It was a waste of time, even if it was doing wonders for his aim at the darts board. He’d just decided to finish up his pint and go home to get Brownie points from Bunty for having an early night, when the door opened and to his surprise and delight, Andy Macdonald, normally a Salutation man, appeared.
‘Andy!’ MacNee hailed him. ‘You’re a stranger! What’s yours? I’m buying.’
From the expression on the other sergeant’s face, MacNee could see that Andy Mac’s sole reason for being here was a suspicion that Tam would have the Salutation staked out. He was hovering uncomfortably just inside the door.
‘I only looked in to see if Tansy was here,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘She mentioned she was going out for a drink this evening – I’d maybe better—’
‘She’s not here. I am. Pint?’
Feebly, Macdonald agreed. MacNee drained his glass and ordered two pints of Special.
‘Look, there’s that wee table by the window come free. You go and sit down and I’ll bring them over.’
With a resigned shrug, Macdonald complied, but as MacNee brought the drinks to the table, he got his retaliation in first. ‘You’re looking at me as if you’re a cat and I’m a mouse with a wee label round my neck saying, “Enjoy!”. Well, forget it. I’ve had my orders. You’re not in on this until you’ve a piece of paper signed by the doctor. It’s for your own good – and God help me if Big Marge passes and sees me fraternising with the enemy.’
MacNee sat down and took a sip of his beer, with exaggerated dignity, before answering. ‘Boot’s on the other foot, the way I see it.’
Macdonald looked at him narrowly. ‘You mean, you think you know something we don’t know?’
‘I never said you were stupid.’
‘And so you’re wanting something in exchange?’
‘Do I look like Santa Claus? What about it?’
Macdonald was always cautious. ‘How do you know we don’t know about what you know anyway?’
‘Oh, I know.’ MacNee sounded smug.
‘But I don’t.’ Macdonald was stubborn, too.
MacNee eyed him with considerable irritation. ‘Take my word for it – this is something you won’t even have considered. There’s only three people know the facts, and one of them’s dead. And I probably know most of what you could tell me anyway – half an hour at the bar’s enough to find out everything the polis have done today.’
‘Oh, not quite everything. Not nearly everything, in fact.’ It was Macdonald’s turn to look smug.
MacNee’s resolve to play it cool snapped. ‘Let’s cut the cackle. If I can point you in a direction you hadn’t thought of, will you tell me what’s going on?’
‘Big Marge will—’
‘Have your guts for garters. I know. But she’s not going to find out. You’re just going to come up with this brilliant new angle, suggested by a source you’re not prepared to disclose. OK?’
‘I suppose so.’ Macdonald shook his head helplessly. ‘But you go first.’
‘I’ll trust you.’ MacNee told him what Annie Brown had said about Pete Spencer’s little operation, and Macdonald pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘That certainly didn’t come our way. And he’s got form, hasn’t he? If the Colonel was planning to shop him, he’d have a powerful reason for wanting him out the way. I’ll make a point of seeing him tomorrow.’
‘Good. Now it’s your turn. I want to know about Farquharson. He’s the obvious suspect. There’s his uncle all set to refuse an offer of serious money, and with him being the heir—’
‘Ah, but is he?’
‘He isn’t?’ MacNee was startled. ‘It’s been left to a cat-and-dog home, has it? Or, wait a minute – Ellie Burnett? There was a suggestion of a bit of the hochmagandy going on with the two of them—’
‘Guess again.’ Macdonald was enjoying himself now, but MacNee gave him a look which made him say hastily, ‘All right, all right. The heir’s his grandson, Zack Salaman – a Malaysian corporate lawyer working in London. The Colonel had a bit on the side when he was serving out there in the Fifties.’
‘A grandson? Malaysian? So that would explain the photos!’ MacNee exclaimed. Well, well – the Colonel’s halo was fairly slipping.
Macdonald looked at him with respect. ‘How the hell did you know about the photos? You’re good, I’ll give you that.’
MacNee tapped his nose. ‘I have my sources. So, I guess he’d be the lad I saw going into the motorbike showroom this afternoon. Very slick, driving a top-of-the-range Mercedes.’
