“You’re echoing most coppers’ sentiments.”
“You say Lanny is part of Roper’s gang. Is it based in Scotland? Is that why Lanny is here?”
“Roper used to have his center in England. In Derbyshire, usually, though he roamed around if his current project called for a different location.”
“Used to. What happened to cause the shift? You lads turn up the heat on Roper?”
“Not me, though it was my department. That chief inspector I mentioned. Geoffrey Graham. Well, his entire unit, actually. They were responsible for Roper’s capture and subsequent prison stretch in Wakefield.”
“The Monster Mansion in South Yorkshire.” McLaren could imagine the prison. Fortress actually described it better. Walls several yards thick, living quarters for the country’s worst of the worst, inescapable cells… “Don’t tell me he’s out.”
“No. But with him in prison and the gang under a very hot magnifying glass, they decided to move their operation to Scotland.”
“Away from English police jurisdiction and English law. They’re probably hoping that Scotland’s law is different, or they’ve not been heard of here.”
“Or they’ve burrowed in some place and are hiding. Waiting for some big job.”
“You think that’s a possibility?”
“I’d say anything’s a possibility with King Roper’s gang. Scotland offers them a lot of area for concealment of contraband or preparing for some launch, and I don’t mean a boat, necessarily. If you haven’t checked lately, look at a map. You think any police force can cover all the country’s lochs, shoreline, and glens? It’s a bloody brilliant place to plan, reorganize, and attack.”
McLaren nodded. Even in the region around Balquhidder there must be a dozen lochs, mountains, and rivers, all offering coves and recesses. “Do you know if King and George Roper are related?”
Jamie paused. “Sorry. The name’s new to me. Who’s George Roper? You run into him?”
“Not exactly. I found something that belongs to him.”
“What?”
“A diary. I just thought the surname’s too coincidental for them not to be related.”
“Where’d you find a diary?”
McLaren told about the attack, waking up in the snow, and finding the diary in the cottage.
Jamie exhaled sharply. “For God’s sake, Mike, what’s going on? This is past a joke. You need to go to the police. Tell them what’s going on.”
“I don’t even know what’s going on. They’re not going to listen to my few wild tales.”
“If you’ve got wounds or bruising from the attack, they will. They can’t ignore that type of evidence.”
“They can put it down to me tripping over a stone or a drunken night out. There’s nothing in the police code that compels them to believe me.”
Jamie’s angry retort sailed into McLaren’s ear and he shook the mobile. “Can’t hear you. Your signal’s breaking up.”
“The bloody hell it is. You’re not Superman, Mike. You have one life, and I don’t want to see it come to an end on some wintry moor. I want you to talk to the coppers.”
“I’m telling you, I’m fine.”
Jamie paused, and a hint of skepticism crept into his voice. “I hate to cast aspersions on a friend, and I know how stoic you usually are, but I’d like to assume you wouldn’t needlessly put your life in jeopardy.”
“You’re right. You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m trying to be, about both of us. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m mad, more than anything, and there’s no medical cure for that.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor. That’s nothing to fool around with.”
“I said I’m fine. Honest. Just a bit sore and stiff.”
“If I had a penny for every time you said you were fine, Mike—”
“Have your lads learned anything?” McLaren interrupted Jamie’s diatribe.
“Nothing concrete, unfortunately. But no one’s getting much sleep until the gang members are rounded up. It’s an uneasy time in our department.”
“Do you have suspicions that Lanny’s connection with Harvester and Jean MacNab are linked to King Roper’s gang? Or, if not directly linked, to something criminal?”
Jamie sighed, sounding tired. “God, I hope not. I know Charlie Harvester isn’t the world’s most intelligent copper, but I hate to think he’s that bent that he’d associate with King Roper. Lanny Clack is bad enough.”
“Lanny could be the son of one of Harvester’s mates. Maybe there’s no criminal connection at all.”
“You don’t believe that.”
