War Games

by Douglas Jackson

  I checked the map again. Lintalee House was two miles south of Jedburgh to the west of the main road. Pete’s cottage was one of two in the grounds. I wasn’t exactly sure which, but this was a Saturday and his van seemed likely to be parked somewhere in sight. It was early afternoon. If Gurya Ali was still alive, I counted on the fact that she would stay that way at least until midnight.

  Hazel had mentioned that Lintalee Glen, a narrow gully leading down from the big house to the river, was riddled with caves in the sandstone rock, one of which the locals called Bruce’s Cave. She’d laughed off suggestions that this was the cave where Robert the Bruce had his mythical encounter with a spider, but I wasn’t so sure I could dismiss the link so lightly. If the Crusader was holding Gurya Ali, he’d need somewhere to keep her out of sight for the month since she’d gone missing and some sort of cave system seemed as good a place as any.

  It took less than five minutes to drive to the place I’d chosen as my starting point. Spectacular red sandstone cliffs plunged sheer to the river less than a hundred yards from the road and trees lined the valley. On the map, the road access to Lintalee was about a mile downstream, but it ran past three or four farms and I couldn’t see any way of approaching undetected. Instead, I chose an unmarked roadway a few yards north of the nearby bridge and parked the car among the trees where it couldn’t be seen. I picked up the rucksack from the back seat and eased it over my shoulders. The gear added up to a fair weight but it was nothing to someone who had humped his way across miles of glutinous Falkland bog with eighty pounds on his back. I knew I wouldn’t need some of the stuff for another few hours, but I wasn’t planning to return to the car so there was no option but to take it with me.

  I walked over the bridge looking like just another backpacker, but once the road was clear I climbed the fence and slid down until I was hidden among the trees on the south bank of the river. The foliage was a mix of heavy, knee-high grass and hook-clawed brambles but I barely noticed as I made my way downstream towards the V in the cliffs that marked the gully leading towards Lintalee. The going became more difficult when I reached the base of the cliff and the ground fell away more or less vertically to the water below. It took me ten minutes to negotiate the twenty yards or so separating me from the small feeder stream that flowed into the river. Once I was there, I took a breather and studied what lay ahead. From the burn mouth, the gully ran more or less level for twenty paces before the sides closed in ominously and it began to rise in a series of stepped cascades. Worse, fallen trees and branches had choked the glen at several places, creating a series of natural cheval-de-frise of lethal-looking spikes.

  Still, hanging about wasn’t getting the job done.

  I took my time, following the line of the burn until I reached the first obstacle, then climbing the gully wall until I was able to get above the dam of branches, rusting oil drums and long-dead leaves. It sounds simple enough, but for every foot I made up those crumbling slopes I slid back another two. By the time I stood at the top the sweat was pouring down my back. I kept an eye out for the caves Hazel had talked about as I struggled through the undergrowth, but at first it looked as if she was mistaken. All I could see was a series of shallow depressions in the rock face that might once have been caves eroded away by time and the elements. In places the rock was as soft as damp cardboard, falling apart in my hands as I struggled for grip.

  When I finally flopped over the top of the fifth of the natural dams that barred my way, I looked up to my right and there, cut into the rock high up on the cliff wall, was the gaping mouth of what could only be a man-made chamber. By now, I estimated I was halfway up the gully. I was scratched, sore and soaked in sweat, and my enthusiasm to search the caves had long since waned. But looking up at that gaping black hole I could only think of Gurya’s face smiling out of her school picture. If there was the slightest chance that she was inside, gagged and bound, freezing and hungry, expecting death at any moment, how could I walk past?

  The cave was only about twenty feet above me and I studied the rock face between the gully floor and the mouth. It was almost sheer and made up of the crumbly pink sandstone that broke into flakes the moment you laid hands on it; the kind of climb an experienced mountaineer would tell you wasn’t worth breaking your neck on. But I could see a sort of narrow toe-wide ledge that led diagonally to a point about six feet to the right and just below the opening. If I could get there and find just one more handhold I might be able to make it.

