by Iain Cameron
She whiled away her time thinking about the case, piecing together everything said by Daniel Perry and adding bits of information offered by Alex, often at his most talkative when she was on the loo. He had the decency to push the door over but he said he would come in if he heard sounds not consistent with toilet duties.
She was certain now that Perry and a Russian bloke called Hal, now in Met Police custody, killed Jim Bennett and his son Kenny. It seemed Perry considered them responsible for a number of failings, from the botched murder of Chris Fletcher, to the photographs Harvey Miller took inside the Uckfield warehouse.
Alex told her that Perry now recognised the murder of Chris Fletcher was the trigger that brought his lucrative wine-faking operation to a halt, as DI Henderson would never have taken an interest in the case without it. Perhaps Perry expected Bennett to abduct Chris in France and bury his body in woods where it would never be found. Whatever their failings, Jim Bennett and his son could now be taken off Interpol’s hunted list.
Walters was surprised no one from the office had tried to contact her. It was now Wednesday and she had been tied up since Monday night, so she’d missed a full day in the office without telling anyone where she was; a big no-no in their line of work. Detectives often disappeared unexpectedly to speak to narks or watch the movements of a suspect, but they were required to tell someone. It didn’t need to be the exact location or the name of the person they were seeing, but enough information to call in back-up if the operation went pear-shaped.
If Alex was smart, he wouldn’t try to kill her in her apartment. He’d been here a day and a half and a casual wipe down with an old hanky would not erase his prints as he’d been in every room and touched just about every surface. In all likelihood he would take her out to his car under the cover of darkness and off to Beachy Head or any number of wooded areas in Sussex. If this was his plan, it would present her with the best opportunity to overpower him. She needed to be ready.
To make sure she didn’t struggle, he might drug her and take her out to his car rolled up inside an old carpet or wrapped in a sheet. If that seemed too much like hard work, he could kill her here and set fire to the place, a reasonably effective method of covering up his presence, but bad news for her neighbours. Mrs Severs, in the flat below, was disabled with MS and moved around with the use of two sticks. In the floor above in a flat bought for him by his father, Henry James was a regular drug user and at most times of the day was out of his head. Alex didn’t come across as the smartest sailor on the ship, but in selecting the most judicious method to do the dirty deed, she was sure he was top drawer.
Her morbid musings came to halt when she heard the front door opening and the sound of Alex dumping his purchases in the kitchen. He was on the plump side and obviously didn’t like anything in her cupboards, because the first chance he had, yesterday morning, he nipped out to a supermarket and stocked up on his favourites.
He was whistling his favourite song, Kiss it Better by Rihanna, a tune she used to like, but he whistled it all the time and forever it would remind her of this. What he did now was make himself a brew of something, and wander into the living room and play on his laptop and soon she would hear the tap-tap of his fingers on the keys. Sometime later, he would remember about his captive and let her loose for her first ablutions of the day, and allow her to have something to eat, before tying her up until late in the afternoon.
She dozed for a spell, when she heard him enter the room.
‘Morning Carol, how are we today?’ he said.
‘Why are you so chirpy, did your Lotto numbers come up or something?’
‘That would be amazing if they did, as I don’t do it. No, this is the day.’
‘Eh? Oh, I see.’
‘Yeah, today is the day my boss does what he went to Scotland for. When the job’s done, I’m out of here. It’s not a bad place to be, your little flat, but it’s not a patch on mine.’
Yesterday, she plotted Perry’s route north in her head. She didn’t know if he could catch a direct flight to Fort William, but if not, he would’ve flown to Glasgow the previous morning. Then, in a hired car, he would drive to Kilchoan which she knew was somewhere west of Fort William, arriving late afternoon.
After locating the house where Henderson and his girlfriend were staying, he would spend time reconnoitring the site. Alex didn’t receive a phone call from Perry last night, so he didn’t confront the DI yesterday, but by the whistle in Alex’s pipe and her own estimates, everything was due to happen today. She then realised Perry would try to make contact with Henderson this morning and felt a wave of panic; she couldn’t wait until nightfall to warn him. If she was going to something, she had to do it now.
THIRTY-NINE
Donnie McLean, the owner of Bay Cottage, had left a couple of mountain bikes in a shed for visitors to use, but Henderson hadn’t ridden a bike in years, impossible even to own one when living in a top-floor flat in Seven Dials. When he lived in Glasgow and was still married to Laura, they often went out cycling, and when his two children, Hannah and Lewis were old enough, with them too. When they could ride longer distances, they would take their bikes to Loch Lomond and the Trossachs, careering down forest tracks in the Queen Elizabeth Forest Park, or marvelling at the mirrored sheen on Loch Katrine when the wind dropped.
Not willing to risk the ignominy of falling off at his first attempt, he walked to the shop. It was a cloudy, overcast day, ideal for hill walking as it was warm without being too hot, and dry without the threat of rain. Kilchoan was a well spread-out village, probably only a couple of hundred inhabitants, but it would take hours to walk the three roads that the houses were scattered over.
