contained by a dark, hard shoreline.
‘Monsieur, I have been considering tactics,’ Frénaye said as they freewheeled down to the town. ‘At some point, it is certain, we must leave the car and proceed on foot.’
‘So,’ Gently grunted.
‘It will be an advantage, monsieur, if we assume an appearance of innocence. If, like many I see, we equip ourselves with rucksacks, peaked caps and rolled impermeables.’
Gently shrugged, but the idea was sound. They parked in Fort Augustus and sought a sports shop. Along with the gear suggested by Frénaye he bought also a drab anorak, two OS maps and a cheap pair of glasses. Frénaye hovered over an air pistol, rejecting it finally with a sigh. Then, impatient at the fresh delay, Gently hustled them back to the car.
‘But we shall not regret the impermeables, monsieur . . .’
The mist was turning to rain. With wipers sweeping they hissed along the level road to Invergarry. A modest village, it marked the junction of the Great Glen road with the road to Skye: a few houses, a filling station, a ruined castle . . . and a hotel. Involuntarily, Gently eased the car. His eyes devoured the hotel. It stood back from the road, white walled, slate roofed, almost opposite a layby carved deep under trees. A wall concealed its car park so that only the roofs of cars were visible . . .
Straight in front of him stared Frénaye, his neat face inscrutable. But he knew: he knew! It was there if anywhere, behind those white walls . . . the aloof windows . . .
Round a bend, at the end of the village, stood a post office store with parking beside it. Gently flashed, pulled over, drove into the parking and cut his engine.
‘Monsieur . . .?’
Frénaye’s eyes were wary.
‘How many shops can there be in Glengarry?’
‘While that is true, monsieur . . . would not one suppose that, already . . .?’
‘So we’ll check it again.’
He dived out through the rain. Frénaye followed reluctantly. The long, cluttered store had just then few customers and a woman sat disengaged at the post office counter. Gently showed his warrant.
‘Police. I’m enquiring about three men.’
The woman looked surprised. ‘But Sergeant McBain was in here yesterday about them.’
‘A Frenchman, a bearded Scot and an Arab. Only one may have come into the shop.’
‘That’s just certain,’ the woman said. ‘But as I told the sergeant, we have foreigners in and out here all the time.’
‘Were you shown pictures?’
She wasn’t; Gently produced the photostats. The woman peered at them with interest, hesitating at last over that of Hénault.
‘Would that be the Frenchman?’
‘Do you recognize him?’
‘I would not quite be certain,’ she said. ‘But if he had shaved off his moustache he might be the man who came in Tuesday morning.’
‘Go on,’ Gently said.
‘Well, he came in early, almost as soon as I opened the door. He brought a list of groceries with him – I doubt if he spoke three words of English.’
‘Was there a car?’
‘There was. A dark coloured car is all I can tell you.’
‘Passengers?’
‘I could not say.’
‘Which way was it heading?’
‘Ach . . . Lochalsh way, I’m thinking.’
‘And he made a phone call, this man?’
‘Have you second sight, then!’ the woman said. ‘Aye, now I come to think of it he was in the booth while I was getting his order. I did not pay much attention, the phone is there for bodies to use . . . wait! I remember this. He wrote something down, perhaps a number from the book.’
‘How long was he here?’
‘Just about ten minutes. The time it took me to put up his bits.’
Gently crossed to the booth. The phone was STD. He flipped through the code book lying on the shelf. He found the Rouen code: beside it was a faint mark made by a ball pen. He consulted the local directory for the entry for the Invergarry Hotel. Here there was no mark, but a ghost of an indentation on the margin.
‘Did the man ask any questions?’
‘Nothing at all. But can you not tell me why he is wanted?’
‘Thank you for your help,’ Gently said. ‘If he turns up again, please give us a ring.’
‘Ach!’ the woman said disgustedly. ‘But wait – wait. Is there word yet of Constable Dickie?’
‘Dickie?’
‘Our local policeman. According to the sergeant, he’s gone missing.’
