by John Burke
‘Ever since that Hunter creature came, things have gone twisted.’
‘I thought he was quite pleasant to you when I was there.’
‘Gives me the shivers even more.’ Instead of fleeing, she surrendered and let herself sit down, trembling. Trying to steady herself, she said: ‘You must have known him, way back. What did you make of him then?’
‘A tough bastard. He hadn’t been there all that long when I decided to quit, but I got the impression my father had taken him on as a real tough trouble-shooter. A man after his own heart.’
‘Implacable,’ said Beth. ‘That’s the word I’ve been looking for.’ She lobbed him a question which had only just woken in her mind. ‘Has he got a wife? It’s hard to imagine.’
‘I don’t think so. Too busy with … well, business.’
‘Yes. Cold, calculating … and implacable.’ She came back to her earlier accusation. ‘And where do you stand in all this? Waiting to pick up your father’s offer? He really does want you back. You must see that.’
Randal brushed aside some prints on the bench and perched on the end of it. ‘Giving battle to my fellow directors? Jacques Hunter and Morwenna Ross. One at a time — or in cahoots? Maybe getting married, even.’
‘But then maybe your dad wouldn’t fancy them getting too powerful together. Could be that he fancies you marrying your late brother’s widow and keeping it all in the family. Tidy everything up nicely.’
‘Tough luck. Because I’m not going to marry Morwenna. I’m going to marry you, right?’
Flurried, she glanced at her watch. ‘Right, that’s it. I’ve got to get back. Everything’s being rushed through, it’s getting quite absurd, but somehow we’ve got to get that show on the road. And I’ve got to keep on making the right noises, the right phone calls, the usual routine only three times as fast.’
‘Why not engage the Rolling Stones and Amy whatsername and start an annual rave? Glastonbury, T-in-the Park. Why not Gaelic-in-the-Glen?’ As she headed shakily for the door, he slid from the bench and blocked her way. ‘Look, there’s something more important in life than all those panics and presentations.’
‘Not to the Ross Foundation there isn’t. Not right now.’
‘Right now,’ said Randal forcefully. ‘Beth, will you just take a few minutes off and tell me you’ll marry me?’
*
Rutherford’s sergeant steered the squad car into a parking slot between a Mazda and a gleaming Vectra. As they got out, Rutherford nodded ruefully at the muddy side of their own vehicle. ‘We could do with the sort of wash-and-brush-up Mr Johnson gives his fleet.’
‘That burst water main back there didn’t give us the sort of power jet he can afford.’
The proprietor was waiting for them in the inner doorway of his sparkling, air-conditioned office. Apart from the sound of their footsteps there was a cool silence within the building, soundproofed against traffic outside and aircraft flying in and out above their heads. His main window commanded a view across the parking area and the main entrance and exit. A screen on the opposite wall flickered with pinpricks of differently coloured lights across a huge street map of Edinburgh.
‘Mr Rutherford. Long time no see. Not bringing trouble this time, I hope?’
‘We hope not, Mr Johnson. Unless you’ve got some useful information on that ram raid in Livingston.’
‘Not one of my clients. Not this time. All cars returned safe and clean around … when would it be? … last Wednesday?’
‘I’m sure your records are as accurate as ever. So we’d be glad of your help regarding the hire of a car on the twenty-fourth of last month. A Thursday that would have been.’
‘What make of car? And who was driving it?’
‘That’s what we’d like to know.’
Johnson waved them to two chairs, more luxurious than any they were used to in interview rooms at the nick. Then he waved, less hospitably, at the screen on his left. ‘We do keep an awful lot of stuff on the move. I’d need to have something a bit more specific. Then I can get our Miss Grieve to run through the records.’
‘Can you give us any details about a rental for a journey to Lockhart House down the Pencaitland road on that date, the twenty-fourth?’
