When the Devil Drives

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘There’s often a photo call at the end of an amateur show, and Sir Angus has lots of previous ones hanging up in his study. It’s possible he saw those and knew it was coming. But if you ask me, that wasn’t it. Knowing Julian, he probably thought it impolite to kill me before the play was finished.’

  ‘The show must go on,’ said Fallan.

  Jasmine got to her feet. She’d heard enough.

  ‘I think it’s time to call Catherine McLeod. Tell her to cross-reference whatever they have on the Queen murder against Julian Sanquhar.’

  She looked to Fallan to see if he felt otherwise.

  ‘Call her right now,’ he said. ‘If he’s come at Tessa once, he’ll come at her again.’

  Tessa clutched her hands to herself in response, looking anxiously towards Jasmine.

  Jasmine glanced at the screen on her mobile. There was a little ‘x’ where the signal indicator usually sat.

  ‘Do you mind if I use your landline?’ she asked.

  ‘No, by all means.’

  Jasmine picked up the handset and pressed the green dialling button. There was no tone.

  ‘It’s dead,’ she reported.

  ‘It was working fine earlier. Jaffir called me from Amsterdam about half an hour before you arrived. Did you press the—’

  ‘Green button, yes. There’s nothing.’

  ‘They must be working on the line. It’ll come back on in a wee while, or you can usually get a signal if you drive up to the brow of the hill.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ she said, making for the stairs.

  Fallan got up and blocked her path.

  ‘Do not go out that door,’ he said in a tone that was not to be argued with. ‘And I’d tell you to stay away from the windows, except this place is nothing but windows.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jasmine asked.

  ‘Jolly bad luck there’s a fault on the line just when we’ve tracked down the one person who could tell us what happened at Kildrachan House.’

  Multiplying Villainies

  He had been paying this debt for thirty years before he was confronted with what the true price might be.

  He felt a chill to the heart when he got the phone call from Hamish, but he knew not to panic. There had been small scares before, glimpses of a possible confluence of events that might conspire to precipitate discovery, not least sitting in an audience one evening and realising Tessa Garrion was among those performing before him.

  It was when he met the girl, Jasmine, that he knew the situation was dire. He agreed to speak to her in order to find out what she already knew, and more importantly find out whether she was capable of getting to the truth. On that score, he saw very quickly that he could have no doubt.

  He recalled those headlines after the Ramsay story broke last year. For the first time, he was forced to contemplate how much worse it would be now, than had his crime been discovered back in 1981. He had so much more to lose.

  He had a father’s responsibility to his children, a husband’s duty to his wife, to protect them, to provide for them and ensure their futures. He could not allow this fate to fall upon them. He had no choice but to act, to eliminate the one element that held the key to everything else.

  He knew her name. Knew where she lived. He had been invited to watch an outdoor Shakespeare performance at Cragruthes Castle and had sat there in the audience in cold horror when he recognised not only her face but her voice, her stage presence and her talent. He had slipped away before the final act so as not to have to be introduced to her during the informal gathering that was scheduled to follow.

  He knew where he could get a rifle. He had been shown how to use one, and proven a good shot too. He couldn’t target her at home, though. If he did that, the police would pull apart her life in every detail as they tried to find a motive. That was when he realised the moonlit play would present the perfect time and place. A death under such circumstances would cloud his purpose in confusion, calling doubt upon whether the victim was a specific target, collateral damage or merely a random victim.

  Collateral damage. Friendly fire.

  He killed Hamish. He didn’t understand how. The rifle had not slipped in his hand, his aim had been steady and true. Yet Hamish lay dead, not Veejay Khan. Not Tessa Garrion.

  He had scrambled away in panic and fear, tossing the rifle into the dark depths of the river for fear it should be discovered on him, or that he had left some invisible trace of himself despite the gloves and all the other precautions he’d taken.