Village amenities consisted of one pub, part of the village’s only hotel, The Kilchoan Hotel; Ferry Stores, which was not only a general supplies and a grocery shop, but a petrol station too; a village hall; a pier and two churches. To him, there didn’t seem to be much difference between The Free Church of Scotland and the Parish Church, but living in multi-racial Brighton had taught him to be more tolerant of different beliefs.
The last time he was in Kilchoan was with Laura and the kids, and they took the ferry from Mingary Pier across Loch Sunart to the picturesque town of Tobermory on the island of Mull. Even though Hannah and Lewis were beyond the reach of children’s television, and now more interested in music videos than Peppa Pig, they were thrilled to be in the same place where one of their favourite childhood television programmes, Balamory, had been filmed.
In the Ferry Stores, he soon found everything on Rachel’s list but had to wait to pay while old Mrs McPherson gave the shop assistant a blow-by-blow account of a recent visit to the Isle of Lewis. He was tempted to tap her on the shoulder and suggest she start a blog where she could post all the details of her trip and save her telling everyone the same long story. In response, she would probably say it was too late for her to learn anything about computers and tell him to be more patient.
He walked outside and bumped into Donnie’s wife, Ellen. He’d chatted to her once before and knew she didn’t come from the area. Not only did she speak with a Geordie accent, tempered by seven years in the Highlands, she didn’t have the ruddy, country complexion of many of the local girls and looked pale, as if she didn’t get out much or she suffered from anaemia. He’d found a leaflet in the house with pictures of the beautiful range of pottery that Ellen made and sold on the web, and her pallid skin was more likely due to spending too much time in her studio.
‘Are you and Rachel settling into the cottage, Angus?’
‘Yes we are. We’ve got everything we need.’
‘If you don’t have it or you’ve forgotten something, you can always get it here, from lights bulbs to bottles of Calor gas as the locals say. Donnie tells me you’re both keen hill walkers. If you are, you’re spoiled for choice around here.’
‘So I’m beginning to realise. Today, we’ve decided to tackle Ben Hiant.’
‘Good luck with that, i
t’s a long climb. I did it last summer with a crowd of girls from the village to raise money for a new kitchen in the village hall, and my legs hurt for days afterwards. It shouldn’t trouble you two though, you both look fitter than me.’
‘I’m not so sure, not if you’re walking down to the shop every day.’
‘I sometimes take the car, but don’t tell Donnie. I don’t know if he told you, but it’s easier to approach your climb of Ben Hiant from Camas Nan Geall.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘You might remember when you were driving here, about ten miles back there’s a long stretch of road where it seems to have been cut out of the rock. You can see a beach far down below and there’s often a herd of Highland Cattle grazing near the shoreline.’
He smiled at the memory ‘I know it. Rachel kept telling me to slow down and keep my eyes on the road and not the scenery.’
‘Ha. Go back there and you’ll find a place to park on the Glenborrodale side. It’s a short distance to the mountain from there and it’ll save you the long trek over moorland that you’d need to do if you approach it from the Kilchoan side.’
‘Thanks Ellen. It’s good to get the benefit of some local knowledge.’
‘Even if I’m not one myself.’
‘Don’t you qualify by being resident for as long as you have?’
‘Only if I was born here and my father and mother had been as well.’
‘I’ve heard a few non-local voices around the place so I guess you’re not the only incomer here.’
‘True enough, and places like this do need an injection of new blood now and again to keep them alive or they grow stale. I just wish they wouldn’t keep reminding me of it, you know, ‘maybe that’s how they do it in Newcastle’, or ‘but you’re from England, aren’t you?’ whenever they see my knitting or baking.’
Henderson laughed.
‘Oh, I can talk when I get going, can’t I? I mustn’t hold you back, Angus, you’ll want to make the most of the fine weather. Donnie or myself will be around for the morning, so if you need any more information before you set out, you just need to ask.’
‘I will, Ellen. Thanks again for your advice. Bye.’
Henderson headed back to Bay Cottage. He was thankful he didn’t know anyone else in the village as he passed a few locals on the way back and if he stopped to speak to them all, he wouldn’t reach the house by lunchtime. He walked up the drive towards the house and saw Donnie doing something out in the field and gave him a wave.
Henderson pushed open the door and closed it. ‘I’m back,’ he shouted as he walked into the kitchen. He deposited the bag of groceries on the table and wandered off in search of Rachel.
He found her in the lounge. Daniel Perry was by her side, a gun pointing at her head.
**
She massaged her wrists and ankles and slowly forced herself awake. Alex was there on the other side of the bed, watching. He liked to keep a safe distance between them to allow enough time and space to draw his weapon. Sleepily Carol Walters walked into the bathroom, pushed the door closed and sat on the toilet. She hadn’t woken up desperate for the loo, even though it was after eleven o’clock, because she wasn’t drinking as much coffee as she did at work, and didn’t have the usual glass of white wine in the evening. Nevertheless, it was a welcome break from lying being tied to the bed.
‘Brighton’s such a great place to live,’ he said, trying to drown out her tinkling. ‘There’s local shops to buy whatever you need and loads of young mothers walking around to say hello to. If I lived here I would…’
She tuned out and loosened the button on the pocket shielding the knife to check it. She did this whenever she was set loose but couldn’t yet find the chance to use it, Alex was being too careful. She turned on the tap and washed her hands and face, and stood looking at the reflection in the mirror. Her complexion had taken on a pasty appearance, lack of sunlight and eating whatever junk food Alex decided to buy.
