by Alan Hunter
‘Kick it, Geordie.’
Gently stayed still.
‘Kick it, you bastard!’ McGash snarled. ‘Kick it through the door. And while you’re at it, hear me tell you I’m on first pressure.’
Gently moved to the chump. The gun moved with him. He kicked the chump through the doorway. The chump rolled to a stop beside Gabrielle. Gabrielle stared at it, elaborately shrugged.
‘That’s better, Geordie,’ McGash said. ‘Don’t start getting naughty thoughts at this stage. You’re right, I may be nervous, may hoik this trigger before I’m fit.’
‘I thought you were a professional, monsieur,’ Gabrielle said.
‘Wrap up, you cow!’ McGash snarled.
‘Can it be that you are really so timid?’
‘Two minutes,’ McGash said. He shouted: ‘Two minutes!’
Gabrielle sighed boredly and folded her arms. She began to hum the Marseillaise. Gently could feel a tremor in the gun. But nothing changed in the aspect of the Arab.
‘Listen!’ McGash shouted. ‘One bloody minute – then you’ll be wishing you’d spoken sooner. Can you hear me?’
Sinclair could hear him. But he sat tight in the car.
‘This is your last chance, you sod.’
Sinclair wasn’t even looking towards him.
‘Then it’s on your head, you bastard. You’re responsible for what happens now.’
But something was stirring in the car: from the back a man wearing a blazer got out. Frénaye! He spoke a few words to Sinclair, then turned and walked towards the gate.
‘Monsieur McGash?’
Gently felt the gun jog.
‘Back off, Froggie, or I’ll shoot you down.’
‘Monsieur, I wish to have words with you.’
‘I’m telling you,’ McGash shouted. ‘I’m telling you.’
But Frénaye paid no heed. He kept coming. He came through the gate, began to cross the grass. As though picking his way he moved off to the right, wide of Gabrielle and the door.
‘Just one more step!’ McGash shouted.
Frénaye’s gait didn’t falter.
‘Monsieur McGash,’ Gabrielle said. ‘I feel suddenly faint, I would like to sit down.’
‘Stand up, you whore!’
Hajjar’s breathing was ragged. His gun wavered, pulled away towards Frénaye. At the same moment Gently felt the gun behind him withdraw from his back. In his life he’d never moved faster. His hands clamped over McGash’s hand and the gun. His finger crushed down on McGash’s finger just as Hajjar spun round from the window. The gun crashed. The high velocity bullet struck Hajjar in the face. His skull blew. Headless, the body fell down, gouting blood.
‘You bugger . . . you bugger . . .!’
McGash had his arm round Gently’s neck. He was forcing Gently’s head down to the muzzle of the gun, wrenching to free the finger on the trigger. Then something violent struck him. He grunted, went heavy, slid down. Big-eyed, Gabrielle stood there. She was holding the wood chump and breathing fast.
‘Have I – killed him?’
‘You haven’t killed him.’
McGash’s wig hung askew. Under it, sandy hair through which blood was beginning to well.
‘Come . . . get out of here.’
He hustled her through the door. Men came running. Sinclair came. Frénaye was sitting on the grass, looking sick.
‘Man, are you all right?’ Sinclair said.
‘Both all right,’ Gently said.
‘And he’s alive?’
‘McGash is alive.’
‘Jings, jings, what a turn-up,’ Sinclair said.
He stared at Frénaye. Frénaye’s face was white.
‘Ach to goodness,’ Sinclair said. ‘I’ve seen men show nerve, monsieur, but never before the like of that.’
‘Is there a hotel we can go to?’ Gently asked.
‘Aye,’ Sinclair said. ‘Aye, at Tongue. Take my car.’
‘Thanks,’ Gently said.
He took Gabrielle’s arm; they went to the cars.
TWELVE
FRÉNAYE WENT WITH them, travelling in front with Sinclair’s driver. Until the car moved off, Gabrielle remained stiff, eyes averted from the house and the policemen. Then she fell into a tremble and began to sob. Gently held her to him, saying nothing. Nobody said anything. They crept on by Loch Hope and at last turned right into the vast of A’Mhoine. Slowly her trembling, sobbing ceased; she wiped her eyes and sat straighter. She looked up for a time at Gently, then at the savage moors they were crossing.
‘This place . . . what is its name, my friend?’
‘What do they call it?’ Gently asked the driver.
‘They call it A’Mhoine,’ the driver said. ‘The hill over there is Ben Loyal.’
‘Do people live here?’ Gabrielle asked.
‘Not a single soul,’ the driver said. ‘You’ll see one house, but it was never lived in. It was shelter for the men who built the road.’
‘My God, what a country!’ Gabrielle said. She sighed and was silent again. She took Gently’s hand; sometimes she looked at him, sometimes at the wastes of A’Mhoine. In front Frénaye stared straight ahead and the eyes of the driver stayed with the road.
At last they crossed a great kyle at the mouth of which were islands, ascended a gentle rise and arrived at a village. At a hotel the driver parked; he went in ahead to make arrangements. Drinks, sandwiches were brought to a private lounge; then the manageress came smilingly to Gabrielle.