‘People don’t always tell us exactly where they’re going when they leave here. As long as they pay their deposit and bring the vehicle back without scratching it or spilling beer over the interior, we don’t ask all that many questions. But just a minute.’ He leaned towards the microphone sunk into his desk, and rattled off a few instructions which Rutherford found quite unintelligible. But in a matter of seconds a girl was bringing in a sheaf of print-outs which Johnson leafed through confidently. Then he said: ‘Oh, Christ.’
‘Something doesn’t gel?’
‘No, it all adds up. But that was one of those bloody awful days. Bad weather over Iceland and the Atlantic. Planes arriving a couple of hours late. We’re used to that, of course, but it does mean we have to pull all the stops out. We have to move cars around so that people who’ve booked them in advance can pick them up without too much delay. Only on a day like that there are dozens of others making emergency bookings on the spot and getting just a wee bit impatient.’ He turned several sheets over. ‘We certainly wouldn’t have been asking anyone for details of where they were headed.’ Johnson shook his head, then sat up sharply. ‘Just a minute. Lockhart House, you said?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Isn’t that where … hey, now just a minute …’
‘Where the murder of Colonel Sholto Ferguson took place on that date, yes.’
‘But what’s that got to do with us hiring a car out? I mean, out of all the stuff we had to-ing and fro-ing, why should you think one of our cars was there?’
‘Because the odd-job man there says he recognized one as coming from here. You putting a sign on the roof nowadays?’
‘A discreet logo on the back of the boot,’ said Johnson indignantly. ‘Very discreet.’ Rutherford looked at DS Blake, expecting — and getting — a sag of the shoulders and a ‘wild goose chase’ droop of the mouth.
He said: ‘You’ve no memory of anything particularly unusual? For instance, did somebody bring a car back after only a short time and … well, act suspiciously?’
Johnson smiled dourly. ‘There are times when I find everybody seems to be acting suspiciously. It’s one of the hang-ups you get in this trade. But like I said, days like that you’re too rushed off your feet to take note of anything very much other than getting stuff off the forecourt there in a nice steady stream.’
‘Yes, I get the picture.’ Rutherford saw no alternative to giving up his line, for the time being at least. ‘But if anything does occur to you —’
‘In the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep?’ Johnson nodded. ‘That sort of thing does happen. I can lie awake for hours worrying about some little thing that I ought to have noticed — and then in the morning spend hours tracking it down and finding it as a false alarm.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Rutherford agreed.
‘But yes, I’ll let you know if anything does occur to me. Only don’t blame me if I’ve set you off on a false trail. Wouldn’t want to be accused of wasting police time.’
The two detectives left glumly. It had been too much to hope for one of those sudden revelations that simplify a case; but that never stopped you from hoping. Rutherford sent Blake off to check on progress with DNA samples from the murder scene, even though they so far had no other samples for comparison. On impulse he himself went to the Ross offices. There were still too many loose ends. Pleasant as that young Crichton woman had seemed, the whole relationship between her and the Ross son was tied up with the show pieces at Lockhart House — a tie-up whose knots might need more unravelling than he had managed so far.
No, Miss Crichton was not in. Busy setting up television coverage of the Ross project, an interview with Mr Ross himself, and visitors from Canada and Australia. Mrs Morwenna R
oss was on her way to Achnachrain. And Mr Jacques Hunter? Already at Achnachrain.
Before Rutherford could slouch away, disgruntled, Simon Ogilvie appeared, his feet tapping briskly across the floor as loudly as if he had been a woman in high heels and in a hurry.
‘Ah, Chief Inspector.’ It was by no means a welcome. ‘Didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.’
‘And I didn’t expect to find everybody out. Except yourself, that is.’
Ogilvie picked up the insinuation immediately. ‘Somebody responsible still has to look after the shop.’ He tried a man-to-man chuckle, but it came out resentful. He was obviously peeved at being left behind. ‘Is there anything specific that I can settle for you? Or you’ve got some news about poor young Drummond’s missing laptop? We’re none of us happy about the thought of confidential company records falling into the wrong hands.’
