by Alan Hunter
He dropped off the bank and walked round to the parking, where the shop turned out to sell only craft goods. A long, low building converted from a cow shed, it also rented boats and fishing gear. He went in. A woman appeared from among the stalls of woollens and jewellery. Nodding in the direction of the fishing lodge, Gently said:
‘Any chance of renting that property by the loch?’
‘Well now,’ the woman said. ‘You should have walked in here last week. You might have had it for a fortnight then, but now it’s rented through to October.’ She smiled apologetically; her accent had been a surprise.
‘Someone else took it?’
‘Too right,’ she said. ‘You get a chance booking once in a while. A fella dropped in here last Friday and asked if it was vacant, name of Robertson.’
‘Robertson,’ Gently said. ‘I used to know a Robertson. A short, plump man with a Glasgow accent.’
‘Naow,’ the woman said. ‘This wouldn’t be him. You wouldn’t call him short, just kind of ordinary. He paid cash and left a Liverpool address, and what would I know about his accent?’ She grinned. ‘We’re from down under,’ she said. ‘My man took a job here managing sheep.’
‘Is Robertson in occupation now?’ Gently said.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It’s let Wednesday to Wednesday. They rang us Wednesday evening, said they’d be late and would I leave it unlocked. That’s no sweat, the folk around here are honest. Reckon you’ll find him there if you want him.’
‘Wednesday,’ Gently said. ‘He hasn’t dropped by since.’
‘Not with it raining wombats,’ the woman said wryly. ‘I haven’t let a boat these two days. But they’ll be around when it stops.’
‘Is there a store handy if I rented the property?’
‘Down the road and turn right. You’ll come to the post office.’
The property was called Camghouran, she told him, and the name of the loch was Loch Ruthven. Gently thanked her and bought a nugget of rough amethyst from a tray on the counter. He went outside. With his back planted against the phone box he made a survey of the lodge with glasses. The site had been let into rising ground which to the rear reached the level of the first floor windows. Here there was birch scrub. The moor round about had bush heather, bilberry. Down by the road was more birch scrub, perhaps enough to screen a car left on the hardstanding. Cover: but not much cover. On the moor he noted a couple of boulders. For a mile one way, half a mile the other, the road came under surveillance from the big windows.
He returned to the car, drove to the junction, turned right and found the post office. A smaller establishment than that at Invergarry, it was nevertheless equipped with a phone booth. A man, a woman, were unpacking cartons: Gently produced the photocopy of Hénault.
‘Police. Has this man been in here lately? He may not now have a moustache.’
They looked at it, glanced at each other.
‘Is he a Frenchman?’ the woman said.
‘When did he come in?’
‘This morning,’ the man said. ‘About midday. If it’s him.’
‘Alone?’
‘He came in alone, but there was another man waiting in a car.’
‘Did you get a look at the other man?’
‘Ach, no! I was busy just then with pensions. But I saw the car, a brown Volvo – it pulled up a wee bit further on.’
‘I served the Frenchman,’ the woman said. ‘He brought in a list of groceries a mile long – ach, enough for a family for a week, and whisky too. It came to a bit.’
‘Did he use the phone?’
‘Aye – I had to give him change for a five-pound note. But what’s he done?’
Gently put away the picture. ‘Just routine enquiries,’ he said.
He went to the phone booth, rang the hotel. Frénaye was quickly on the line.
‘Listen, Frénaye. Has there been a call within the last half hour?’
‘But, monsieur! How could you know—?’
‘Was there?’
‘It was half an hour ago precisely, monsieur.’
‘And?’
‘I regret no message. The lady I thought sounded despondent.’
‘No message.’
‘It was my impression that the lady has given up hope. But, monsieur—’
‘Thanks,’ Gently said. ‘See you soon.’ He hung up.
Back in the car he pored over a map, then sat for a while listening to the rain. The sky overhead was solid murk and cars passed rarely on the narrow road. At last he lit his pipe, fired the engine, turned and drove away north. He passed the junction. Soon the shop, the white house were left behind in the gloom and the rain.
