The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  'No, North Ronaldsay is too far, I think. Let's not get too ambitious!'

  Alison pushed her hair back behind her ears and studied the map on her knees more closely. Well, perhaps he had a point. 'Maybe you're right,' she said.

  'What's so special about that one anyway. There are dozens of islands hereabouts.'

  'Well, for a start the entire island is surrounded by a drystone dyke about one and a half metres high,’ explained his wife.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A wall, you cretin!’

  'Oh,’ said Ken. ‘Keeps the sheep in, does it?'

  'The exact opposite. To keep them on the shore outside the wall. They eat a mixture of seaweed and grass apparently. Poor things!' Alison shook her head in amazement.

  'They obviously thrive on it, better them than me, though.' Ken wasn't much interested in seaweed-eating sheep. 'Westray,' he pointed on the map.

  'Why?'

  Ken handed over the guide book he had been studying. 'Seems an ideal place to spend a day. Plenty to do, plenty to see. And we'll have the car with us, so there won't be any problem getting about.'

  Alison read the Westray section and couldn’t find fault. 'All right. Let's make it Thursday, then, that will give us Friday to recover from being seasick. Ready to get seasick again going back on Saturday!'

  'Very funny.'

  'When are we going down to the beach?'

  'What?' Ken turned his head to look at his daughter.

  'You said we could go down to the beach after lunch,' accused Joanne.

  Ken could have quite happily dozed off for a while. Siesta time. Fat chance with a couple of kids bouncing around, full of beans and rarin' to go. 'All right, just a quick look. Or you won't get to see the rest of the island before we have to go back.'

  'I hope there are toilets around here somewhere,' muttered Alison darkly.

  They followed the well worn path towards the sea. Practically the first building they came to turned out to house modern public toilets, surprising Alison greatly. By the time she emerged the rest of her family had disappeared towards the stony beach. She stood for a moment, undecided, then shook her head and went back to the car.

  While the children tried to skip flat stones across the lumpy waves, Ken took the opportunity to film the surf pounding against the cliff bounding the southern extremity of the bay. By the time he had made his way back, the pair of them were busy examining a torn strand of kelp cast up by the now-receding tide. Ken started filming them at a distance, adjusting the zoom lens as he came closer, walking carefully on the loose surface of the beach.

  Eric yelped and dropped the slimy thing, much the amusement of his sister, who was responsible for persuading him to pick it up. Glaring at her, he industriously wiped his hands on his backside.

  Superb.

  Ken smiled to himself: one for the album as it were. Neither he nor the children actually noticed the tousle-headed figure walking through the edge of the shot, his waxed jacket blowing open in the wind as he walked along the beach, head bowed, deep in thought...

  Four.

  The portly man hardly moved his head, but Frank Wedderman was quite sure he had just been closely scrutinised. He sat awkwardly on the wooden bench, the newspaper folded on his knee with its title page uppermost. What in God's name was he supposed to do now?

  'Good afternoon.' The voice was clear but accented. 'I have always found the British habit of punctuality most agreeable!'

  Wedderman looked round, taking in the friendly smile underneath the bushy moustache. 'Hello,' he nodded automatically. The man appeared to be in his fifties, with receding brown hair and a dark, not entirely suntanned, complexion. He was perfectly at ease.

  'Shall we walk, Mr Wedderman?' the man spread a large hand, displaying an expensive-looking ring on his third finger. As they rose, he dumped his newspaper in the nearby garbage bin.

  Wedderman was still trying to place the accent. Middle East, was his best guess. Shit, what has that bastard got me into? 'Our friend who arranged the meeting,’ he said. ‘He omitted to tell me your name.'

  His companion lifted one shoulder expressively. 'In my country, Mr Wedderman,' he said obliquely, 'the only names that really matter are those on tombstones.' He glanced across. 'You are too young to have fought in Hitler’s War, are you not?'

  'That's right, my father did, though.'