‘That’ll be in the hands of the boys in Inverness. I’m sure they’ll be in touch when there’s anything to show. But as a matter of interest, do you normally let junior members of staff go wandering about the countryside with confidential material about their persons?’
‘By no means. Unfortunately young Drummond had an emergency call about his father being taken ill, and it was arranged to hire a car and let him pay a visit on his way back here.’
Rutherford tried to think up a few words of routine sympathy to round off the conversation and get away. ‘Must have been a blow to you, getting back here and learning what had happened to your colleague.’
‘Dreadful. Oh, quite dreadful. But actually, we heard it while we were still at Achnachrain, the day the rest of us were due to start back. Mr Hunter was back here ahead of us, and he was the first to get the news and let us know.’
Rutherford was in no mood for hanging about any longer; yet something vague and of little consequence seemed to be growing disturbingly less vague.
‘Mr Hunter wasn’t with you all the time?’
‘He preferred to drive up on his own, and drive back. You know what it’s like with these top brass, Chief Inspector. Like to be on their own to make decisions without having to consult lesser mortals like us, eh?’
‘Too true, Mr Ogilvie.’
‘And not even our perfectly good company car,’ said Ogilvie peevishly. ‘Not good enough for him. Too impatient, from the start.’
‘Impatient?’
‘From the moment he arrived in this country. Always expect the world to run like clockwork on their behalf. I had personally made arrangements for one of our cars to be waiting for him with a driver at the airport. But the plane was a couple of hours late, and somehow the driver missed him, and off goes our Mr Hunter, couldn’t be bothered to phone us, simply had to hire the most expensive car he could find and drive himself here — taking his time about it and losing his way, of course,’ Ogilvie added with a smirk.
Taking his time about it …
Rutherford said, slowly and very quietly: ‘But charged the car to the firm, of course.’
‘Of course. And a fine rental it turned out to be, with the extras.’
‘Extras?’
‘Mr Hunter decided he liked driving that particular model. He kept it on, and used it on the Achnachrain trip, and on the way back — and, for all I know, any other excursions he might have fancied.’
‘But it’s been returned to Johnson’s now? Or is he still using it?’
The specific name of Johnson’s might have been an alarm bell, jarring Ogilvie into realizing that he had been ranting on too indiscreetly. Flustered, he gulped and said: ‘What on earth has this got to do with anything, officer? I really can’t stand around gossiping like this. Short-staffed, expected to deal with every last little detail while the rest of them …’ He reined himself in with difficulty.
‘While I’m here,’ Rutherford, making a move to turn back towards the reception desk, ‘perhaps I could see Lady Torrance. Unless, of course, she’s out in the wilds with the rest of them.’
‘Oh, no. Lady Torrance’s work with us is complete, and she’s no longer with us.’
‘Completed? Paid off, just like that?’
‘I’m just waiting for her to let us have her assessment of any incidental expenses she may have incurred on top of our agreed fee,’ said Ogilvie stiffly. ‘And look, Chief Inspector, you really must forgive me. I do have to be off.’
‘Thank you for your help,’ said Rutherford insincerely.
On the steps down from the building, his phone rang. He barked a ‘Rutherford’ into it as he sauntered away along the pavement; then stopped, and his bark became a gasp. ‘Say that again. A what?’
‘Started in a Facebook.’ Sergeant Blake was more used to up-to-date jargon than Rutherford really cared to be. ‘On the message wall, saying that ‘a historic pile is open for a rave this very afternoon.’ Open invitation for every young layabout within twenty miles to come in and help trash the place. All the rage nowadays, to fill in the odd hour or two. And they’re at it right now.’
‘We’ve got a squad there? Enough backup?’
‘DI Muir’s coping. But we may have to handle things carefully.’
‘Carefully? For Christ’s sake, a lot of yobbos run loose and —’
‘It appears that the website setting the thing up belongs to the daughter of one Councillor MacPherson. Of the Police Committee.’
Rutherford swore loudly enough to provoke a reproachful glare from an elderly woman passing with a very small dog on the end of a very long leash.
