Blood Hunt

by Jack Harvey

  “Thanks, love,” he said quietly, heading back to his table and a refill of coffee.

  If they were watching the ferries, they’d be watching Oban and Tarbert on the mainland, both of which had direct sailings: Oban to South Uist and Tarbert to North Uist. The two islands were separated by the smaller island of Benbecula, and all three were linked by bridges. They might also be watching Uig, a small port on Skye. But to get to Skye he would have to take a short ferry ride from Kyle of Lochalsh, the bridge to Kylerhea, or the much longer ferry crossing from Mallaig. Unless there was manpower to spare, Reeve doubted anyone would be watching Mallaig.

  Which was precisely why he ignored Oban and drove instead to Fort William and from there to Mallaig on the coast. There were no direct ferries from Mallaig to the Outer Hebrides.

  At the same time, he couldn’t afford to relax. His face was known in the town, and a few people even knew him by name. There would be police in the vicinity, maybe not in Mallaig itself, but nearby. And if his description had been in the papers…

  He was there to seek out one of the people who knew him by name, an old rogue called Kenneth Creech. “Creech short for creature,” Kenneth sometimes said in introduction-and he had a point. He reminded Reeve in particular of a lizard; all he was missing was the green skin.

  Kenneth Creech had a narrow, jagged face that fell to two distinct points-his chin and the extruding tip of his nose. When you looked at him face-on, his nostrils couldn’t be seen at all. His eyes bugged from his face, and his tongue, which slid an inch or two from his mouth between utterances, was thin and pointed like his face. He was known to cheat at cards, siphon gas from any unlocked fuel tank (to which end he sometimes carried a gallon drum with him, empty at the start of the evening), and be foulmouthed in front of the opposite sex, while nary a curse passed his lips in the company of his fellow men.

  People steered clear of Kenneth Creech. Reeve had got to know him when Creech had tricked him out of some money which was to pay for the transportation of some stuff between North Uist and the mainland. Creech owned a couple of small boats and some creels and lobster pots. He never actually used these, but somehow managed to be the recipient of a European Community “Business Expansion Grant,” which had paid for the second boat and kept Creech well-enough off besides.

  In the summer, Creech sometimes tricked tourists into going with him on one of the boats for what was supposed to be an all-day pleasure cruise around “the beautiful Hebrides.” In fact, he’d head straight for the choppiest waters and most dangerous wind-torn straits, after which the tourists would beg to return to land. At this point, they’d be told there were no refunds. If they argued for their money back, Creech would pay them, then would drop them off somewhere on the far side of Skye, pretending they were a mile or so south of Mallaig.

  Reeve liked Creech. He liked him so much he had eventually let Creech keep the money he’d been cheated of.

  Creech hated mankind, but he surely did love money. Reeve was counting on this fact.

  Kenneth Creech had a boathouse just north of the town. It was six in the evening when Reeve got there, having driven through town without stopping. The sky to the west, out over Skye and the Minch, was a palette of pinks and grays, thin threads of silver and softly glowing red. Reeve gave it all of a second of his time then kicked at the boathouse door, which rattled on its hinges.

  The door was locked, but that didn’t mean Creech wasn’t inside. At last a bolt slid back and the door opened.

  “You’ll pay for any damage,” Creech snapped, examining his door first and his visitor second. His mouth made an O when he recognized Reeve.

  “Well now, Gordon,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “Money,” Reeve said, holding up a thickish fold of notes. “To wit, my desire to give you some.”

  Creech couldn’t take his eyes off the cash. “Well now, Gordon,” he said, the tongue darting in and out of his mouth, “you must be wanting a boat.”

  “How did you guess?”

  Creech didn’t say anything, just ushered him inside. The back of the boathouse opened onto the Sound of Sleat. Reeve could see the southern tip of Skye. The larger of the two boats was tied up in the water; it had bench seats both sides, and could carry a dozen passengers. In the middle of the deck stood the control console with a small steering wheel, like that of a sports car. In fact, if you looked closer, there was the MG insignia in the center of the wheel. Creech had stolen it from a crashed car south of the town. By the time the insurance investigators reached the vehicle, there hadn’t been much left but a shell.