  'Of course,’ the man nodded, ‘and because of that you, a British citizen, and I who am not, can walk this park in safety.'

  'Yes.'

  'I have fought in three wars, Mr Wedderman. But my country has still to experience the safety you take for granted.' He lifted the shoulder again in a half-shrug, giving Wedderman the impression that it was something of a habit. 'But I have spent my adult life trying to make it so.'

  They separated to make room for a harassed-looking woman pushing an infant in a pram coming the other way.

  Israeli, Wedderman decided: more from placing the accent than from the words. Mossad for sure. He recalled Greenside's words in the office on Saturday and realised he should have expected something like this. One of my contacts has come up with a lead. Yes, quite. It was extremely likely that this joker wasn't even legally in the country!

  'I take your point,' Wedderman said, neutrally. 'Our friend seems to think you have information that might help me with my current inquiry.'

  His companion took a deep breath, as if enjoying the fresh air and the scent of roses. 'That is uncertain, we may have nothing at all.'

  Wedderman thought there was little to be gained by dissembling. 'We have no leads at all on the man we're after, and we, I am running out of time. ‘I don’t know how much our friend told you but two very prominent people are in danger of their lives from this man Hollis.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘One or the other. We don’t know which is the target yet.’

  The Israeli pursed his lips. Wedderman didn’t need to be telepathic to know what was going through his head. ‘Can you help me find this man before he commits a major crime?'

  'Ah well, of that I am not sure. I do possess one piece of information which might fit with our friend's request. But then again––it may be quite irrelevant.'

  Wedderman's hopes fell. This didn't sound overly optimistic. 'What is it you've got?' he asked.

  'A photograph.'

  'A photograph!' Wedderman fought his voice under control. 'You have a photograph of this man Hollis?' he continued incredulously.

  'Ah well,' repeated the Israeli. 'There we have the problem. I owe a favour to your colleague, and I agreed to search our records for anything which might help your, ah, inquiry. It is our understanding that the picture is of Hollis, but there is no actual proof––one way or the other.’'

  Wedderman was stunned and excited at the same time. 'You must know, of course, that there are no known pictures of Hollis in existence,’ he said ‘Where did it come from?'

  There was silence for a time while the other man thought about that. 'There are things I cannot speak about, Mr Wedderman,' he said, without a shred of apology in his voice. 'But I will give you what I can. There is not in fact much to tell. You will recall that several years ago the Chairman of OPEC was shot to death in Riyadh?'

  Wedderman nodded. 'And Hollis was the gunman.'

  'As far as anyone knows for sure, that was the case.' The dark-featured man gathered his thoughts and then continued: 'We had been observing a certain American for some months at that time––on quite unrelated matters which I cannot discuss. In the process, a photograph of the subject was obtained as a matter of routine. Simply for the files, you understand, with no ulterior motive.'

  Frank Wedderman listened patiently. He was pretty sure he wasn't being told the whole truth, quite apart from any details missed out for security reasons. For a start, he was sure they had known precisely who the "certain American" was. 'You must have known the man was dangerous. Why didn't you at least warn the Saudis to be extra vigilant with all those She
iks around for the meeting?'

  The Israeli actually had the grace to look a trifle embarrassed. 'Israel does not regard itself as the guardian of the Middle East,' again the half-shrug. 'Nor do we particularly care what tragedies might befall our Arab neighbours. None of whom would weep if my entire country ceased to exist one fine day.' He gave Wedderman a hard look. 'It was not, Mr Wedderman, any of our concern.'

  Jesus! thought Wedderman in sudden shock, did the Israelis employ Hollis to kill that man? Is that how they know so much about him?' His mouth felt very dry. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said finally, ‘how cynical can you get?'

  'Fortunately we are not here to debate international morals. But you must understand, I cannot guarantee that the picture in our files is the man you seek.'

  'Of course not, but we would appreciate sight of it anyway.' Wedderman said formally, keeping the excitement under control and out of his voice.

  His companion nodded silent acquiescence.