SEVEN
HE TOOK THE B861 back to Inverness, a road that opened great prospects of the town and its hills. By the time he reached it the rain had slackened, though still the wrack was dark and low. At the bridge he hesitated, drove on and turned, traversed the one-way and parked at the police station. He went in and knocked at Guthrie’s office: found it occupied only by Empton and his man Curtis.
‘Where’s Guthrie?’ Gently asked.
Empton was laying down the phone. His vulturine features had a flush and his eyes were mean with anger.
‘So what’s it to you, old man?’ he snapped. ‘Or are you helping out now with the amateur connection?’
‘What amateur connection?’
‘Ask around. But he’s taken bloody manpower I need here.’
‘What amateur connection?’ Gently asked Curtis.
‘A job at Aviemore, sir,’ Curtis said bleakly. ‘A bird was raped and strangled. The Chief Super’s gone out there.’
‘And that’s what you call an amateur job?’
‘Ha, ha,’ Empton said. ‘Don’t make me spit.’ He got up from Guthrie’s chair and came to stare into Gently’s face. ‘Old man,’ he said, ‘I could kill you, and that’s not a figure of speech. I’ve just had the top man trampling on my goolies for pussyfooting around with Petrie. The Frogs have been at him. They’re screaming for blood because I’ve cut McGash’s line with Paris. The Frogs are soft, they want to deal, but the Arabs won’t play till they reestablish contact. My head’s on the block, and who’s to blame? Old man, pick your moment, but drop dead.’
Gently stared back at him. ‘You knew the risk.’
‘Risk, risk,’ Empton said. ‘I could have had it out of Petrie last night and never left a mark on him. That’s why they pay me, what I do. We could have been back in London, old man. Instead we’re just a wolly short and me up the creek without a paddle.’ His teeth showed in a snarl. ‘And the Frogs still love you,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I didn’t try to drop you in it. One day you won’t be made of asbestos.’
‘So when is Guthrie due back?’ Gently asked.
‘To hell with Guthrie,’ Empton said. ‘I want that Frog of yours. I want him here. If he knows something he’s going to spill it.’
‘He knows nothing further.’
‘Lovely boy,’ Empton said. ‘And if he did would you tell me? But he’ll spill what he does know. He had a tip from somewhere, and that somewhere I want my hands on.’
‘He is entitled to protect his source.’
‘Listen,’ Empton said, ‘before I throw up. There’s only one source he could get a grass from, and that’s your fancy bit in Rouen. Who was in Rouen. Who isn’t in Rouen. Because I made it my business to check. So guess where she is now, at this very moment, and what she’s doing, and who she’s reporting to. Go on, have a guess on me – then get that Frog round here double quick.’
‘He brought information,’ Gently said. ‘He has no further information.’
‘But you know where she is,’ Empton said. ‘You know, because you wouldn’t not know, you wouldn’t let the Frog hold out on that. So where is she?’
‘Frénaye’s source is protected.’
‘And you think I’ll go on chasing my arse?’
‘Any additional information will be acted upon.’
Empton looked as though he would hit him.
‘Get Petrie in here!’
‘Wait,’ Gently said. He went to the intercom, asked for Tate. Tate came in. ‘The Superintendent wishes to reinterrogate Petrie,’ Gently said.
‘All right!’ Empton snarled. ‘Play your game. But don’t forget I’m going to play mine too. Watch out for your Frog, watch out for your girl friend, because I’ll have them if they put a foot wrong. And meanwhile, old man, I do have Petrie, whether we go by the book or not. And I’m going to break him if it takes all night and a whole deck of senior officers.’
‘That’s your privilege,’ Gently said.
‘Yeah, that’s my privilege,’ Empton said.
Petrie was fetched. With him came a CID officer who identified himself as a Chief Inspector Muirhead. He signalled one of Petrie’s escort to remain and himself took a seat by the desk. Gently left with Tate. When they were clear of the office he took the Inspector by the arm:
‘On my own authority, no questions asked, I want another gun and some CS grenades.’
Tate stared at him with eyes gone still.