  I’ve done a bit of climbing in the past; reluctant, idiotic ascents of spectacular summits just to prove I was tougher than anyone else in the battalion, but I wouldn’t do it for fun. I can think of more constructive ways to kill myself. I dropped the rucksack and removed the crowbar and stuck it in my belt. The first ten or twelve feet was simple enough; slightly precarious, but the drop wouldn’t kill me. I dug my toes in and ignored the pain in the back of my calves as I inched my way upwards. The problem was that the ledge petered out more quickly than it looked from below. By the time I reached the end of it, the toe hold had dwindled to a toenail hold and I clung with my nose tight to the pink rock, defying gravity by sheer willpower. The entrance to the cave was now six feet to my left and about five feet above me. It might as well have been a mile. I’d planned to use the steel crowbar to dig hand and footholds, but I was having to use both hands just to stay where I was. It would have taken an ambidextrous octopus to get the metal bar from my belt to my right hand and then from right to left and dig some sort of handhold. I clung to the rock, smelling the generations of packed earth, and willed myself to think. Eventually, I came up with a possible solution. Yes, it might kill me but it might just work.

  Naturally, getting back down was more difficult than going up.

  The second time I negotiated the ledge, I had the added obstruction of the rucksack on my back, but eventually I made it back to my earlier position. This time I had the crowbar in my right hand and I made the first toehold at about knee level. I ignored the cave and concentrated on creating a ladder of holds that allowed me to make progress two or three feet at a time, trying not to look down, but constantly aware of the sheer drop below me and the heavy rucksack that would break my back if I fell the wrong way. Eventually, after about another twenty minutes, I felt grass under my hands and with a heave I pulled myself over the edge to safety.

  I didn’t waste any time. The trees, spindly young beeches with roots clinging to the soft, sandy soil, grew close to the edge of the cliff and I tied the rope I’d brought around the one closest to the cave mouth, which was out of sight about twenty feet below me. I tested the knot and the half-inch rope and it seemed strong enough, but I could feel my heart pounding as I lowered myself over the edge. It felt better when I was able to plant both feet firmly against the rock wall and abseil down a few feet at a time, taking care not to burn the skin of my hands. When I reached the level of the cave, it was a couple of feet to my left and the interior was cloaked in total darkness. I swung myself into the mouth, which was about five feet high and four wide, but I didn’t let go of the rope until I was certain I’d be able to reach it again. All the time I’d been climbing the likelihood of her kidnapper getting Gurya into the cave had become ever more remote, but I kept telling myself I didn’t have any option. If there was the slightest possibility she was here, I had to check. I just couldn’t take the risk.

  The darkness smelled of ancient pigeon droppings and damp stone. I pulled the torch from my pocket and switched it on, but the cave turned out to be deeper than I’d expected. In fact, it was more than one cave. Three openings faced me: one large and two small. The main chamber seemed to be in the centre, with a pair of antechambers disappearing off to each side. I decided to search the largest first. It didn’t take long; it was just a large open space. No Gurya. No sign of human habitation. Just stark walls and a floor that sloped from left to right. The chamber on the right was no better, the only inhabitants a matched pair of tungsten blue rock doves huddled aga
inst the rear wall, who ignored me. By the time I reached the third chamber I knew I’d wasted my time. Still, no point in being there if I didn’t give it a check. I allowed the beam to drift across the interior – and my heart stopped. The figure lay on its side – face to the wall and back to the cave entrance – and its deathly stillness was amplified by the frozen light of the torch. I had no doubt I was staring at a body, but whose body? It seemed too small to be Gurya Ali, but I’ve seen enough of death to know that it diminishes its victims. I must have stood there for a minute as my mind attempted to come to terms with what it was seeing. I willed my legs to move. The chamber was as bare as the inside of a coffin, but as I moved closer a claxon went off in my head. Something was wrong. Something was missing. I’d had similar feelings in places like Crossmaglen and Jonesborough and they’d never let me down. I let the beam stray from the body and over the walls. Nothing. Could he be in the cave behind me? Not possible. I’d searched the other chambers first. Unless he’d moved from this one into the main chamberafterI’d searched it. No, I’d have heard him. I’d have sensed him.