‘The showroom – Johnny Black. I wonder ...’ Frowning, Macdonald broke off.
‘Go on,’ MacNee urged him. ‘We’re getting somewhere now.’
‘We know Salaman employed a private detective from Glasgow to track down his grandfather, and he met the Colonel less than six months ago. He has a contact in Kirkluce, but he wasn’t willing to say who it was, or give us the detective’s name. Very touchy about it, the boss said.
‘I seem to remember Black was new to the area when I went into the showroom one day, and I know when that was, because it was just after my thirtieth birthday in March.’
MacNee grinned sardonically. ‘Checking out the Harley Davidson, were you? Feeling your youth slipping away? Terrible thing, old age.’
‘You should know. But someone living in London wouldn’t be thinking about buying a bike up here. So why would Salaman be going in there, unless it was Black who was still working for him?’
‘“Working”?’ MacNee raised his eyebrows.
‘Salaman has what sounds like a rock-solid alibi for Saturday night.’
‘Hmm. It would have to be worth Black’s while, though, to throw up a business in Glasgow. Otherwise, why hang around here?’
‘Exactly. It’s a nothing job in the showroom – though of course he’s got a workshop there and someone said he helps run the motocross at Ravenshill as well. We could be on to something here, Tam!’
MacNee was frowning. ‘There’s just one thing,’ he said slowly. ‘Ellie Burnett. I keep thinking she’s in this, somewhere. Have you seen her doing her singing slot here in the pub?’
‘Sure. Hasn’t everyone?’
‘There’s something about her gets to you. And this morning, when I went to the Craft Centre – oh, only as a customer, that’s all,’ he put in, in response to Macdonald’s quizzical look, ‘Black and Ossian Forbes-Graham were having a stramash about her. And I saw Black with her when she was singing here on Saturday night. If he’d come down on the job for Salaman, and fancied her...’
‘You believe in love, Tam, do you?’ Macdonald, heart-whole as yet, looked at him with some amusement.
There were not many people who had seen Tam MacNee look embarrassed, but it wasn’t a question he’d ever been asked before and he was an honest man. ‘Yeah, suppose so,’ was all he said. Then, ‘Bloody hell!’
His voice was drowned out by the roar of two motorbikes, racing along the High Street. As the roar faded, Macdonald said, ‘Where are Traffic when you need them? They’ll kill themselves – or someone else!’
MacNee was on his feet. ‘I think that’s trouble, and I think it’s partly down to me – at least, if they’re going where I think they are. Where’s your car, Andy?’
‘Round at my flat. Ten minutes, if we hurry. But—’
‘Never mind “but”. It’s nearer than mine. I’ll explain – I want to catch them at it, before there’s a disaster.’
Dylan Burnett hadn’t wanted to come tonight. He really envied Gordon Gloag, who could say that his father would kill him if there was any more trouble. Dylan didn’t even know where the funfair was at the moment, and anyway Jason Jamison wasn’t the type to come the heavy, given his own attitude to the polis.
Barney had been, like, mental since this afternoon. He couldn’t take anyone dissing him, and there, in front of a dozen of the other kids, a wee man half his size had made the three of them look rubbish. He’d scared them all, Barney too, even i
f he was trying to cover it up.
But the minute he’d gone, Barney’d started acting like it had just been a joke. Then he said, ‘I’d been kind of thinking we might hang out there tonight. Say hi to the old bag. She’s probably missing us. OK, dudes?’
That was when Gordon had said his piece and Dylan saw Barney sneer, and heard a whisper and a titter from one of the girls. So what could he do but look cool and say, ‘Sure, I’m safe.’
Later, though, he’d tried to tell Barney he was crazy. ‘That guy will get us locked up and throw away the key.’
Barney’s lip curled again. ‘Feart, are you? Away home to your mammy.’
‘No,’ Dylan protested. ‘Just, maybe, wait a bit, till he’s forgotten—’
‘Look.’ Barney’s voice was elaborately patient. ‘Let’s use some smarts here. He’ll think he’s scared us off, OK? In a few days, he might reckon we’d try it on again, that we’ll think he’s forgotten, like you said. He won’t expect it tonight. We make this the last visit, and we make it good. It’s a no-brainer. So they guess it’s us? Guess isn’t proof, when we’re long gone.’