‘I don’t know if I can, sir . . . just like that.’
‘You can,’ Gently said. ‘My writ runs as far as that gentleman’s back there.’
‘But . . . what’s it about, sir?’
‘No questions, no answers. I’ll leave a note for you to hand to Guthrie. You say nothing to nobody.’
‘Well . . . I don’t know, sir . . .’
‘I’ll be waiting in the incident room.’
The incident room was still a busy place with reports in the pipe line from distant searchers. Gently found a seat amongst the hubbub and scribbled a few lines for Guthrie. He sealed them in an envelope, addressed it, added ‘Strictly FYEO’. He waited. Ten minutes later Tate appeared carrying a canvas grip.
‘Would you sign this quittance, sir.’
Gently signed it. Still Tate seemed reluctant to deliver the grip.
‘If you could give me a hint, sir . . .’
Gently shook his head, held out his hand and took the grip.
‘Just one thing. Later on tonight you may get a call from a French officer named Frénaye. Whatever he asks you to do, see you do it at the double.’
‘But sir . . .’
‘Here’s the note for Guthrie.’
Gently went, lugging the grip. It felt heavy; examining it in the car, he found Tate had put in a full case of grenades.
He left the grenades locked in his boot but took the gun with him into the hotel. Frénaye was in reception; after putting in an order for tea, Gently collected the Frenchman and took him upstairs. Frénaye sounded prickly:
‘Monsieur, I wish to know—!’
Gently hustled him along to his room. Once inside he put his finger to his lips, then began a frisk of the room. Bug one was behind the radiator, fastened to the wall with Scotch tape. Using his nail file as a screwdriver he removed the base plate of the telephone, and there revealed bug two. Gently slid up the window and looked out. A dumper truck laden with rubble was passing. The two bugs sailed through the air and departed countrywards in the truck.
‘The tricky bastard.’
Frénaye was staring. ‘It is Monsieur Empton who does this?’
‘Later we’ll check your room too. Also the telephone in reception.’
He went on searching until he was satisfied that the room held no more bugs. The tea came. Gently poured and fell ravenously on toast and jam. Frénaye sipped tea distantly. Gently finished the toast and began on the pastries. Finally, after gulping more tea, he felt under his jacket and hoisted out the gun.
‘Here.’
Frénaye gazed at it. ‘A gun for me, monsieur . . .?’
‘For you.’
Frénaye took the gun. He examined it; his eyes had softened.
‘Monsieur, please allow me to express . . .’
Gently shrugged. ‘You may have to use it. But now we’re quits – once you stuck your neck out to get me a gun when I needed it.’
‘At the same time, monsieur—’
‘I said you may have to use it. And that time may not be far away.’
He related the day’s events. Frénaye listened without interruption. As he listened he toyed with the gun, spun the chambers, hefted it. The gun was familiar in his hand: he was a man who lived with a gun. When Gently ended his account, Frénaye rested the gun on his knee.
‘Monsieur is convinced that mademoiselle failed to notice him?’
Gently considered. ‘You think she may have?’
Frénaye caressed the gun. ‘Monsieur tailed her for many miles, and she could not but be aware that you might seek to observe her. So she leads you to this place, then, an act of defiance, rings to tell me she has no message. This I would not put beyond her, monsieur. She is a woman with ways of her own.’
‘But what could be the object?’
‘Monsieur, it is that you and you only shall know that place. You she trusts. Even I am but a Frenchman in a foreign land, without power or authority.’
Gently shook his head. ‘I wish I could believe that. But I was looking at a different picture. She went there to case the lodge, and when she did it she wasn’t acting a part.’
Frénaye stroked the gun. ‘I could ring her, monsieur.’
‘Then you’d have to tell her how you knew she was lying.’
‘Monsieur, we cannot let her proceed.’
‘Monsieur, we must prevent it by taking action ourselves.’ Gently poured, drank more tea. ‘We may not have much time,’ he said. ‘Empton is up there working on Petrie and I wouldn’t put it past Empton to crack him. Empton is savage. He has just been reprimanded for breaking the terrorists’ link with Paris. If he cracks Petrie there’ll be no quarter. And Guthrie’s away. We’re on our own.’
