by Robin Flett
Just a short distance along from the Tourist office stands St Magnus Cathedral, built in the 12th century as a memorial to Earl Magnus, who was murdered by kinsmen on the small island of Egilsay, in 1115 AD. Across from the cathedral, beside a newsagent's shop, Hollis found a pair of telephone boxes.
Neither of his two numbers produced a response.
'Shit!' Then he remembered there was a telephone box just a couple of miles from his rented house. Fair enough, he could call again later before he left town. If that didn't work he would try in the evening and come into town again later in the week. There was no immediate panic.
'On Saturday?' Durrant looked suitably astonished. He had organised some coffee and the two men were munching biscuits.
'Yes. I thought it was rather unlikely myself!' Wedderman agreed. 'His secretary telephoned with the appointment late Friday afternoon. She made it sound like some sort of royal command.'
'What did he want?'
'Well, at first I thought he had just cracked this problem for us. But on reflection I'm not so sure,' said Wedderman, folding and refolding the wrapper from his caramel log. Greenside’s visit had occupied his mind all weekend. 'You know what he's like, makes everything sound so terribly important. As if he'd just condescended to explain the meaning of life!'
'To a six-year-old!'
'That's exactly what I mean. Bugger should have been a schoolmaster.'
'I understand he used to be a history teacher at a certain extremely expensive Public School.' Durrant said diffidently. 'Um...some time ago, of course.'
'Jesus. They must have had fun doing his security clearances!' Wedderman laughed, thinking of Public School successes like Philby and Blunt.
His boss grinned in return. 'Maybe so. What did he promise us this time?'
'He says he knows someone who can identify Hollis.'
'Christ!'
'Yes, that's what I thought. Let's hope it's true.'
'You don't sound very hopeful.' Durrant leaned across the desk and fixed his junior officer with a cold eye.
'Well, these cloak-and-dagger merchants are all the same. I know something you don't, that sort of thing. Like kids in a school playground.' Wedderman shook his head in disgust. 'It could be nothing more than talk. One-upmanship.’
Durrant thought it over. 'So what's happening?'
'I'm playing spooks tomorrow afternoon!'
'Eh?' grunted Durrant, looking suitably puzzled.
'The whole silly game: Anonymous RV in Regent's Park, specific bench, specific time; contact will be reading the New York Times.'
'You're joking!'
'I am not. Bloody man wouldn't take no for an answer. I'm going to feel like a damned fool. What if I go to the wrong bench and start talking to the wrong person?'
Durrant showed his teeth in a wide grin. 'Knowing Regents Park, you'll probably get yourself arrested for soliciting!'
16
Tuesday 20 August, 2013
The Range Rover stopped at the top of the narrow road leading down to the Houton ferry terminal. Houton Bay has always presented an ideal landing place for small craft and more than one Viking fleet sheltered or landed here in bygone days. Today it is home for the roll-on, roll-off ferries to Lyness on Hoy––and the huge oil terminal on Flotta, established in the 1970's as part of the North Sea oil extraction programme.
The ground rose up sharply behind the small bay and the road, at a much higher level, presented a good view out across the astonishing expanse of Scapa Flow. Hollis looked around to check the road was clear, because he was blocking the ferry access road. It wasn’t likely to cause problems in the short term: traffic problems are rarely part of daily life in Orkney.
He spent a few minutes scanning the open waters of Scapa with binoculars. Two huge oil tankers swung round their anchor chains, great swathes of red lead showing where the unladen vessels rode high in the water: waiting their turn at the spigot of life. Apart from them the waters of the Flow were surprisingly empty. Hollis had expected much more in the way of shipping movements. Although he now knew that the visiting cruise liners inevitably came into Kirkwall Bay rather than Scapa. 'This won't be any trouble,' he muttered to himself.