McLaren mumbled that the odds didn’t favor it. “Harvester’s walked a bit too close to the line. Look at that case I investigated in October, if you need reminding.”
“The Amy Jarvis case? The murder of the university art student at South Wingfield?”
“Right. Harvester was chummy with that vigilante group. And while he may not have spoken publicly for them or had anything to do with Amy’s death, he did know the group’s leader.”
“I thought coppers were prohibited from voicing any opinions of a political nature.”
“I thought murder was illegal,” McLaren returned before falling silent. He glanced out the window. How different the land appeared, whether seen in sunlight or night gloom. How different his emotions were. He neither battled his fears in the daytime nor gave them a thought. But sunset pulled his nightmares from the locked closet within his soul and mind, held them in front of him and taunted him. The landscape hadn’t changed; only his perception had.
McLaren heard the clank of a spoon as it hit the sides of the teacup, and wondered if Jamie was stirring his tea.
“I don’t know how Jean MacNab figures into the picture, Mike. She’s sole owner of Saltire Guest House, as far as I can tell. She’d been married for four years—that was 1980 to ’84, but her husband died in a car crash. Up near Inverness in December. Wintry road, snow, ice…you know.”
“The ’80s are too early for Lanny to come into the picture, Jamie. He’s twenty, didn’t you say?”
“Yes. Anyway, she could’ve met him through her insurance agent years later. She’s had several fender benders.”
“Is Stuart Forbes a friend of Lanny?”
“I wouldn’t call them friends. Stuart owns Arthur’s Seat Insurance Company, if you remember. He has no say-so in where his clients take their vehicles for repair work—”
“But he strongly suggests the place where Lanny works.”
“Why do I even bother?”
“Go on.”
“Lanny got to know Stuart through the car repair company. Might’ve done some work on Stuart’s cars for all I know. Anyway, that’s all Ross told me, although I suspect the Central Scotland Constabulary have a bit more on Lanny Clack than Ross is willing to tell me.”
“So, if Jean MacNab is insured by Stuart Forbes’s company, and takes her car repair work to Lanny’s place of employment…yes, they could all know each other that way.” McLaren’s voice trailed off, betraying his exhaustion and frustration. “But we still don’t know if this jolly threesome is actually tied in with King Roper’s gang. Just because Lanny’s a gang member, doesn’t mean Jean or Harvester have connections in that direction.”
“Like calling Dena and your sister coppers or police stoolies because you were a cop.”
“Yeah.” McLaren drummed his fingers on the table. A door opened in the back of the house and a dog yapped excitedly.
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?”
“This whole thing’s coming together.”
The yapping increased before the door shut.
“How?”
McLaren lowered his voice, as though he were afraid of being overhead. “Harvester set all this up.”
“Set what up? The hit-and-run, the attack at the Boar’s Rock—”
“Not necessa
rily. Though those could be by-products. I mean getting me up here to visit my grandfather. When I was still in the job at Staffordshire, a few of my mates knew my family history. About my mum and dad, how my grandfather had practically disowned me. I learned recently that Harvester found out all that. He sent the letter or had Jean MacNab send the letter. The instructions were very clear I wasn’t to ring up my grandfather, but to communicate through Jean MacNab, who would put me up for the week.”
“You’re certain your head isn’t bothering you, that you don’t need to go to hospital?”
“It’s brilliant, Jamie. Listen. Harvester maneuvered me into staying with his friend, who could give him reports as to what I was doing.”
“Reports?” Jamie made a noise like choking on his tea. “What the hell reports? You’re not a criminal under surveillance.”
“I might be to Harvester. He’s hated my guts every since police school. He’s just the sort to seek some sort of revenge and set it up carefully so it won’t go wrong. He doesn’t dare do it in England; it’s too chancy he’d be a suspect.”
“What do you mean suspect? Suspect of what…an accident?”