Frénaye went on fondling the gun. ‘Monsieur has a plan?’ he asked.
‘I’ve a plan.’ Gently got up, fetched paper, began to sketch. ‘They’re trusting Hénault,’ he said. ‘Just a little. That’s how Hénault is getting to a phone. They think it’s safe to let him fetch and carry, he may even be doing a trick as lookout.’
‘We cannot be sure of that,’ Frénaye said.
‘But perhaps we dare rely on this,’ Gently said. ‘That, if there is a commotion out there near the house, they will leave Barentin with Hénault while they investigate.’
Frénaye was silent, then said: ‘What commotion?’
‘Here’s the layout,’ Gently said. ‘The house is below the level of the moor, and there’s parking by the gate out of sight of the house. Unless the weather changes right about it will be black as pitch tonight. The bend is on a shallow gradient. We come in without lights, cut engine and coast down to the parking.’
‘It is possible,’ Frénaye said reluctantly.
‘You will wait while I approach the house from the rear. I have CS grenades. From up there, at a pinch, I could lob them through the windows. But that will come later. First, I’m going to draw them. Behind the house is parked the car. I’m going to fire one shot at the car, with any luck getting the windscreen.’
‘Is there cover?’ Frénaye said.
‘A little scrub. But I’m above and they’re below. If there’s any light it will be behind them, and to get at me they must climb a bank.’
‘And then?’ Frénaye said.
‘Wait,’ Gently said. ‘Wait until you hear further shooting. Either they’ll be shooting at me, or I’ll be firing shots to let you know they’ve come out. When you hear the shooting, go. You’ll have your gun and three grenades. Get Barentin and Hénault out of there, down to the car, away.’
‘But, monsieur!’
‘Listen,’ Gently said. ‘Half a mile on there’s a shop and phone box. You’ll stop, ring Inverness police, then drive straight on into town.’
‘But no, monsieur – this is unthinkable!’
‘Monsieur, it is essential. I have sufficiently alerted Inverness police and they
will take immediate action. Meanwhile we must avoid all risk of Monsieur Barentin’s being recaptured.’
Frénaye jumped up agitatedly. ‘No, monsieur. I cannot, I will not agree to such a plan. Let us have men stationed in the area, properly equipped and ready to move in.’
‘Not possible,’ Gently said. ‘It would need Guthrie, and Guthrie’s tied up in Aviemore.’
‘In that case, monsieur, this Hénault can drive, and I will return after making the phone call.’
‘Hénault,’ Gently said, ‘will be under arrest.’
‘Then it is I, Maurice Frénaye, who will provide the diversion.’
‘No,’ Gently said, ‘and no. Because I have made a reconnaissance and you have not.’
Frénaye gestured with the gun. ‘Monsieur, I am desolate, but this cannot be. You will be left at the mercy of ruthless men, doubly enraged by the loss of their hostage. Monsieur, I hold your life more precious. Monsieur, you do not think of mademoiselle. Monsieur, your plan is excellent, but we cannot proceed without more men.’
‘We cannot have more men.’
‘Then we will wait.’
‘We cannot wait.’
‘Then we must make another plan. Monsieur, you have grenades, we will throw them through the windows, we will take our chance, but we will do it together.’
Gently stared at him, then shook his head. ‘Our object is to keep Barentin alive. My way will work. Once they lose Barentin they won’t want to waste time hunting me.’
‘Monsieur, they will not stop to think of that.’
‘Monsieur,’ Gently said, ‘I am above and they below. There is no wind. That site is a trap. I have only to explode my grenades.’
‘First, monsieur may be shot.’
‘Monsieur intends to present no target.’
‘I do not like it,’ Frénaye said. ‘I am not happy.’ He resumed his seat. ‘But monsieur is logical.’
Gently poured more tea; they drank. Frénaye invested in a tea cake. Whenever his dark eyes fell on the gun they took on a softness, a complacency.