  Creech’s other boat was smaller, but boasted an outboard motor and was a lot nippier as a result. It had been hauled out of the water and now hung by winches over the wooden floor. Old newspapers were scattered beneath the hull, which Creech was in the middle of repainting.

  “You’re painting over the barnacles,” Reeve told him. Creech was wiping his hands on a rag. The paint tin looked to Reeve like ordinary vinyl silk emulsion. The color, according to the lid of the tin, was taupe.

  “Well, it’s a sight easier than scraping them off.”

  Reeve nodded, and smiled at Creech, who looked nervier even than usual. He kept jerking his head and blinking his bulbous eyes.

  “You know about me?” Reeve said.

  Creech started to deny it. Denial was an instinct, like breathing. But then he broke off, knowing Reeve knew.

  “I’ve heard a few stories,” he said at last, sounding like it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

  Reeve looked around. “You’ve no phone here, Kenneth?”

  Creech shook his head slowly, then spoke carefully. “I wouldn’t turn you in, Gordon.”

  “That’s unusually friendly of you, Kenneth. What’s wrong, isn’t there a reward?”

  The momentary look in Creech’s eyes told Reeve he’d never considered the possibility until now.

  “Don’t,” Reeve warned him.

  Creech got back some mobility and went over to the boat, picking up his paintbrush. He’d left it lying on the edge of the newspaper, and some paint had dribbled onto the floor. He wiped the spot with his rag, but that just spread the stain farther.

  “I’m painting this boat,” he said.

  “I’d never have guessed.” Reeve paused. “But that’s the boat I want.”

  Creech glanced towards him. “Now?” Reeve nodded. “Can’t it wait till I’m finished?”

  “Do I look like a man who can wait?”

  “No.” The word took a long time coming out. “But you surely don’t want to take a boat out at night?” Creech paused. “No wait, of course you do. There’s less chance of them spotting you at night.”

  “Well done, Kenneth. How many police are there?”

  Creech considered lying, but looked at the money again, the money Reeve was still holding in his hand.

  “There’s more where this came from,” Reeve told him.

  Creech wet his already glistening lips. “Well, there’s nobody in Mallaig,” he said, “but I’ve heard tell there are a couple of strange faces on Skye.”

  “Anywhere else?”

  “Oh, aye, they were in Oban yesterday.”

  “And Tarbert?”

  “I couldn’t tell you about Tarbert.”

  “And on South Uist?”

  “Well, they’ve been to your house a couple of times, that much I’ve heard. You’re big news around here, Gordon.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Kenneth.”

  “I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it, but the police used to have a saying in Glasgow: you don’t arrest an innocent man. If they take you in, they’ll try their damnedest to find something against you, even if it means planting the evidence.”

  Reeve smiled. “You sound like you’ve been there.”

  “I was in trouble enough in my early days. I’m from Partick, remember. One look at my face-I know it’s no beauty-and the polis would stop me.” Creech spat into the water.
<
br />   “You’ll help me?”

  Creech considered the question. The tension left his shoulders. “Ach, maybe I’m too sentimental for my own good,” he said. “Of course I’ll help you.”

  And he held out his hand for the cash.

  Reeve helped him move the boat back over the water and lower it in, so that its side scraped that of the larger vessel, leaving smears of paint on the wood. Creech went to check that the boathouse doors were locked. When Creech returned, Reeve was standing at the workbench, his back to him. Creech licked his lips again and moved forward quietly. When Reeve turned, Creech let out an involuntary gasp. Reeve was holding the biggest knife Creech had ever seen. He had it in his right hand, a coil of Creech’s best rope in the other.

  “What… what are you going to do?” Creech said.

  Reeve showed him. He sliced through the thick braids like they were string, then let the long part of the rope fall to the floor. “I’m going to tie you up,” he told Creech.

  “No need for that, Gordon. I’ll come with you.”