Half an hour later he was walking the steel plates of the Hoy Head with the binoculars round his neck. Passengers have access to a narrow area above the central vehicle deck which occupies most of the available space on board. Hollis found a convenient place and defended it against all comers. The tourists, it seemed, found the rugged island of Hoy a particular attraction. Even at 9.30 in the morning.
The crossing was uneventful although Hollis found plenty to interest him, particularly once the ferry was among the tiny islets of Cava, Rysa Little and Fara. In an emergency he might find sanctuary in one of those derelict buildings. A place to hide up and regroup while the first tidal wave of reaction swept outwards from Hoy this coming Saturday. He had even carefully scrutinised the unmanned lighthouse structure on the northernmost tip of Cava through the 15x50's.
First place they would look.
Well, yes, perhaps.
Slowly following the car in front up the sloping causeway, Hollis curiously eyed the large development alongside the old pier. He knew from his study of the guide book at the cottage the previous evening, that Lyness had been the site of the great WW2 Naval Base: HMS Prosperine. HQ for the thousands of Naval personnel who served in the Scapa Flow area throughout the war. For some reason Hollis recalled reading that, among other things, over 80 barrage balloons were maintained in the Balloon Centre at Ore Hill close to here. And the anti-aircraft guns had collectively been capable of throwing 300 tons of shrapnel into the air. And keeping it there. The book had also mentioned, wryly, that during the course of the war, ten civilians had been killed by falling shrapnel from shells fired by those same guns.
God alone knew what it must have been like. But of course all the wartime detritus was gone. In it's place was a ship decommissioning and repair establishment, including dry-dock facilities and plenty of berthing space. Hollis drove into the car park belonging to the Lyness Interpretation Centre––another place he intended to visit today from personal interest. He left the Range Rover parked beside the large red-painted bulb of an old sea mine and took to his feet to investigate further.
He paused in the lee of the huge hanger-like building with a bright red roof, which dominated most of the dry-dock and berthing area, the stiff breeze tugging at his clothes. The majority of the docking area was accessible, with only the ship-repair and decommissioning yard fenced off. Presumably for safety reasons, not many folk would desire to sneak inside and steal a few tons of rusting propeller shaft. Hollis smiled to himself at that thought and set off to walk down the main pier. If anyone objected to his presence, well and good, far better to find out about it now than later.
The natural arm of land pushing outwards to the north of Lyness had been artificially extended with landfill and concrete to form angular docks. The approach to which was protected by a submersible hydraulically-operated breakwater. Hollis noted a Philippines-registered container vessel moored in the outermost berth. He deliberately sauntered the length of the untidy vessel and back again, to see if anyone would challenge him. In fact he saw no-one so much as lift their head to look at him. Good.
Continuing his circuit he stopped for a few minutes behind the chain-link fence to gaze with interest into the empty dry-dock. The bottom littered with large baulks of timber, presumably for use as temporary props. Hull supports in the shape of hydraulic rams lined the sides of the concrete silo. The watertight doors at the far end were presently closed.
From this vantage point Hollis could see that a small industrial estate had been created on the far side of the shipyard. A scattered group of small, uniformly-styled buildings with blue corrugated-steel roofs. It figured: any large industry always spawned smaller ones in its wake. He could also see that there was no through route from where he stood. The dry-dock and the fenced-off shipyard effect
ively cut the site in two. So far so good. Hollis retraced his steps back to the corner.
What appeared to be the main road though the village ran past the Lyness Centre, where Hollis had left the car, behind the large hanger and on northwards into the depths of Hoy. Hollis followed it to where a miniature roundabout heralded the access into the new industrial estate.
The first thing he saw, standing at the corner with the chilly wind cutting into him, was the NorthTek site. It was rather smaller than he had imagined from the computer-simulation he had toyed with at the SECC in Glasgow. Two long buildings, standing side-by-side and joined down the long axis, stood immediately adjacent to the shipyard's hanger. They were quite clearly just elongated versions of the standard factory units forming the rest of the site, but two-storey instead of one.