  Breakthrough.

  The portly man reached inside his sports jacket and brought out a black and white postcard-sized photograph. This was their last hope and Wedderman knew it. If Special Branch couldn't get a positive result from this picture then somebody was going to die this coming weekend.

  The image was clear, if a little fuzzy from the high magnification factor of the long lens. A strong-featured face, turned slightly to the left and with blurred, moving traffic in the background. Topped with an untidy brush of hair probably made lighter than real life by the strong sunlight. Wedderman used his thumb to cover the left side of the face. It was an old body-language ploy he had learnt in his early days in the force: the right-hand side of any face was said to clearly betray that person's real nature.

  The hard line of the mouth and a cold, inflexible eye stared back at him from the half-face. Wedderman felt an odd ripple down his back as the muscles twitched involuntarily. No doubt existed in his mind, irrational though it might be: there was, after all, not a single shred of evidence. Call it intuition, psychic ability, whatever you like, but Wedderman knew…

  Hollis.

  17

  Wednesday 21 August, 2013

  'Doesn't look like much, does he?'

  Frank Wedderman glared at the widescreen monitor on his desk. Waste of time. 'What was it you said once? The man next door?'

  Chief Inspector Durrant nodded to himself absently, his eyes remained fixed on the photograph.

  Wedderman had just spent an irritating two hours trying to match the picture he had been given with international records. The photograph had been scanned and hi-res digitized, and the computers had rapidly worked through the UK files and drawn blank. Wedderman had instructed the operators to widen the search to as many European police and security-service databases as they could contact. That was why his boss was down here alongside him in this stuffy and over-warm room, surrounded by state-of-the-art processing power and world-wide data links: Wedderman didn't have the security-clearances necessary to get access to some of this stuff.

  The man next door, or in the seat behind you on the bus. Life would be easier, thought Wedderman sourly, if we all had a small neon sign on our foreheads displaying our profession for the world to see.

  Killer.

  Yes, quite.

  The middle-aged woman sitting at the adjacent terminal sat back in her chair and turned it thirty degrees to look at Wedderman. 'The best I can do is a five-per-cent direct-comparison match. And that was principally eyebrow structure. I’m afraid Interpol doesn't know this man.'

  Wedderman was hardly surprised: it was the same solid stone wall he had been beating his head against for weeks now. Frantically chasing a ghost through pitch-black labyrinths. Reaching out and feeling the walls and groping through the dark, stumbling occasionally on unknown obstacles, deflected at random by half-baked theories and the devious mind of the puppet master, reaching down and jerking the strings. And smiling.

  He felt like a blind man trapped in a strange room––and knowing he was not alone...

  'All right, Frank, we'll leave the experts in peace I think.' Durrant said. 'We've done all we can here.' He looked across at the officer in charge of the section. 'Keep at it, if you will, with luck you may turn up something.'

  'We will, sir. There are quite a few international links that we haven't managed to hook up with yet. We'll keep trying.'

  Durrant nodded. 'Good man. Right, Frank, it's time we got back to old-fashioned policing. I suppose it was always likely we would end up doing this the hard way.' He pause to gather his thoughts. 'Get that picture faxed to every main police station in every town and city around the country,' he looked directly at his junior officer. 'Put the fear of God into them. Tell them this man has a hydrogen bomb up his arse, tell them anything you like but get every pair of boots available out on the pavements! I'll contact each Chief Constable personally'

  'Yes, sir.' Wedderman responded, getting up from his seat. He was almost out the door before the grim voice stopped him.

  'And Frank––'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'Start with Aberdeen!'

  'Of course, sir.'

  Hollis sat in the lee of a rickety greenhouse he had discovered in the rear garden. It was pleasant here, out of the wind, birdsong the only sound disturbing his seclusion. Strangely enough it reminded him of home, although the mainly flat, treeless Orcadian landscape was a far cry from the lush and mountainous west highlands. Still. There existed here the same sense of a world apart. He had already decided that if he ever needed to move his home base, then Orkney would easily provide an ideal alternative.