  “And you’d wait in the boat for me? You wouldn’t for example sprint off the minute I was on dry land and head for the nearest mainland telephone?”

  “No,” Creech said. “You know I wouldn’t.”

  But Reeve was shaking his head. “This way we both know where we stand. Or in your case, sit.”

  And he made Creech sit on the floor with his back to the workbench, tying his hands behind him around one thick wooden leg of the structure. For good measure, he cut another length of rope-“That stuff costs a fortune,” Creech protested-and tied Creech’s ankles. He thought of sticking the paint rag in Creech’s mouth, but he wanted to restrain the man, nothing more. He doubted anyone would come to see Creech during his absence. Creech had no friends, no one who’d miss him; he spent most of his time in the boathouse, and had even put up a partition so he could sleep there, too. Reeve glanced into the “bedroom” to make sure there was no telephone. He’d seen no cables outside, but it was best to check. All he saw was a mattress and duvet on the floor, a candlestick, an empty whiskey bottle, and a pornographic magazine.

  Satisfied, he brought his bag in from the car and got to work, changing into dark clothes and balaclava, donning face-blacking. Creech’s face told him he had achieved the right effect. There was a good-sized moon in a clear sky. He wouldn’t have any trouble navigating; he knew the islands and the potential obstacles pretty well. He had a choice of two routes: one would take him into the Sound of Eriskay so he could approach the western side of South Uist. The advantage of this route was that he’d have a shorter hike at the end of it, two or so miles, but it meant a lot more time spent in the boat than the second route, which would land him in Loch Eynort, a seawater loch. This way he would land farther away from Stoneybridge, maybe as much as a six-mile hike away. It made for a longer time on land, more time for him to be spotted. Plus, of course, if forced to retreat, he’d have a lot farther to run to reach the safety of the boat.

  He decided in the end to head for Loch Eynort. If all went well it would cut hours off the mission time, being a much shorter boat crossing. He still doubted he’d complete his mission under the cover of darkness, but the sooner he started the better chance he’d have. He loaded spare fuel into the boat, and took one of Creech’s better sets of rain gear, plus a flashlight and mooring rope. Then he cut himself a length of twine, and tied about a dozen knots in it, each one a couple of inches from its neighbor.

  Finally he went back over to Creech, who’d been complaining throughout about aching arms. “I could always amputate,” he said, showing Creech the knife. That shut him up. “What’s the water in the Minch likely to be like tonight?”

  “Cold and wet.” Reeve inched the knife closer to Creech, who gave in quickly and told Reeve the prevailing winds and the forecast: it would be blustery, but far from unmanageable. Of course, he could have been lying, but Reeve didn’t think so-it was in his interests for Reeve to return. For one thing, he might starve to death otherwise, since chances were nobody came near the boathouse from one week to the next. For another, he loved his boats too much. He wouldn’t want one tipped and sunk in a gale, especially not the one with the expensive European Community outboard motor.

  “Take care of her,” Creech begged.

  “Thanks for your concern,” Reeve said, climbing down the ladder into the boat.

  The crossing was worse than he’d anticipated, but that was typical of Little Minch: you thought it had done its worst, then it did a little more. He was glad he didn’t have to tackle the sounds; Eriskay could be particularly hair-raising. He wondered no amusement park had sought to emulate it-talk about a white-knuckle ride. His own knuckles were quite white enough as he wrestled with the outboard. The only good news was that it wasn’t raining. Still, he was glad he was wearing the rain gear, considering the amount of spray that was being washed over him. He kept close to the Skye coast for as long as he could before heading out into Little Minch proper. He was taking as direct a line as he could, hoping he would hit the coast in the right place. The way the wind was blowing, and without much in the way of navigation save his small compass, he knew he might be blown off course by as much as three or four miles, which would only add to the trek if he decided to land the boat.

  He saw a couple of boats, warning lights flashing to let others know they were there, but they didn’t see him, and they certainly couldn’t hear him. He changed hands often on the outboard’s throttle, but even so wished he’d thought to bring gloves. He used his breath to warm his fingers, then worked them in the raincoat’s pocket, rubbing life back into them.

