“Wait. There might be something. Back when Mary was in prison on Loch Leven—she was known as the Swan Queen, did you know that? Anyway, back then, the Masons—”
“Not the fucking Masonic crap again. Change the record—that one’s stuck.”
“No, listen—the… the Royal Guard, if you prefer, reported visions and haunts all around the loch. It only happened to one or two of them, but the reports are consistent. They said they went somewhere else—the realm of the Cobbe. If you want to pass over, you need to find a thin spot—and I believe there’s at least one near that loch.”
Alan tried to remember if he had told the old man about his own crossing over, and realized he hadn’t.
“He might be onto something there,” he said to John.
“Maybe. But that doesn’t explain what happened at the farmhouse.”
“That could have been all down to Galloway?”
“We won’t know until we see for ourselves.”
All this time Ferguson had been grasping for the whisky bottle and John had kept it just beyond his reach.
“Okay, old man—I suppose you’ve earned a drink. But we might be back to ask more questions, so try to stay at least a wee bit sober, eh?”
That didn’t seem likely given the rate the level dropped when Ferguson got the bottle back. Alan retrieved the photocopied pages from on top of the cabinet and folded them before putting them in his jacket pocket. They left the old man in the lockup and went out into the night.
A crow cawed somewhere above them, but it was too dark to see it.
15
Grainger had his dander up.
They’d started walking, aiming for Haymarket and planning to catch a cab to Alan’s flat in Leith, but had only made it as far as Bert’s Bar in William Street—the lure of a beer after what they’d just been through proved too strong to ignore.
They were halfway down their first pint before either voiced their concerns, and Alan got in first.
“This is all getting pretty fucking strange, big brother,” he said.
Grainger had to agree.
“It’s like something out of one of Granny Smith’s old stories.”
“Exactly—and remember how they used to scare us shitless? Well I’m feeling a bit like that now.”
At that moment Alan looked younger than his years, and more vulnerable than Grainger had seen him for a decade and more.
“I’m in this for Simpson and the wee lassies,” Grainger said. “But you don’t have to be—”
“That is an awful thing for you to say to me,” Alan replied. “And you don’t get rid of me that easily. I know this is something I’ll never be able to tell anybody—but I’m in it for you. I’ve got your back. But I don’t have a clue as to where we go from here.”
Grainger knocked back what was left of his beer and ordered two more before replying.
“I’ve been thinking about that. We need to get back to the Galloway farm—I’ve got a hunch the answer lies there.”
“What about Ferguson’s story about Loch Leven?”
“That’s our backup option—if the farm’s a bust, we’ll head for where you crossed over and try there. But before we do—we need a plan of action once we get over there. How are we going to get past the bird? I don’t think either of us is up to abducting and killing kids.”
Alan still looked worried.
“There’s more to this than meets the eye, John. Why did the two of us cross over even before we got to the farm? It’s as if we were targeted in some way.”
Grainger remembered what the big man said to him back in the cathedral the first time.
“There’s something I was told,” he said. “The big man said, ‘You don’t see, do you? He said you might not see—that it might be too early.’”
“And you think this he is the one we’re really after?”
“It’s a theory—somewhere to start. I’m going to need you to hit the books again.”
Alan nodded.
“Not tonight though. Let’s leave it alone for a couple of hours. Let’s have a drink.”
“Best idea you’ve had in ages. It’s your round.”
* * *
It was after midnight by the time they got back to Alan’s flat—Alan had insisted that Grainger stay in his spare room for a while.
“The press won’t bother you here, and I can keep an eye on you—make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
Like getting half-cut after a magical ritual that saw us transported to…
He cut the thought off and concentrated on getting his trousers off without falling over—no mean feat with the beers in him and a bad arm to contend with. Finally he fell into bed—the trousers were off but he had no energy left to tackle shirt, socks or underpants.
He lay on top of the covers and drifted in and out of troubled sleep, the pain in his shoulder ensuring that rest was something that would be happening some other time.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table at four o’ clock in the morning.
There’s never any good news at four in the morning.
He thought of ignoring it, but curiosity got the better of him. He picked it up and checked who was calling—it was his old number back in the squad office.
“Grainger here,” he said as he took the call.
“It’s Jim,” the voice said. “Jim the temp.”
“I know who you are, son. What’s going on?”
“That’s what the super wants to ask you. Were you in a lockup near Mitchell Street earlier?”
Grainger knew better than to answer that kind of question.
“What if I was?”
“I thought you deserved a heads-up. An old man was murdered. And they’ve got a witness that saw you and your brother fleeing the scene. They’re looking for you. You’ll need to come in, boss.”
“I’m retired,” Grainger said. “I don’t need to do anything.”
He hung up and moved to get out of bed—forgetting for a second about the bad arm and putting most of his weight on it. He didn’t have to worry about trying to wake Alan up—the scream of pain did that job just fine. Alan was in the doorway as Grainger got to his feet, a cold sweat dripping from his forehead.