Dylan had been worried enough to persist. ‘So she describes us—’
‘With helmets on? Do us a favour. There’s plenty guys have bikes – bet she can’t recognise the make, even. And it’s all round that we’re up for it. You want to be the one who’s chicken?’
Why hadn’t Dylan said, ‘You go yourself, if you like’? Sometimes he got the feeling Barney needed someone tagging on behind to feel comfortable, and if he didn’t agree it wouldn’t happen. But somehow he hadn’t. Barney always called the shots.
Dylan had gone home feeling a bit sick. He was scared what he’d find there too, but when he let himself into the flat his mother was in the living-room kitchen, looking sort of white and rigid, but she’d asked him what he wanted for supper, in almost the normal way. Then suddenly she said, ‘I was wondering if we could maybe find out where your dad is just now. You could go and spend some time with him.’
Dylan stared at her. She’d never said that before, had always tried to find reasons why he shouldn’t go, even when it wasn’t term-time, like it was now.
‘Why?’ he asked blankly.
A little colour came into Ellie’s cheeks. ‘Maybe you need a man around, like you said yourself. I’m not happy about what you’ve been doing, you and Barney Kyle.’
He knew she’d blamed Barney for the police coming round. Barney’s mother blamed Dylan. They’d had a good snigger about mothers.
‘Barney’s OK,’ he said defensively, then an idea struck him. ‘Here! Is this about you and Johnny? You trying to get rid of me, because I’ll be in the way? I wouldn’t, I guarantee. He’s cool.’
Ellie turned away. ‘That’s – that’s nothing to do with it. I just wish – oh, what’s the use?’ She sounded very tired as she went to fetch a packet of beef burgers from the freezer. ‘Do you want chips?’
‘Just a bun. I’m going out again.’
‘Where? What are you going to do?’
Sullenly he said, ‘Just hang out in the square, with the other kids.’
His mother’s eyes fixed on him as though they might pierce a window into his thoughts. He shifted in his seat and she said sharply, ‘You’re not going out to Christina Munro’s again, are you?’
‘’Course not,’ he muttered, but he knew he’d gone red.
She went very still. Then she said, ‘As if everything isn’t terrible enough, you’re going to end up in jail—’
It was an uncomfortable echo of what the policeman had said. Dylan pushed his chair back. ‘Forget the burgers. I’m not hungry now,’ he said over his shoulder, and left.
He’d gone to the chippie and now, here they were, waiting for the right moment to go, as Barney saw it. He’d been there ahead of Dylan and was sitting astride his bike now, doing the gallus bit to a couple of admiring girls.
Dylan didn’t feel gallus. Being wild, bold and cheeky didn’t square with having a dry mouth and a sinking feeling inside. It was a bad moment when Cat Fleming’s mother appeared and dragged her away – everyone knew Cat’s mum was in the polis – but Barney said she wouldn’t drop them in it. ‘She never tells her mum anything,’ he said, and Dylan found he believed him.
‘Right?’ Barney said, revving his engine, and ‘Right,’ Dylan replied, putting on his helmet, and then they were off, to a chorus of mocking cheers.
The speed alone was exciting, and the looks of alarm, too, from passers-by as they tore down the High Street, along to Wester Seton which was just outside the thirty-mile limit. He got scared himself when he swung a bit too recklessly on to the farm track and the bike wobbled, but he saved himself and, with Barney ahead, covered the short distance up to the farm rather more slowly.
As before, the greyhound heard them first. Christina Munro had allowed herself to become absorbed in a play about the Second World War on the radio: after a trouble-free night, and Tam MacNee’s visit, she had begun to hope that perhaps they had been discouraged, that her turn had passed and some other poor soul was now their victim.
Hearing the sound of the engines herself, as they came up the short farm track from the main road, was a bitter blow.
And they were bolder this time. This time, they began by banging on every window and every door. She cowered inside, so paralysed by fear that she could not even reassure the shivering, whimpering dog.