  His mind was on nothing but the crossing itself. He couldn’t afford not to concentrate his full attention on it.

  Finally he saw land and, checking to the south, could make out the small island of Stuley, which meant he was just south of Loch Eynort. He’d been adjusting direction to account for the winds, and was pleased to find he had corrected his course wisely. The water was already much less choppy, and as he entered the inlet he felt the wind drop. He took the boat as far into the loch as he could. Stepping onto land was a relief and a strange sensation. He felt his feet weren’t wholly connected to the ground, as though gravity had lost its grip. He knew the feeling would not last long. It was a trick his brain was playing on him.

  Reeve grabbed his bag and headed along the road.

  There were a couple of crofts nearby, but no signs of life in them. At this hour, the only things awake might be a few sheep and the night birds and animals. The road he was on would soon cross the A865. If he stayed on the road, he’d round the southern side of Loch Ollay and come to a junction. Left would take him to Ormiclate; right would take him towards Stoneybridge and home. He’d checked the time upon landing: he wanted to know how long the hike took. He was also pacing it out. He had the twine in his hand, and was counting his steps. Every hundred steps he slid another knot through thumb and forefinger. At the end of the piece of twine, he could then multiply by length of stride to find roughly how far he’d gone, which would help him estimate how fast he was traveling.

  He didn’t really need this information. What he did need was to feel like a soldier again. Because soon he’d be coming up against Jay, one way or another, and he had to be mentally sharp. At short notice, there wasn’t much he could do to bolster his fitness or physique-the years had taken their toll. From what he’d seen of Jay, the man would be stronger than him: fighting him physically would be a lost cause. What Reeve needed to do was become strong mentally; he needed to hone his attitude and his instincts. He needed proper planning and procedure, starting right now.

  Knowing the roads as he did, he made good time to the house. He could have shaved minutes off by crossing country, but he’d have been more likely to get lost, and running on a road was easier on the muscles than running over rough terrain.

  He took his time approaching the house.

  He did one full circuit around it at a distance
of half a mile, then closed in and circled it again. If anyone was watching for him, they were well concealed. He knew policemen, and knew they weren’t trained that way. For one thing, they liked their creature comforts; for another, they didn’t have the necessary patience. There might be a presence inside the house, but he’d swear there was no one out here with him.

  Silently, he entered the compound, crouching low, keeping to the shadows along the walls. There was an added advantage to staying close by the walls: the drive itself was gravel and noisy underfoot, but there was a two-foot border of earth between the driveway and the walls, a concession to Joan, who had planted small flowers and climbers there. Reeve crushed them underfoot in silence.

  He had the keys he needed in his free hand, the keys to the killing-room door. But the police had been there first. They’d taken a sledgehammer to the door, which looked like it had re-sisted their onslaught bravely. The door swung inwards to the touch. He wondered what they’d thought when they’d found the room, with empty cartridge casings on the floor and shop-window dummies acting as hostages. He knelt down in front of the baseboard and shone the flashlight against it. It looked undisturbed. Reeve pulled it open and reached in, touching the oiled rags, feeling the metal bulk beneath their wrapping.

  And he smiled.

  He unwrapped the Beretta and found the right pack of ammo for it, filling his pockets as well as the gun. Pushing his hand back into the wall, he pulled out a package of plastic explosive with all the trimmings. The material itself was fairly fresh; he’d been using it to rig up explosions some weekends, to keep his soldiers on their toes. Reeve checked for detonators, wire, and wire cutters; everything he needed was in the package, including the crocodile clips, which acted as triggers. He put everything in his holdall, then replaced the baseboard and made sure he’d left no footprints.

  He crossed the courtyard, moving slowly on the gravel and pebbles. Peering through the kitchen window, he saw nothing. He circled the house, looking in the windows on all four sides: still nothing. He couldn’t tell about upstairs. It was just possible that a guard could be asleep in one of the bedrooms. The curtains in Allan’s room were closed, but maybe he’d just forgotten to open them the morning they’d been cleared out.