“Get your trousers on, and pack a bag. We’re in trouble.” Alan didn’t seem quite awake—his mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. “There’s no time for explanations—I’ll bring you up to speed once we’re out of here. But we need to go. Right now.”
* * *
They took a chance and drove Alan’s car.
“We need to get out of the city fast,” Grainger said. “And not on any of the main roads. Take the back road to Helensburgh, out to Port Seton and head south—we can ditch the car somewhere, double back through Haddington or thereabouts and head into the country.”
Alan still hadn’t asked why. Grainger let him concentrate on driving for the time being. Traffic was light—which in itself was a problem for it made them all too visible, and Grainger knew how many CCTV eyes there were in the town. They’d be spotted, sooner or later, but he hoped to get well away before anyone could be mustered to chase them.
The question finally came as they approached Helensburgh. Alan kept his eyes on the road, but spoke sharply enough that Grainger knew he was seething inside.
“Are you going to tell me, or are you just going to sit there with a pole up your arse?”
Alan deserved an explanation—his life was about to get turned upside down.
“Ferguson’s dead,” he said as they pulled up at a red light. “And we’re being fingered for it.”
He had to remind Alan to drive on when the light changed to green.
“Somebody’s trying to frame us? Who would want to do that?”
“To quote a dead man—how the fuck should I know? But remember you said there was another player—the woman at the library? Maybe she just made a move? All I was told is that there was a witness who reported seeing us ‘fleeing the scene.’”
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“But we didn’t do anything…”
Grainger laughed.
“You’re not that naive—haven’t been since you were fifteen. Besides, my prints are all over the whisky bottle we left him with, and probably on the door too.”
“And mine will be on the old cabinet, or if not there, on the box of whisky,” Alan said softly.
They drove in silence for several minutes before Alan spoke again.
“How was he killed?”
“I wasn’t told,” Grainger replied. “But if I had to put money on it, my guess is he had his head caved in with a stone axe—this is Galloway’s doing again—I can feel it in my water.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Get somewhere safe before morning and keep our heads down until we can come up with a plan. Just keep driving—head for Haddington. I might have an idea.”
* * *
It wasn’t a great idea—hardly even a good one—but it was all he could think of at the moment. Once they got to Haddington he directed Alan up an alleyway beside the Royal Hotel and told him to park.
“Wait here. If you get spotted, honk three times. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes.”
Or even less—if he’s in a bad mood.
Donnie Roy was a local hard case gone soft. Ten years ago he’d ran most of the hookers in Leith Docks—ran them hard too, and Grainger and the man had several run-ins, some of which led to violence, and the last of which gave Donnie three years in Barlinnie. He’d come out a changed man—worked as a barman in a range of city center pubs, then managed one of them. Eventually, using an instinctive business sense, hard work and charm, he’d built up a run-down hotel here in Haddington into something that was winning awards and getting column space in the posh papers.
That was all by the by. He also owed Grainger a favor—a big one at that. The three years inside could just as easily have been ten had Grainger pushed for it—and both men knew it.
Grainger found Roy where he expected to find him—in the kitchen organizing the shift before breakfast. He didn’t know whether he’d get a smile or a snarl when Roy saw him enter. He got neither—he got an eyebrow-raised smirk of surprise.
“Always knew you’d turn up at my door someday, Mr. Grainger. What’s it to be; do you need a shooter, a passport or an untraceable motor? All three?”
“News travels fast,” Grainger replied, eyeing up the hotel owner. He’d always been a wiry frame of nervous energy. The hotel trade had added a layer of softness over the muscle—an old dog going slowly to seed. But Grainger knew better than to underestimate the man.
“I need a wee favor, Donnie,” Grainger said. Roy dismissed the breakfast shift to their duties and took Grainger by the arm, leading him out into one of the interior hallways.
“As you said, news travels fast. The shoe is on the other foot, Mr. Grainger. How does it feel to be a wanted man?”
“It’s a stitch up,” Grainger said, and they both laughed at the absurdity of it. “I need a motor—something that’ll keep us below the radar for a wee while.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“We’re even after this—a clean slate. I’ll forget what I saw that night on the docks, and you’ll forget I was here this morning.”
“And I’ll still be down a car on the deal.”
“Well, maybe not. How about a swap?”
* * *
Alan drove their new vehicle out of Haddington, cringing when the shifter groaned and creaked as he put it in third. Grainger knew that he wasn’t happy.
“This thing’s clapped out. It’s more than ten years old, the gearbox is buggered, the suspension is shot—and it stinks. It smells like somebody’s shat in it.”
“Twice,” Grainger said, and laughed. “Besides, you’ve just given your wee posh company car away to a known villain in exchange for an old banger and two bacon rolls, you’re on the run accused of murder, and your only alibi is that you were away in Fairyland with a big black bird. It’s hardly any wonder something smells of shite.”