  He had been rash and impulsive, and in doing so he had made everything so much worse. He had killed a man who had once been his closest friend, a man he still respected and admired though their lives had taken different paths. The only consolation was that he had further disguised his intentions. Everyone assumed Hamish was the target, and nobody understood what really lay behind the shooting. That would change, however, if the girl found what she didn’t yet know she was looking for.

  It was all an even bigger mess. One that would require a professional to clean up.

  He had been assigned a personal escort in Afghanistan when he made Voices Beyond Camp Bastion. In recording its predecessor he had barely had cause – or leave – to travel out of the military compound and, satisfied as he was with the programme, he knew a companion series was required to tell the stories of the people on the other side of the fence. The British Army offered their own personnel as escorts, but he knew that people would not speak to him honestly – or indeed at all – if he appeared to be under their authority. He needed to travel with some autonomy, and to that end (abetted by a stack of awards for the first series) convinced the money men to finance a private security contractor.

  His bodyguard was a former army captain from Bristol named Len Holt, a career soldier who had ‘served his country and thus earned the right to serve himself’.

  They spent a lot of time together over the course of a month, two men from different worlds who grew to share a mutual respect. From the off, Holt was impressed and surprised that it was just Julian and an interpreter. No entourage, no kit, no crew. He only needed his digital recorder and a microphone. Holt, for his part, impressed and surprised Julian with the depth of philosophy with which he approached the complexities of morality as they were presented by his job. He appreciated the fact that Julian wasn’t judgmental, that he understood that there were those who had to undertake brutal deeds so that the rest could remain secure in the impression that they lived in a civilised society.

  Towards the end of their time working together, late one night over a few drams, Holt passed him a business card. It was an odd gesture as Julian already had all his contact details, but he inferred that there was something symbolic in it, particularly as Holt was keeping one finger on the card, where he’d slid it closer to Julian on the tabletop.

  ‘I kill people for money,’ he said. ‘That is the inescapable truth of my business. Sometimes certain people have to die so that the world is better for those who are left.

  ‘They say history is written by the victors. I’d go further and add that, half the time, morality is the sheen the victors polish on the surface of a world shaped by conflict. And the other half, morality is just the self-righteousness of people who have never had to take a hard decision. Sometimes it is simply a matter of being the man with a gun, as opposed to the man without. A matter of how much further than the other guy you are willing to go in order to survive. About what you are prepared to do, what you are prepared to pay, in order to make the world the way you want it.’

  With that, he lifted his finger from the card, inviting Julian to pick it up.

  Given the rather shocking confidence that was implied in Holt’s words, in truth he was rather scared not to.

  ‘Thank you,’ Julian said. ‘I’ll hold on to this, though I couldn’t imagine ever needing it.’

  ‘Well, that’s just the point,’ Holt replied. ‘I hope you don’t. But if you do, it’ll be because you have needs
you couldn’t imagine.’

  Julian was chastened by the disastrous consequences of his previous panicked response, and ensured Holt understood that his role was merely a watching brief until such time as hard decisions might be required. He told Holt only what he needed to know, the bottom line of which was that he could not afford the girl making contact with the woman who these days went by the name Veejay Khan. If that contact never took place, then further action might be counterproductive. It was possible, for all her passion, that the girl would fail. But if she reached her goal, it must prove a final one.

  He got the call he was dreading at around two o’clock in the afternoon.

  ‘Subject is en route to the primary address. No question that’s the destination. ETA approximately twenty minutes. I need a decision. Do you wish me to proceed?’

  There was no other choice. It wasn’t about him, but about his family. About his life’s work. His legacy.

  He profoundly regretted that it had to be like this, but she was the one who had ignored his warnings, stirring that long-buried evil, summoning forth once more the demon of the woods. Didn’t Hamish Queen’s death prove to her that these matters should not have been disturbed?

  ‘They mustn’t be found together. Afterwards, I mean.’

  ‘They won’t be found,’ Holt replied. ‘Not ever.’