‘Madame is about my size . . .?’
‘Oh, madame!’ Gabrielle said. ‘You will save my life.’ To Gently she said: ‘Alas my friend, but so soon I must leave you again.’
When she had gone Frénaye looked at Gently.
‘Monsieur, but that woman has courage,’ he said.
‘She had need of it,’ Gently said. ‘It was she most of all who put down McGash.’
‘All is now well between you.’
‘All is well.’
‘Monsieur is a lucky man,’ Frénaye said. ‘I too have such a woman for my own. It is happiness beyond all purchase.’
‘We are two lucky men,’ Gently said.
‘I will drink to that,’ Frénaye said.
They drank to it.
‘Monsieur,’ Frénaye said. ‘This unpleasant Empton is on his way here. Advice was of course passed to Inverness where unluckily it came to his attention. I understand there were exchanges with the excellent Sinclair which the latter saw fit to ignore. I assume that Monsieur Empton will now seek to take charge of the affair.’
Gently drank. ‘He’ll be lucky,’ he said.
‘That was indeed my impression. The excellent Sinclair murmured words which my modest English failed to comprehend. Yet this Empton has the authority?’
‘We’ll see,’ Gently said. ‘He’s in Sutherland, not in Whitehall.’
‘That will be different?’ Frénaye said.
‘That will be different.’
Frénaye shrugged and took a sandwich.
Cars pulled up. Sinclair entered; he went straight to the tray and poured a drink. Tall, lanky, with long, lined features, he took a gulp before speaking.
‘Ach then! So far, so good. McGash is on his way to Peterhead jail. How is the lady?’
‘Taking a bath,’ Gently said. ‘Which way have you sent McGash?’
‘Not through Lairg,’ Sinclair said. His eye twinkled. ‘I’ve been having a chat with Guthrie,’ he said. ‘There’ll be no hijacking of prisoners on my patch – nor yet in his, I’m thinking.’ He drank. ‘But you, man,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a reception waiting down yonder. That chiel Barentin has been stirring things up – I would not put it past a civic reception.’
Gently grimaced. ‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘Aye, but it goes further,’ Sinclair said. ‘He’s under the impression there’s a wedding in the offing, he’s about lending you châteaux, Rolls-Royces and that sort of chattel. Any truth in the rumour, man?’
&nbs
p; ‘Let us say it is premature,’ Gently said.
Sinclair eyed him. ‘Just premature,’ he said. ‘Well, it’s maybe over – soon to be pushing such questions. That was no picnic down the glen.’
‘No picnic at all,’ Gently said.
‘You did well to hasten her away from it,’ Sinclair said. ‘Jings, man, you never saw the like of that Arab.’
He poured more whisky, drank. Nobody said anything for a time. From the window one saw the four peaks of Ben Loyal, luridly lit by evening sun. Then, more distant, the hump of Ben Hope, summit streaming bloody cloud; and in the foreground the kyle and the ruin of a watchtower on a knoll.
Gabrielle returned.
‘My friend . . . I have not been so very long?’
She stood before them shyly, dressed in borrowed skirt and jumper. Her golden brown hair was brushed, her cheeks still glowing from the towel; even the bruised eye seemed fainter, its lividity softened by bathing. She smiled at the three men getting to their feet. But her eyes were only for Gently.
‘My gosh, lassie,’ Sinclair said, ‘but you’re looking a different woman now.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ Frénaye said. ‘For such a transformation Madame Frénaye would have needed two hours.’
‘And you?’ Gabrielle said to Gently.
Gently said nothing; he placed a chair for her.
‘Well now, well now,’ Sinclair said. ‘Let me speak a little and have done. I’m wishful to shake your hand, lassie, and I shall be a proud man doing it. And that’s all for that, since I’ll be making a fool of myself if I say more.’
‘Monsieur, I am touched,’ Gabrielle said.
‘Now as to business—’ Sinclair began.
He was interrupted by a knock: a constable appeared at the door.
‘Sir, a Superintendent Empton is wanting words with you.’
‘Is he now,’ Sinclair said. ‘That should be interesting. Show him in, man – let’s see the colour of his face.’
A moment later Empton entered. He closed the door. He stared at them.
‘Right then,’ Empton said. ‘Roy of The Rovers has done his act. Sorry to break it up and all that, old man, but the time has come to let in the professionals. Where’s McGash?’
Gently nodded to Sinclair.
‘So where’s McGash?’ Empton repeated.
Sinclair gazed at him with puckered eyes. ‘I would not just be certain of that,’ he said.
‘Then you’d better be certain,’ Empton said. ‘My writ runs in these parts, old man. I have a plane standing by at Wick airport and when it leaves I want McGash on board it.’
‘Now that’s sad,’ Sinclair said. ‘Not to mention a great waste of taxpayers’ money. McGash is on his way to Peterhead, and I cannot just say where you can light upon him.’
Empton glared at him. He pulled up a chair and sat down face to face with Sinclair.
‘Listen, jock,’ he said. ‘You’re not dealing with an amateur. I can have you suspended at the drop of a hat. I’m the man who says jump, and you don’t ask when but how high. And McGash is my prisoner, are you hearing me, jock? He’s mine and I’ll have him. So get on that telephone.’