Alan giggled, John joined in, and both laughed loudly. Despite their predicament, Grainger was strangely glad to be out in the country in a car with his brother. Alan managed to control his laughter first.
“Well, when you put it that way…” he said. “But all in all, I’d rather be in Bermuda.”
“Me too, wee brother. But we’ve got to get this sorted. And to do that we need to do some research—and we’ve got to be careful how we do it.”
“I’ve got my laptop in the back, and I’ve got a decent anonymous surfing setup. All I need is a good Wi-Fi spot and…”
Grainger waved him to quiet—they were now in territory he steadfastly refused to even think about. He and computers had a hate-hate relationship dating back to late-night report filing during his early days as a beat copper, and it showed no signs of improving as the years went on.
“The wee magic boxes are your side of things—I’m sure you’ll work wonders. But first we need to get lost. And fast.”
16
They drove most of the day, taking turns at the wheel. Alan was bemused at John’s navigational instructions—taking them down minor roads and cattle tracks, through forests via little more than gravel paths, then long stretches of rural land where all they saw were farm trucks and tractors until finally in midafternoon he decided they’d gone far enough.
“Right. Let’s find somewhere to hole up.”
They were just south of the border with England, somewhere in the Kielder National Park.
“Hole up? There isn’t a town for miles as far as I know.”
“Town, no,” John said. “But this area’s riddled with holiday chalets and campsites. This time in the season it shouldn’t be too hard to find one we can camp in—for tonight at least.”
And John had been right. They found one ten minutes later—a small cluster of log cabins, all of them empty save for the one closest to the road that was manned by an ancient caretaker who paid them no attention at all after they gave him twenty quid as deposit.
John left Alan in the cabin.
“Get online, find out what the score is—I’m presuming the heat’s still on us, but we might have got lucky. I’ll rustle up some grub. You got any cash?”
“Fifty quid. We’ll need that for petrol tomorrow if we’re going anywhere.”
“I’ve got thirty. It’ll have to do for now. We can’t use our cards.”
It was staring to hit Alan just how quickly their situation could become one of desperation. He got the laptop out and hooked in to what the caretaker had promised was a stable Wi-Fi connection.
The brothers made the front pages of the nationals. And John was wrong about their luck—none of the news was good. Brian Ferguson’s murder had been particularly savage, and on that John had been right—reports mentioned severe trauma to the head and shoulders. “Unconfirmed reports” mentioned an eyewitness who saw the brothers “flee” the scene.
Worse still, reading between the lines Alan spotted that people were starting to query whether the Grainger brothers might not in fact be behind the child abductions in the first place. Luckily there were few hard facts in evidence in any of the reports, and it seemed they had evaded detection long enough to get out of the city and away without being spotted.
But what in God’s name do we do now?
He needed a drink, but a quick search of the cabin came up empty. He hoped John might buy a bottle, but doubted it—John had his cop head on completely now, focused on the task at hand. Even food came second in his list of things to do when this mood took charge. Besides, John had his smokes when he needed calm.
And I’ve got the laptop.
He tried to concentrate, going back over some of his research into the myth and folklore of swans. He spent nearly an hour on it and got nowhere, particularly near the end of the time when worry about where John had got to started to sneak into his brain. He was about to give up and head for the door when the
key turned in the lock. At almost the same moment the laptop pinged to tell him he had an email.
He opened it up and read it. John came in and asked him a question, but the email blasted all other thoughts from his mind. It was just two sentences.
“I know all about Ferguson, the cliff top and the black bird. Meet me at the Galloway farm after dark tonight.”
The email handle—donotforsake123—didn’t give away the identity of the sender, and there was no name. He tried to trace the header and ping the I.P. address, but he wasn’t the only one who knew how to remain anonymous online—it got him nowhere.
In the meantime, John stood in the doorway, a quizzical expression on his face.
“What have you got?” he said.
Alan wondered how to reply.
“I think our new player just made another move,” he said. “Somebody wants our attention.”
“It looks like they got yours,” John replied. He put down a bag of groceries and came round to read the message.
“It’s probably a trap?” Alan said.
“Probably,” John replied. “But I meant to go to the farm anyway, and if there’s going to be somebody there with more answers than we have, then I think it’s worth the risk.”
Alan brought John up to speed on the news reports.
“Yep—I saw a report on the telly behind the counter at the shop. Our pictures are all over the place,” John replied. “If we’re going to get this sorted, we’ve got to do it quick, otherwise Bermuda might be our only option.”
* * *
John’s shopping consisted of prepackaged sandwiches, lukewarm coffee and more smokes. The bread was stale and the cheese inside had the consistency of rubber gloves, but the coffee, although too bland for Alan’s taste—washed it down well enough. He wasn’t really in much of a mood for eating in any case.
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