Hand on door, Gently checked. ‘How long has he been missed?’
‘Oh, just this morning. He and the sergeant were searching the glen yesterday. Today they were to search Glen Roy, but Dickie didn’t turn up at the rendezvous. The sergeant couldn’t raise him on the phone, so he rang us to hear if we’d seen him.’
‘You hadn’t.’
‘No. Nor he’s not at his lodging. Nor his van nor his dog neither. They were to have met down at Spean Bridge, and I’m just hoping there has not been an accident.’
‘If I hear of him I’ll let you know.’
‘Aye, it will be kind,’ the woman said. ‘We are special friends, not to mention cousins. It would grieve me to hear he had taken harm.’
The rain now was sheeting down, hiding the strath and the hills beyond. Back in the car, Gently mopped his face and turned an unrelenting stare on Frénaye.
‘Shall we have it on the table, monsieur?’
‘I do not comprehend—’ Frénaye began.
‘Monsieur, you comprehend very well, and you shall hear me spell it out to you step by step. On Tuesday morning the kidnappers stopped here and Hénault was sent in to buy stores. Hénault rang a number in Rouen with an SOS, a request doubtless for a car, money and a false passport. But how next to get in touch with his contact? He remembers the hotel down the road. He instructs his contact to take up quarters there and wait till he can call again. His contact rings you, then follows the instructions. Subsequently the second call comes. Thus the contact, and in due course yourself, know roughly where the kidnappers are hiding. And at this very moment, a few yards from this spot, the contact sits waiting for the call that matters. Back there, monsieur, in the hotel. Where, in two minutes, we could be with her . . .’
For some time Frénaye stared at the rain that coursed busily down the windscreen, hands buried in pockets, head sunk in the collar of the windcheater. At last his shoulders heaved in a sigh.
‘No, monsieur,’ he said. ‘No. Monsieur is shrewd but monsieur is impetuous. It may also be that, in his impatience, monsieur is being led astray by his wishes. Monsieur, I have never identified my source. There monsieur jumped at on
ce to a conclusion. He has not considered that the source might be criminal and so highly sensitive with regard to identity.’
Gently gazed. ‘Are you telling me—!’
‘Nothing, monsieur. I tell you nothing. Except perhaps that, if I may venture an opinion, we need fear no indiscretion from the source in question. And meanwhile, monsieur, we have business ahead which may take all our time until night.’
Gently gave him an incredulous look, then started the engine and backed off the parking. The wipers clucked as they shouldered the rain. Frénaye’s face was as blank as a Buddha’s.
Three miles later they reached the junction of the road that wound its way up the length of Glengarry. A single-track ribbon, it dropped down from the Skye road to follow the shore of the first of three lochs. Across the water Ben Tee and neighbouring peaks made fitful appearances through the wrack; on their own side steep, tree-clad slopes rose high to lose themselves in murk. They met no traffic. The bumpy little road twisted, turned, rose and fell, threading through glades of oak and ash, opening views of dark moorland. It was a road that doubled each mile. Only twice did they pass habitations. Meanwhile the loch narrowed, and sometimes ahead one glimpsed the fan of peaks guarding far Loch Hourn. Finally, with the rain easing, they passed the small hotel of Tomdoun, followed by ruined walls among trees, an isolated phone box: and a lane-like turn off.
‘Here . . .’
Frénaye had a map open. Gently braked, ran the car under trees. Unless on the alert one would have passed that forlorn junction, which nevertheless had once been the main road to Skye. A lonely spot: the hotel, out of sight, was the single habitation in that part of the glen. Behind them stretched empty, high moors, before the River Garry and roadless hills. And there the phone box, opposite the junction . . . in all the long glen: one!
‘We’ll eat.’
Frénaye looked relieved. He hoisted up the basket and unpacked their picnic. In fact, it was worth delaying until the fading rain returned again to mist. The portals of Hourn, through which the wrack had been streaming, now were drawn hard on a greenish sky: the Atlantic was relenting. And, while they ate, that red-painted box stayed under their eyes . . .