‘And just where is this whoop-up taking place?’
‘Lockhart House.’ Blake sounded apprehensive about coming out with it. As well he might.
Meaning, thought Rutherford despairingly, that both lawbreakers and law-enforcers would be trampling all over any evidence that still remained about Colonel Ferguson’s death.
18
At short notice both the BBC and local ITV had spared cameras to cover the preparations for tomorrow’s parades and the formal opening of the reconstructed croft at Achnachrain. The BBC programme was announced as a forerunner to a series over succeeding months covering preparations for the bigger event next year, the massive Gathering of the Clans in Edinburgh during what was already being publicized as The Year of the Homecoming. As so often on such occasions, the TV companies had chosen to go head to head, transmitting across the same slot, though in mid-afternoon there could hardly be much to gain from such contrived rivalry. Lesley, settling down after a late lunch with a mug of coffee, flicked the remote control idly to and fro, finding few basic differences other than interruptions for advertisements on the commercial channel.
Nick had left late the previous day. She had joked about looking forward to the break, so that she could tidy up her desk and files after wrapping up every last query on the proofs of her book, and fill the paper collection bin with scraps of notes and discarded pages; but somehow it wasn’t working out like that. She felt too fidgety, unable to concentrate on the sort of tidying-up she usually enjoyed. Watching the comings and goings on the screen, she could almost hear Nick’s voice beside her, doing a derisive running commentary in conflict with the platitudes being trotted out by the commentators on screen.
It was all too disjointed. Given time, the whole ceremony could have been most appropriately integrated with The Year of the Homecoming. Instead, James Fergus Ross’s fear of total blindness and maybe even death had meant it all being cobbled together from fragments that could never quite fit.
A visiting group from a New Zealand Caledonian Club watched proudly as their piper went through his paces in the middle of the green square which had been levelled out to the trimness of a barracks parade ground. A small contingent of young men and women from the Gaelic College at Englishtown in Nova Scotia who had travelled across from Edinburgh, where they had been taking part in preliminary discussions of next year’s major events, were being photographed by Randal Grant in front of a small, low building which at first sight Lesley thought was the restored crof
t. Then, as the visitors were shuffled to and fro and the dimensions of the building became clearer, it looked more like a cheap mock-up of a doll’s house rural cottage rather than the real thing. It had surely not been there during her own visit. Just another last-minute gimmick?
Beth came in and out of shot, interviewing groups and individual visitors. Dashing from one part of the arena to another, she was somehow not her usual smooth self. Lesley wondered if she was reading too many of her own uncertainties into Beth’s wan appearance on screen. Was disillusion creeping into Beth’s veins as sourly as into her own?
On the BBC channel there was an interpolation of footage from a documentary made some years earlier about the Hudson’s Bay Company, featuring the fortunes — and misfortunes — of a Macdonald family driven from Kildonan to seek work with the Company. Landing more than a hundred miles from their supposed destination, only a handful survived a dreadful winter, making their way at last to the Red River in Manitoba, where their leader married the daughter of a Chinook chieftain. As the scene switched from the film back to live transmission, there was sudden focus on a group of men so incongruous in this setting that for an absurd moment the viewer might have thought a snatch of a John Wayne film had been mistakenly substituted for an intended sequence. Eight bronzed men in full Red Indian warpaint, very dignified and statuesque, were standing in line as rigidly as guardsmen waiting for a command. Morwenna Ross, who had been staring at the cairn of stones as if conjuring them to weep, turned away to gaze even more intently at these implacable warriors, her face suffused with a silent denunciation.
Jacques Hunter came into the frame, smiling aloofly as he strode towards the group of Indians, as still as burnished wooden statues. He raised his arms in what might have been a symbolic embrace, and they all lowered their heads. Draped across his left arm was a muslin shirt with an ochre fringe. The camera zoomed in for a moment, catching a brief glimpse of what looked like painted birds or ghostly figures before Hunter filled the screen, mouthing a protest and waving the cameraman away.