‘Ach well,’ Sinclair said. ‘You’re a forceful mannie. But what for should I be handing him over to you? There sits the man who felt his collar, and I’m hearing nothing about planes and Wick airport from him.’
‘On the blower,’ Empton said. ‘And quick, jock. Or you’ll answer for it with your rank. McGash is state property. He’s my property. The Frogs want him for conspiracy, kidnap and murder.’
‘Is that so,’ Sinclair said. ‘Man, there’s a coincidence. He’s wanted in Scotland for the very same things. Along with illegal entry, criminal assault, vehicle theft and malicious damage. We’ll have to get together with the French,’ Sinclair said, ‘to see who’ll have the privilege of giving him lodging. But man, I do not hear he’s committed crimes in England – unless maybe it was over-flying Buckingham Palace.’
‘Right,’ Empton said. ‘Entertainment over. Do I get him, or do I get you?’
‘Aye,’ Sinclair said. ‘It’s a ticklish question. But I think he’s best kept in responsible hands.’
‘Then it’s your funeral, jock.’
‘Maybe,’ Sinclair said. ‘And yet, I cannot help wondering, man. When you’ve made such a botch of your job up here, will your bosses down in London be for taking you seriously?’
Empton sprang up. ‘Listen!’
‘Hush man, hush,’ Sinclair said. ‘You’ll be startling the lady – though truth to tell she showed few nerves when she was handling McGash. Where were you then?’
‘You’ll pay,’ Empton said. ‘You’ll pay for this, jock.’
‘And then again,’ Sinclair said. ‘When she was rescuing Barentin – what were you doing up Moriston, man?’
‘I was tricked into it!’ Empton snarled.
‘Aye, there was trickery somewhere,’ Sinclair said. ‘You set a trap for a brother officer and got hoisted in it yourself. What sort of a policeman do they call you? I’m telling you, you’re laughing stock in Scotland. You’re a joke, man. They’re splitting their tunics from Balnakiel to Berwick Law. And I’m to hand over my prisoner to you? To a music-hall turn spitting fire and brimstone? On your way, man – on your way – or I’ll put you inside for insulting behaviour.’
‘You’re suspended,’ Empton bawled. ‘And I have the authority.’
‘You, you have nothing,’ Sinclair said. ‘Except maybe a fool’s cap, and that you brought with you from London.’ He called the constable. ‘Show this laddie out, and see you point him towards England.’
‘You’ll pay – the whole boiling of you!’ Empton shouted.
‘This way, sir,’ the constable said. He took Empton’s arm.
Sinclair was making clucking noises in his throat. He wiped his eyes and poured another drink. ‘Ach well,’ he said. ‘It’s a sad heart – but I shall not soon forget Glen Moriston!’ He spluttered over his glass. ‘But to business,’ he said. ‘It is ourselves who should be stirring too. The Press will have wind of this affair, and you’d best be other wheres than at Tongue. Will you away with me to Dornoch?’
Soon after eight they were back in the cars. They drove through the long evening. Gabrielle slept on Gently’s arm.
Frénaye left them the next morning.
At Dornoch the sun had returned; they walked on the beach and then lay down to bask and listen to the rustle of the combers. Somewhere else reports were being made, interrogations taken, statements given; but Sinclair hadn’t bothered them. Yesterday’s world was far from Dornoch’s Sunday beach.
Gabrielle had slept late and was still sleepy. For a spell she dozed in the mild sun. Gently sat by, pipe in mouth, now and then tossing pebbles in the sea. Small birds ran and retreated at the tideline; further out sailed the terns, the gulls. A white painted ship, low, without funnels, was slowly inscribing the sea’s rim. Gabrielle stirred and sighed.
‘My friend . . .?’
No one was near. He kissed her.
‘My friend, when shall we marry?’
‘At once,’ Gently said, kissing her again.
‘You will get leave?’
‘Immediately.’
‘Shall it be in France?’
‘In France,’ he said.
‘And we will invite’, she said, ‘Monsieur Frénaye. And the brother-in-law who paints. And the sister who is crazed by Proust. And—’
‘All of these,’ Gently said. ‘Barentin has offered us his car and château.’
‘Oh,’ Gabrielle said. She scooped up sand, let it leak through her fingers.
‘You do not want a Rolls-Royce and a château?’ Gently said.
‘Perhaps I am a foolish woman,’ she said. ‘When I am dreaming it is just you and I in my little car. Driving south. Did we not do it once before?’
‘We did it once before,’ he said.
‘But oh,’ she said, it was so short – just Honfleur to Lisieu
x. When I was wishing it would go on for ever.’
‘Then we will do it again,’ he said.
‘You do not wish for this Rolls-Royce either?’
‘I do not wish for it,’ Gently said. ‘Just your little car. When we are married.’
‘This is certain,’ she said, ‘not the car nor the château?’
‘Neither,’ Gently said. ‘What trash they buy with money.’
‘Tell me again when we shall be married.’
Kissing her, Gently said: ‘Not long.’