  I reached forward and touched the corpse’s shoulder. Rough cloth, boneless. I realised what I was going to see even before I turned the body over. A terrible face screamed at me. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed. It was drawn in red marker pen on a child’s white football topped with a horsehair wig. Across the forehead was written ‘HA HA HA’, and lying beside it was one of the little lead soldiers.

  He was playing games with me again.

  CHAPTER 34

  Hazel had said the cottage was one of two in the grounds of Lintalee House, but she couldn’t tell me where they were located. Clumps of trees dotted the area around the house, a substantial, grey sandstone Georgian mansion set in a couple of acres of parkland. The trees provided plenty of cover and the grounds fortunately didn’t look big enough to justify their own gamekeeper.

  I reckoned that with my long experience of crawling about other people’s undergrowth I should be able to get from one side of the estate to the other and back again without being seen – as long as they didn’t have dogs. Dogs and country houses go together like steak and kidney. If I was lucky, I’d find myself nose to nose with an amiable black Labrador. If I wasn’t, I could be arguing the toss with a hundred and twenty pounds of angry Rottweiler.

  The map only showed the big house, but two roads which ended nowhere gave a hint of further occupation. One was to the right of the house, near the gate, and I chose to check it first because the woods provided thick cover all the way to within about twenty yards. Even if Pete’s van wasn’t visible, I shouldn’t have trouble finding something to identify him, even if it was only a pair of workman’s overalls on the washing line.

  As it turned out, the place was easier to rule out than I thought. When I got near enough to scope the back garden I saw an outsize trampoline of the kind that had become recently fashionable, and one of those kids’ slides made of multi-coloured plastic. Pete was single and I couldn’t see him being the type of guy who’d be geared up to entertain little nephews and nieces.

  The second cottage lay beyond the main house on the far side of the estate. By now it was late afternoon, and when I wriggled my way through the bushes to within sight of the cottage I was relieved to see the familiar white van parked to one side. The building was typical of those you see on farms and estates: two storeys of rough stone and grey tile, once homes to the workers who tilled the soil and cut the corn and generally kept the landowner in the style to which he’d become accustomed. Now, tractors till the soil, giant combine harvesters cut the corn and one man can do the work of twenty or thirty. Luckily for the landowner, people still want to live in the country even if they can’t work there. He sells his dilapidated cottage with no electricity and an outside toilet to some townie who doesn’t know any better and is prepared to spend as much again to make it habitable. Pete Campbell’s home looked as if he’d done the bare minimum. It still had the original windows and, more interestingly, several brick outhouses. I wondered which one held Gurya Ali.

  I was working on the theory that this was Saturday night and Pete looked like a man who enjoyed a pint. There must be a good chance he’d leave the house to visit one of the local pubs. Meanwhile, I found myself a decent hide where I could eyeball the outhouses, check his movements and make sure he didn’t have any visitors who’d get in the way of my breaking and entering. The area around the cottage resembled a builders’ merchant, with pieces of worked stone lying haphazardly beside piles of old pipe, roof timbers and, if my eye didn’t mistake me, large chunks of lead. Maybe he was planning an extension? I wondered what his employers at Historic Scotland would think of his collection. Beyond the outhouses lay a garden that backed onto woods. At the bottom of the garden on a small patch of lawn in front of a high fence stood something that sent a shiver down my spine. The multi-ringed roundel of an archery target. So I’d been right. Pete had a medieval hobby to go with his medieval obsession. I hoped Pete would be an early drinker, but the sun was getting ready to go down by the time I saw any movement.