“Or my death. But two hundred fifty miles away in Scotland, he’s far removed from any suspicion. He’s arranged for a concrete alibi for the entire week I’m up here. When something happens to me, he can shed his crocodile tears, give a statement to the press about what a swell colleague I’d been, and keep his hands clean.”
“You’ve alluded to this before. What’s the reason for this elaborate charade? Why get you up here? It’s an bloody expensive joke.”
“As I said, Jamie, revenge is best served cold.”
****
Back in his room, McLaren spread the silver coins on the bed. He would’ve believed a previous property owner had forgotten them, but the cottage had fallen into decay long before 1909, the date on most of the coins.
He opened the leather notebook and read the first intact page. It started in the middle of a diary entry, dated February 1962. The writer, presumably George Roper, referred to an event that happened twenty years earlier and made it plain he cursed his luck for having missed out on the original incident.
Every time this date rolls ’round I think of Frank. What a bloody lucky stiff! For once in his miserable life at the right place at the right time. Yanks always got the breaks—the prettiest birds, the highest pay, the easiest jobs of work. And not a year before this he thought his assignment to The Rock was gonna be boredom personified. How wrong can a bloke be! The Trout and the Japs, God bless them all. And Frankie’s generous souvenir to keep me spirits up ’til I get the rest of the hoard. Till then, a trial by fire. A nice legacy for King and Cou…
The page was torn at the bottom, ending that entry. McLaren flipped through the rest of the pages, but found nothing else that explained the account. On the last page was a crudely drawn map devoid of country or other identifying marks other than Mac Ranaich. He stared at it, trying to fathom the location. It sounded familiar, but not as familiar as Balquhidder or Callander or Edinburgh. That it was in Scotland, he had no doubt. He’d never mistake Mac for a proper name if written on a map.
He opened his mobile and searched the Internet for the name. Dozens of entries popped up. Its proper name was Creag Mac Ranaich, a hill 809 meters in altitude. It sat north of the village, in the area loosely defined as the Braes of Balquhidder.
On the map, the artist had placed a small dot at the base of the hill, or what McLaren supposed was the hill—an upside down V. No other indication but a stray pen line half underlining the Braes of Balquhidder showed on the map. No penned X or circle or annotation gave a hint as to where the diary writer’s souvenir might be stashed.
The silver coins on the bed seemed to whisper to him, to advise that he get more information before he jumped into his hiking boots. Just because he had a handful of coins didn’t mean the X held more coins.
McLaren read through the notebook again. Nothing new presented itself. He turned back to the first page, to the label pasted inside the front cover. The signature smirked at him from the distance of half a century. George Roper.
The notebook sank to his lap as he stared out the window. Roper. He’d forgotten about George in the rush talking with Jamie. Could it be a coincidence? They had just talked about King Roper. And the diary entry had mentioned King. A nice legacy for King. At first reading, he’d assumed it to be King and Country. Wartime talk, for that’s what he also assumed the entry to refer to. The date put it at February 1942. The reference to Japanese could also refer to World War Two. But what had a trout or a rock to do with this?
He entered the word rock into his smart phone’s internet search engine. The usual results crowded the top of the list. He narrowed his search, this time typing in the rock Pacific WW2. The first article was on The Rock, the nickname of the island of Corregidor. He opened the article and read about the Allied occupation of the Island, about the vast amount of American and Philippine paper currency, silver pesos, gold bullion, securities, silver, and precious metals. All from city bank vaults, mining companies, and individuals of both countries.
With the impending Japanese invasion of Manila, the wealth on the Island had to be evacuated. The transfer of more than one hundred twenty-five tons of silver and at least fifty-one tons of government gold bullion took several days and was accomplished under cover of night. The gold ingots, coins, and other valuable metals were collected and transferred to several small ships. It was then transported to Corregidor Island during the night on December 27, 1941.