With a roar of engines, they circled the house, once, twice. Then they stopped. That was worse, because with the windows shuttered she had no idea where they were or what they were doing.
After that the banging outside started. Christina could tell, from the direction of the sound that they were attacking the barn where she had shut up the donkeys for their protection. She could hear the donkeys start to move restlessly, then to whicker, then one of them brayed in alarm. Then another, again and again. Christina wanted to cover her ears, not hear what was happening to these creatures, so ill-treated before they came under her protection.
Protection? What sort of protection was this? She owed it to them, innocent, helpless creatures. What did it matter to her what happened now? Her life was all but over. Surely, with nothing to lose, she could show the merest fraction of the courage of her own contemporaries, the young men who had offered their lives to protect the weak and helpless.
Christina walked to the door where her loaded shotgun stood and picked it up. With trembling, twisted fingers she turned the lock, pulled back the bolts and flung open the door.
Dylan was enjoying himself now. It gave you a real buzz to know that behind the shutters the old bag was cowering, afraid to show her face, even if a tiny bit of you felt ashamed. They both banged on the windows and doors, then Dylan, high on the adrenalin of violence, looked round to see what else they could do. Find a stone, maybe, to break windows – just a couple, as a reminder...
But Barney had other ideas. He’d pushed up his visor and Dylan could see an evil grin on his face as he brought out a solid wooden mallet from one of the panniers. He swung the mallet round his head. ‘Nicked this from my mum’s workshop. Come on!’
He ran across the yard to the barn, Dylan close behind. It had two great doors, fastened by a metal bar and a serious-looking padlock, but round the side there was a window, low down, blocked with half-a-dozen stout slats of wood. Beyond, you could see the shapes of the donkeys shifting uneasily.
‘Stand back!’ Barney shouted, swinging the mallet in an arc, to hit the slats. One splintered, and a donkey whinnied, starting back from it, then began braying in fright.
The next blow knocked one slat out completely and the other donkeys, terrified too, joined in – a fine sound! Barney was laughing so hard he didn’t hear, as Dylan did, the shaking voice shouting, ‘Get back from there or I shoot!’
Dylan swung round. The door to the cottage had opened and the old bag herself was standing there, wearing a crocheted hat which he recognised as one of his mother’s making. Her e
yes were wild, she was shaking, and she was holding a shotgun. She looked completely crazy.
Dylan swore. Then he yelled, ‘Barney, for God’s sake, stop! She’s got a gun. Let’s get out of here!’
He didn’t wait for his friend. He sprinted past her, threw himself on to his bike and heard the sound of a shot just as he took off, as if all the devils in hell were after him, chancing his neck on the rough surface. He made it safely to the road, but didn’t stop till he was round the next bend, almost at the thirty-mile limit. His heart pounding, he cut his engine, waiting for Barney to catch up. Then he stiffened. Was that another shot?
She wouldn’t really have fired at them, of course. Not in cold blood. She’d have been firing into the air, just as a threat, to scare them off. And she’d done that, all right. Barney could suit himself, but Dylan was never setting foot in the place again.
Maybe Barney hadn’t been as scared as he was, and had taken the farm road more slowly than Dylan had. At least, he hoped to God that was why he hadn’t appeared.
Still shaking, Christina Munro went back into the house. There was a half-bottle of brandy in one of the cupboards; she fetched it, and a tumbler. As she poured in a couple of inches, the bottle clinked on the edge of the glass, and her teeth knocked against it too as she took a mouthful, then another, grimacing at the fierceness of the cheap spirit. She sat down on the edge of her chair and emptied the glass. The dog, which had stayed inside, trotted across to sit pressed against her leg and she stroked its soft fur absent-mindedly.
Warmth was running through her now. She hadn’t shut the door and outside, apart from the still restless movements of the donkeys, all was quiet. She went to check on them again; they were alarmed, not hurt, and she spoke to them soothingly before she came back in and closed her door. She didn’t lock it. Then she folded back the window shutters, and evening light flooded the room. That was better.
Lamb to the Slaughter Page 16