  It came as a shock when I saw him. The first time we’d met, he’d just been some belligerent, racist thug I’d found annoying. Now, he was the Crusader killer, a man who’d murdered at least four innocent people and might be about to butcher another. He’d also tried to kill me at least twice. He came out of his back door and locked it without looking around, all bull’s head and bruiser’s body, heavy muscles rippling under a white T-shirt worn over combat trousers and desert boots. I took some satisfaction that he also sported a fine pair of black eyes and a nose that looked as if it had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. As he walked to the van he appeared relaxed, but he still managed to display an air of brooding menace.

  I gave it ten minutes, just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten his wallet. When I was certain, I slipped the sand-filled sock into my pocket, just in case, and jumped the barbed-wire fence that separated the cottage from the woods. The first of the outhouses, a long low structure, looked as if it had once been used to keep pigs. The wooden door hung from its frame and it only took a quick glance to confirm it was empty. The second and third turned out to be the same: a disused WC with a corrugated iron roof, and a log store. The fourth looked more promising, slightly larger and with a padlocked barrel bolt. I called Gurya’s name, but there was no answer. If she was being kept inside she was either drugged or gagged. I laid the rucksack on the ground and took out the lockpick and the crowbar. It was a substantial padlock, made of heavy, galvanised steel, but the bolt was fixed to the wood of the door by just four small screws. After a moment’s consideration I picked up the crowbar and inserted the narrow end between the bracket and the wood, and twisted. It came away with a satisfying, splintering pop. When I opened the door all the outhouse contained was a couple of lawnmowers and a few gardening tools.

  Disappointed, but not deterred, I picked up the rucksack and the crowbar and moved quickly to the house. The lock on the back door was a Yale, which meant this time I should be able to use finesse rather than brute strength. I laid out the pick and tension wrench on the doorstep. It had been a while since I’d last picked a lock, but I’d had a good teacher in Albert Hall and hopefully it was like riding a bike. A tension wrench is a flat piece of metal sharply angled to create a short leg which is inserted in the top half of the lock. Once it’s in place you maintain a certain amount of pressure, so the cylinder won’t move while you’re working on it. Not too much or you’ll just jam the lock, and not too little or you won’t be able to feel the movement. Once you’ve done that, you take the pick, which is a narrow length of wire with a 45-degree angle at the end of it, and put it in the bottom half of the lock. Inside the lock are a series of pins which need to be aligned in just the right way if the lock is to open. Once, I’d have been able to crack a lock like this in about thirty seconds, but it took me about three minutes before the last pin dropped into place allowing the tension wrench to force the barrel round and
the lock to click open.

  I stepped inside the Crusader killer’s lair.

  The first thing I noticed was how clean he kept it. Not just clean. Immaculate. The outside of the place might resemble a rubbish tip, but Pete’s personal space could have been a bioscience lab. Unless you have more money than you know what to do with, old houses tend to be grubby places: kitchens infused with generations of grease; every living space cloaked by the unforgiving dust of ages; peeling wallpaper and worn carpets; and each room in need of varying degrees of paint. Not this old house.

  The back door led through a short hallway to the kitchen. Pete Campbell is a stonemason, right – steel-toed working boots and a boiler suit caked with dust – so why did the kitchen floor look as if it had never been walked on? How did every kitchen unit, the cooker, the fridge and the hob shine as if it was new? It just wasn’t natural. I felt strangely guilty as I walked through to the next room, not because I’d burgled his house and violated his privacy, but because I’d left a trail of muddy footprints across his floor. The lounge was the same. The sweet, oily smell of furniture polish perfumed the air and every surface shone like glass. Pete had been a soldier and his job had been to kill the enemy. Now dust and disorganisation were his enemies. Everything had its place. The picture of Pete Campbell in his Black Watch bonnet with the red hackle held pride of place in the exact centre of the old-fashioned slate mantelpiece, beside the one of him on the balcony of his Torremolinos apartment. Each book on his shelves stood exactly where it should be, army-fashion, tallest to the right and shortest to the left. Even the little tableau of knights and Saracen warriors on top of his chest of drawers was just so; each tiny lead figure precisely positioned in the battle line opposite its opposite number.