Hollis set off again, no-one appeared to be taking the slightest interest in him. Just another nosey tourist. He followed the chain-link fence bordering the shipyard. On the opposite side of the road, to his left, he passed four small groups of factory units, three to a group. Some of them were obviously unoccupied, while others were a hive of activity. Back at the dry-dock, the road turned left and ended a hundred metres or so further on in another small pier. A solitary workboat sat forlornly in the oily water.
At the entrance to the pier, the road again turned left, paralleling its own course back towards the main road and forming a natural perimeter to the industrial estate, which was effectively U-shaped, with the NorthTek facility partly closing the open end. Three small lanes crossed the "U", breaking the estate into four distinct groups of buildings.
Hollis circumnavigated the estate, arriving back practically where he had started. It was frustrating. He badly needed to pay close attention to NorthTek but he couldn’t stand here and stare for very long without someone finally noticing him The two buildings were surrounded by a security fence, more of the chain-link stuff. Two and a half metres high but without the usual overhanging barbed-wire top. Hollis smiled to himself.
This is Orkney. Where do you run to when you steal something on an island?
Yes, indeed. And where do you run to when you have just assassinated the heir to the throne?
Hollis ran a quick but thorough eye over the place. An odd-looking small wooden hut had been erected inside the compound, close to the building’s front door, and facing the large double entrance gate. It took a few seconds to dawn on him that it was in fact half of a standard PortaCabin. God alone knew what had happened to the rest of it. By the look of things the cabin hadn't been there very long, even the gravel on which it stood appeared to be suspiciously clean and new.
Assume additional security precautions for The Visit.
A narrow lane ran round the outside of the wire fence, giving every indication that it continued right round. Well that might be useful. It was encouraging that NorthTek hadn't designed their premises with tight security in mind. Why should they? So whatever extra measures had been put in place were unavoidably handicapped by that fact.
All the better.
A uniformed security guard appeared in the window of the cabin, picking up a telephone and holding it wedged between his ear and shoulder while he linked his fingers and stretched his arms luxuriously out in front. He looked bored out of his mind.
Hollis would have given a lot to inspect that perimeter path, particularly round the back, but there was no way he could be seen going near it. Indeed he had been here long enough.
His feet took him back to the car without conscious direction, the autopilot taking over without fuss because the forebrain was already busily analysing the possibilities.
The presenter waved an arm in acknowledgment and shrugged out of her cardigan. She checked her appearance, for the ninth time, and stepped in front of the tripod-mounted camera. The director shoved his cellphone into a pocket, turning to glare at the two young technicians still fiddling with the satellite uplink. Finally one of them raised a thumb in his direction, seeing the Geneva studio test card blink onto the monitor screen. Communications had been established. Better late than never.
The Director fumbled with an untidy clipboard for a time and then nudged the cameraman with his elbow. The girl straightened up, switched on the professional smile and began to deliver her piece, framed in the doorway of the Royal College of Physicians.
Frank Wedderman lost interest in their antics. He crossed the road and walked through the gate into Regent's Park. It never failed to astonish him how, just a few steps past the entrance, the teeming city surrounding the park could fade into the background. Long ago, he had heard Regent's Park described as "an oasis of peace" and thought it crass. Now, rather later in life, he understood exactly what had been meant.
When he reached Chester Road, he turned left along the tree-lined avenue. The cherry trees were long past the glory of their spring display. A few minutes walk brought him to the Inner Circle where he paused uncertainly opposite the wrought iron gates leading to Queen Mary's Gardens. He was a few minutes early: would that matter? It was the fourth bench wasn't it? Not the fifth? Jesus, if there was someone on both seats wearing a sports jacket and reading the New York Times then he was off home, sod this for a lark. He remembered his superior officer's sardonic comment and scowled darkly. All right for you sat back there drinking tea while I make a bloody fool of myself!
Inside the gates he took the path leading left round the circular boundary, meandering through endless beds of roses and azaleas. Muttering to himself, he pulled his own copy of that august publication from his jacket pocket and started counting seats.