  That is if he didn't crap on his prospective doorstep this coming weekend.

  He finished the coffee, leaning over to replace the empty mug on the low window sill of the greenhouse. Then he went back to studying Sheet 7 of the Ordnance Survey Landranger series, Orkney: South Isles. Yesterday, he had paced back and forth along the shingle beach at Rackwick for an hour and a half while his mind chewed at the possibilities created by his inspection of NorthTek and Lyness.

  The additional security had been inevitable, but no less a nuisance for that. Hollis knew he could bluff his way into NorthTek anytime during business hours. One of the sets of papers tucked away in the Range Rover identified Hollis as William Cunliffe, journalist and freelance writer, with NUJ accreditation, membership card and letters of reference. It was a cover he had used to good effect before. All doors were open to the Press, especially on an occasion like this, where the media might just outnumber the rabbits on Hoy this Saturday. He could walk right in there and do a fake interview with someone while he had a good look round.

  But how did he do the switch? Change the real filter unit for the doctored one? 'Can't just walk in there with the fuckin' thing under my arm!' he had muttered derisively to himself during breakfast. There had to be another way.

  Well, if he couldn't get in there during the day, when the place was open for business, then it would have to be after working hours. During the night. Well and good, under normal circumstances that wouldn't present much in the way of a challenge, but the increased security aspects now in force were a significant additional complication. How many extra security guards would they have drafted in? Would they be professional staff from outside the islands? Or would they simply be local folk hired for a few days to cover the gaps?

  It made a difference.

  Hollis brought out the sketch map he had prepared the previous evening after his return from Hoy. He had drawn the map from memory and it was as complete as he could make it. There was a separate section with a larger-scale drawing of NorthTek's premises. He sat staring at it for a long time.

  Kirkwall police station used to be located in a quiet street behind the ruin of the 12th century Bishop's Palace, a street that rejoices in the unlikely name of Watergate. The Police Station, County Court and the Office of the Procurator Fiscal all occuppied adjacent buildings. Visiting American tourists found this, and the connotations to their
own rather more well-known Watergate, endlessly amusing.

  But in more recent years, the offices of law enforcement moved to a new, custom-built establishment in Burgh Road, close to the western edge of the town.

  Police sergeant Anthony Davis began his evening shift one minute early, checking through the day's log. It didn't take long. The most serious incident on the screen was an altercation between two boat owners on the pier over who owned the old tyre both were intending to use as a fender. On his way over to the duty sergeant's desk he paused in front of the notice board. 'What's this?'

  PC Henry Weeks looked up from his half-written report. 'It came on the fax this afternoon.' He stretched his lanky form, pushing back hard into the elderly wooden chair. 'Along with a "report any sightings immediately" request.'

  Davis inspected the photograph. 'What's he done, then?'

  'God knows. The fax originated in London, and it certainly wasn't aimed at us specifically; that's all I can tell you.' Weeks went back to his paperwork. It would be a rare old day when some big-city hooligan from The Smoke turned up in Kirkwall. The Costa del Crime it wasn't! Chuckling at his wit, he went back to work.

  Davis stood for a moment peering at the tousle-topped features in the black and white image. The quality was reasonable: he had seen worse. At least the man was recognisable, which was an improvement over some of the things the lads at the sharp end were given to work with.

  18

  Thursday 22 August, 2013

  Thursday morning dawned bright and clear. The white Astra was sixth in the line of vehicles waiting behind the Westray sign on the pier. Alongside them, other cars and vans were waiting for different ferries to different islands. Fed up with sitting in the car, Ken had taken the video camera and gone walkabout.

  The harbour was normally a lively place, certainly at this time of the day, so there was no shortage of vessels to be inspected. Through the viewfinder he centred the lens on a couple of local workboats bouncing their fenders against each other in the slow swell. A good clip. Atmospheric!