  Dread Exploits

  ‘Do you have a telescope?’ Fallan asked Tessa. ‘Or a pair of binoculars?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, getting up and hurrying to a pine chest sitting in the corner, like a fort besieged by toys. She slid back the lid and rummaged for a moment, tossing out some waterproofs and then producing an expensive-looking pair of field glasses.

  ‘I think these are fairly new. They’re Jaffir’s. He likes watching the wildlife.’

  Fallan took them from her and popped off the lens caps.

  ‘Don’t suppose he likes shooting it too?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I see. No. There’s an air rifle that belongs to my son, just for target shooting.’

  ‘That may have to do.’

  ‘Don’t you have, you know, your wee emergency kit?’ asked Jasmine.

  ‘It’s in the car.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So that’s why I need the binoculars.’

  Fallan got Tessa to show them to one of the upper rooms, where he crouched at the side of the window, looking through the binoculars from the bottom-right corner of the pane.

  Jasmine waited in the doorway while Tessa went off to retrieve her son’s air rifle from his bedroom along the hall. She could see the mountainside rising beyond the rear of the house, the tree line climbing away to the left. What was he looking for?

  Then, suddenly, she was sure she saw something flare, which caused her to start and stumble against the doorframe.

  ‘What?’ asked Fallan.

  ‘I saw a flash. Sorry, I was spooked and thought it might be a gunshot. It was actually more like something sparkling in the sunlight.’

  ‘Where?’ Fallan asked impatiently, beckoning her down close to the window.

  She pointed.

  ‘To the left. Just at the edge of the trees.’

  Fallan scanned carefully with the binoculars, which moved in his hands across the most minute and steady of axes, like his wrists were precision-motorised. Then they stopped.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s that prick who’s been following us. I have no earthly idea how, given we were the only vehicle on about ten miles of single-track road, but somehow he’s found us again. Tessa said Sanquhar was in Afghanistan, right? I’m guessing he met some private contractors, made some very useful connections. Some of these guys are psychopaths. Glorified hitmen. This one not so glorified.’

  ‘So why can’t we get in the car and make a run for it?’ Jasmine asked, knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer.

  ‘Because he’s dug in up there with a rifle trained on the back door. Probably been there a while already, but he’ll be patient. I figure he’s waiting for us to leave, and his plan is that when we do, he’ll put the first round in my head as we walk to the car. You won’t know why I’ve just fallen down, so you’ll stand nice and still on the spot in confusion for a moment while he drops you too. After that, maybe Tessa comes out to see what’s going on. Maybe she runs for her car, and maybe he just saunters down the hill in his own time and takes her out up close, quick and clean. Then he washes away the bloodstains, slings the bodies in the back of his ride and buries us in the hills.’

  ‘Jesus, Fallan, don’t sugar-coat it. Is there a good news bit?’

  ‘Not really. We got lucky as it is. The flash you saw was the reflection of a scope as he moved the weapon. Ideally he would have the sun behind him, but the angle of the hillside meant it was a choice between that and having the cover of the trees. He’s playing the percentages. Lens flash is really only an issue if you’re worried another sniper might shoot back.’

  ‘How do you know this stuff? Don’t answer that. What are we going to do?’

  Tessa returned with the air rifle, which she was in the process of removing from a canvas carrying bag. It looked just like the one Callum Ross had taught Jasmine to shoot at Culfieth Hydro: single-shot, spring primed by breaking the barrel. That weapon had felt heavy and powerful in her hands, but she remembered him saying it ‘wouldn’t stop anything bigger than a rabbit’.

  She looked at the puny little tin of pellets Tessa was holding, and thought of this man, whoever he was, who had been big enough to floor Fallan. She hadn’t seen him, but he had to be just a bit larger than the average bunny.

  Fallan took the gun, broke it and loaded a pellet.

  ‘What are you hoping to do with that?’ Jasmine asked.