Now at The Rock, the wealth was transferred to the government vaults. These holdings consisted of $38,000 in U.S. Treasury checks, $3,000,000 in U.S. currency, $28,000,000 in Philippine currency, and 10,800 pounds of gold.
This solution didn’t last long. The approaching Japanese invasion necessitated the evacuation of the holdings. Paper currency could be—and was—burned. But the gold presented another problem: it had to be disposed of. It could be sunk in the Bay, but it might be discovered and retrieved by the Japanese. Therefore, it would have to be removed from the island.
In one of those flukes of history, the USS Trout, which had delivered ammunition to the Island, needed ballast to replace the removed shells and torpedoes. The answer was the gold that needed to be evacuated.
Under the obscurity of night, U.S. and Philippine military personnel loaded gold bullion, securities, and some silver onto the USS Trout. More than 600,000 silver pesos, contained in canvas bags, and six and a half tons of gold ingots were transferred to the submarine, a total of nearly $10,000,000.
Due to the blackout and the haste of the operation, the transfer of the cargo to the Trout could not be confirmed. Crewmembers caught the gold ingots as they were thrown to them from the pier. The bars weighed nearly forty pounds apiece. $23,000 a bar. In the confusion and dark, it would be easy to misdirect a bag of coins or an ingot…
Were the coins on the bed from that frantic transfer of wealth? Was George Roper’s American friend Frank one of the Trout’s crewmembers? Had the lure of adding to his personal bank account been too much temptation?
How did George Roper get the silver coins, if they were part of that awful history of The Rock? Maybe more importantly, why? What were they going to do with the money? George’s diary hinted at more, his lion’s share, so there were more coins somewhere. Perhaps a few gold ingots, too.
McLaren leafed through the notebook pages again, as though another scan would produce more pages. When had the pages been torn from the book? Who had done it and why, if he was wrong about Harvester’s involvement? Had some rambler found the book and deciphered the location of the rest of the treasure? If so, why leave the book for someone else to find? The map had to mean something. Why else draw it?
An answer suggested itself. He phoned Jamie, hoping he wasn’t about to sound like the Berk of the Year.
“Mike. Anything wrong?” Jamie’s voice held the surprise of being called again
so soon.
“No. Do you know who King Roper’s dad is?”
“Are we back to this George Roper bloke?”
“Yes. I need to know if they’re related.”
“Hold on. I’ll look at the police files…”
McLaren waited while Jamie brought up King Roper’s file on the computer. Jamie’s words trailed off for several seconds, then grew louder again. “I’ve good or bad news, depending on what you want.”
“I’ll decide that when you tell me.”
“George and King were father and son. George was forty six when King was born.”
“Late in life.”
“Too bad it ever happened.”
“Who said life was fair?”
“Probably not a copper. Anything else, Mike, or did you just want to pass the time of day?”
“If I did, it’d be with Dena. I need to sound you out on an idea, Jamie.”
“Involving the father/son comedy team?”
“Not directly. Remember me telling you about finding the diary and the coins?”
“It wasn’t that long ago, Mike. My memory’s not totally shot.”
McLaren ignored his friend’s comment. “I’ll bet you my bank account that this World War Two diary and coins were planted for me to find.”
“You think? You just said they were hidden.”
“You’ve got to admit it’s an awfully big stretch to believe I’d just happen to come upon the cottage that just happens to contain these things that are linked to blokes I just happen to know.”
“In the normal course of your tourist day, yes.”
“So, Harvester plants these things. He or his thugs knock me out, transport me to the loch area where I’ll probably find the cottage and go there for shelter. It doesn’t take a detective to figure out I’d then build a fire to keep from freezing, so they put the diary behind the stacked wood, making it look like it’s hidden and that I found it.”
“All right, I follow that and agree to a point. Harvester doesn’t kill you, although he had the chance, because he needs you alive. But for what purpose?”
“The reason we use sniffer dogs. So that something leads the weary searcher to the missing object.”
An Unfolding Trap Page 15