Alison Basker eyed the elegant, blue-hulled ship with some apprehension. Had they really come across from Scotland on that? It seemed so small from up here. She had to admit the journey hadn't been as bad as she had expected. Indeed after the initial nervousness had passed she had quite enjoyed the two-hour sail, although she had refused to eat anything at all on board. No point in pushing your luck.
The Hamnavoe moved sedately past on her way to Stromness, the rail lined as usual with cameras and binoculars trained on the towering heights of the Old Man.
Close up, on the clifftop, the stack seemed strangely less impressive. More awe-inspiring, to Alison at least, was the appalling drop that fell away practically at her feet. A small group had gathered at the viewpoint right opposite the Old Man. Some of them seated on handy rocks admiring the view, others perched on the edge of infinity, absorbed in the gyrating antics of the seabirds. Alison shuddered and moved another pace back. She was surrounded by dangerous lunatics.
One of the lunatics lay on a sparse patch of grass, his head overhanging empty space, filming the birds sweeping back and forth across the face of the Old Man. The Hamnavoe had moved on now, out of shot, which was a shame, but this piece of video would be a classic for sure. Ken lifted his finger from the button and scrambled to his feet. 'Joanne, Eric, come on!' The miniature replica of his wife placed a hand on her hip and regarded him with her head tilted to one side, stating as clearly as any words: we've been waiting for you!
'Where are we going now?' Joanne wanted to know.
Alison saw that her daughter still maintained a firm grip on Eric's hand. She hadn't let him go, much to his displeasure, since the path had led the family to the cliff edge viewpoint. 'Back to Rackwick for lunch, the sandwiches are in the car, remember?'
'Yes, because daddy wouldn't carry them!' stated Joanne archly.
'What am I being accused of now?' said Ken.
'Time we were getting back for lunch, I think.' Alison reminded him. When he got involved with that camera, insignificant things like eating tended to slip his mind. He called it the video-diet.
Just over an hour later they arrived back at the small car park in the hamlet of Rackwick, a scattering of cottages at the end of a sheltered glen under the towering presence of Ward Hill: at 479 metres, the highest piece of ground anywhere in the Orkney Islands.
Ken chewed busily. 'This used to be a thriving crofting and
fishing community, you know,' he said between bites. 'Wonder what happened?'
'Times change, people change.' Alison answered. 'Not many folk want that kind of life these days.'
'No, I suppose not.' Ken knew he certainly didn't fancy scrubbing a living from shellfish and driftwood. 'Imagine what it must be like in the winter!'
'I'd rather not. Just you pick that up, my girl!' Alison finished, seamlessly changing tack in mid-sentence.
Joanne made a face. 'I was just going to, mummy!' she said in her best shrivel-up-and-die voice. The offending piece of cheese went out the car window and was snatched by a Black-Backed gull before it got anywhere near the ground. Well, now, this was interesting. Watched by her younger brother, she tore a piece from her bread roll and tossed it upwards into the air.
Another, smaller, gull swooped on it, gulped it down and turned lazily in the air looking for more. A few seconds later there were a dozen of them flapping and squawking overhead. The birds in this place obviously knew all about tourists and free meals. Joanne opened her mouth to comment on this phenomenon just as a soggy piece of tuna sandwich hit her in the right ear. 'Eric!' she squealed.
The last, and most persistent, of the pack was still perched on the remnants of what had once been a fence when the blue Range Rover crunched on to the gravel parking area. The bird cocked a piercing eye at the now-closed windows of the food-factory and decided that discretion was the better part of hunger. He shook himself and spread his wings, allowing the wind to lift him off the ancient fence post. With his undercarriage tucked up and a parting glare, he silently glided downwind away from the intruder.
Joanne, listening to her parents discussing the rest of the week's itinerary, idly watched the sandy-haired man shrug into his waxed jacket and wander unhurriedly off towards the shoreline.