  ‘Only thing I can do: what every good mother warns you about when you’re playing with these things.’

  Jasmine didn’t follow, but Tessa was just such a good mother.

  ‘Take his eye out,’ she guessed. ‘You’d have to get very close.’

  ‘If I can flank him, I can get close enough. Maybe even close enough to rush him while his focus is on what he’s looking at through his scope.’

  ‘Fallan, this is the guy you took a beating from yesterday, when he didn’t have a gun.’

  ‘He got the drop on me. Saw me coming. This time it’ll be the other way round. I need to get a handle on the terrain around here, though. Mrs Khan, do you have any maps?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I can look.’

  ‘The maps on my phone any good?’ Jasmine asked.

  ‘Better than nothing.’

  She handed him her mobile and he began working the screen with his finger.

  ‘“You have activated Friend Flag”,’ he read. “This service notifies—”’

  ‘Yeah, it says that every time,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know how to deactivate it, so just click to acknowledge.’

  ‘No,’ Fallan said. ‘This is how the bastard always knows where we are. Your phone is effectively functioning as a GPS homing beacon.’

  Fallan picked up the binoculars and looked again at their stalker.

  ‘Guy’s got his mobile right beside his rifle. He’s using it as a range-finder. Your phone is telling him exactly how many metres away you are, so he can accurately zero his scope for the shot.’

  Jasmine remembered Polly’s friend Carol fiddling with her phone as they left Kave, wittering about all these social networking apps that she had but wasn’t using.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’d no idea.’

  ‘No, this is good,’ Fallan said. ‘This is very good.’

  He turned to Tessa.

  ‘You’ve got grandkids, right? I saw toys.’

  ‘Three of them. They were just here at the weekend. God, what if this guy had come then?’

  ‘Don’t think about it,’ he ordered her. ‘Do you have any remote-controlled vehicles?’

  ‘Yes. Connor’s got this thing that bounces off the
walls like it’s got a mind of its own. What do you want it for?’

  It was Jasmine’s job to watch from the window, crouched with the binoculars close to the bottom of the frame, her focus fixed on the man in the camo gear who was making his way down the hill. He was going for it, aware his prey was on the move, possibly worried that there might be boats out of sight, the edge of the water not visible due to bushes, trees and the undulations of the land.

  Fallan had taped her phone to this remote-controlled ‘tumble-twister’ car, then taken it outside to the front of the house and left Tessa to guide it. Upon his instructions, she kept it at walking speed, monitoring its progress from the upper tier of the split-level front room, from where she could see it make its way down the dusty pathway that led towards the loch. The toy vehicle had dual-axial motion systems, allowing it to navigate its way over or around just about any obstacle, so it didn’t get stuck in any potholes, ruts or even the cattle-grid she had expressed concerns about. There was going to come a point when she couldn’t see it any more, upon which Fallan had advised her to simply keep the joystick pointed forward. Past a certain distance, as long as it was still moving, that was the main thing.

  Fallan stood at the back door, awaiting Jasmine’s cue. She watched the gunman continue his descent, alarmed by the pace of his progress, because the faster he moved, the smaller was Fallan’s window. The gunman proceeded briskly but carefully, his torso maintaining the same level despite the rugged terrain. His legs were functioning as a suspension system, keeping the rifle in his hands rigidly horizontal at all times, like it was fixed to a steadicam rig.

  He made a sharp diversion, avoiding a ditch or a stream, and for a moment she feared he was going to alter the vector of his approach so much that he’d miss the blind spot. Fortunately, once past the obstacle, he corrected again and resumed his previous trajectory.

  He hit the mark Fallan had pointed out, and Jasmine gave him his call.

  ‘Go, go, go.’

  Jasmine felt her pulse thump as Fallan closed the distance between the back door and the passing place where the Mondeo was parked. He moved on swift but soft feet, muting his steps, the lightness of his tread belying his build.