Reluctantly she walked out of the bathroom as she liked its coolness and perfumed smells, unlike the sweaty pall of her bedroom, and longed for a long soak in the bath. She was moving towards the kitchen to fix some breakfast when the brmm-brmm, brmm-brmm of the video entry phone sounded.
It was directly behind her in the hall and as she turned to look, Alex did the same. She reached down for the knife and before he turned back, swung her arm around in a smooth arc and plunged the blade deep into his belly, up to the handle. Shock creased his face and two hands shot down to cover the wound. She pulled out the knife with one hand and with the other, whipped the gun out from the back of his trousers.
He collapsed, blood leaking out over the beautiful parquet floor, laid only last year. Holding the weapon in two hands she covered the prostrate figure, as she glanced at the video; it was DC Sally Graham and DC Phil Bentley. She pressed the ‘Talk’ button. ‘Guys! Up here now! We have a situation!’
She opened the door, still covering Alex with the weapon in case he was feigning, and listened for the heavy clumping of two sets of feet on the uncarpeted staircase.
Phil Bentley arrived first. ‘We just came to…what the hell’s going on here?’
‘Phil, I’m so glad to see you. Cover him with this,’ she said handing him the gun. ‘Sally, call an ambulance.’
She looked around for her own phone and found it beside the television but it was switched off. She couldn’t wait for it to boot up so she went back to the hall. When Sally finished talking to the ambulance controller, she took the phone from her and immediately called Henderson’s mobile. To her utter dismay, it came back with the ‘no service’ tone.
‘Is Henderson in a rural part of the Highlands? I can’t get through.’
Graham gave her the look of one who knows. ‘Are you getting ‘no service’?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Most of the Highlands is rural. A lot of places don’t get any mobile reception at all.’
‘Damn!’ She rushed back into the lounge and picked up Alex’s MacBook. She ignored the porn site he had been looking at and opened Google. She then keyed in ‘Fort William’ and switched the screen to Google Maps.
She expanded the map to look over the Fort William area, all the way down to the sea and the west coast and began searching for a village called Kilchoan.
‘Ambulance is on its way,’ Sally Graham said. ‘What are you looking for Sarg, and what the hell happened here?’
‘I’ll tell you later. I’m trying to find the village where Henderson went. I don’t where it is. He’s in danger.’
‘It’s called Kilchoan.’
‘I know that but I’m not sure how to spell it. I was trying to find it on the map first.’
‘I know how to spell it; K-i-l-c-h-o-a-n. He told me all about it, said it’s a great place for seeing Golden Eagles.’
She went back to Google and keyed in the name of the village and after some searching found a phone number for the village shop.
She reached for DC Graham’s phone and dialled the number on the laptop screen.
‘I can hear sirens,’ Graham said. ‘I better go outside and direct the ambulance.’
‘Hello, this is Ferry Stores, Fiona speaking. How can I help you?’
‘Hello Fiona, this is Detective Sergeant Walters from the Major Crime Team at Surrey and Sussex Police.’
‘How exciting. How can I help you?’
‘This is a long shot, now I think of it, but I’m looking for my boss. His name is Angus Henderson and he’s been staying in your village for the last few days.’
‘Let me ask.’
She heard voices and a loud shriek of laughter.
‘Hello Sergeant Walters. Old Mrs Geddes, who is 87, said isn’t he the tall and very handsome man who’s here with his girlfriend to do a bit of hill walking?’
‘Yes, it sounds like him.’
‘They are staying at a place called Bay Cottage if that’s any help.’
‘It is, I assure you. Do you have t
heir telephone number?’
‘But of course.’
Walters dialled the number and a gruff Highland voice came on the line. She introduced herself as she had done to Fiona in Ferry Stores. The voice on the other end of the line said his name was Donnie McLean, owner of Bay Cottage.
‘Mr McLean, please listen carefully. Your tenant, Detective Inspector Angus Henderson is in serious danger. A gangster called Daniel Perry is close by and he is there to kill him. If you see no suspicious activity or people around Henderson’s house, go over there and tell him what I have just told you; I will alert the local police. If you see suspicious activity, stay indoors, lock your doors and wait for the police to arrive. On no account must anyone approach this man. He is armed and extremely dangerous.’
FORTY
‘What the hell are you doing here, Perry?’ Henderson said.
‘Nice to see you too, Inspector. Quit pissing about. Get in here and sit down.’
Henderson walked in and took a seat on the settee beside Rachel who immediately grabbed his hand and held it tight. ‘Who is this man?’ she hissed. ‘What does he want?’
She was scared but not turning to jelly as many other people who found themselves in this situation would be. Good. If they were to get out of this unscathed, they both needed clear heads.
‘This is a nice place,’ Perry said, ‘very rustic.’
‘What do you want Perry?’
‘Thought I’d look you up, Henderson. See how you were enjoying your holiday in this beautiful part of Scotland.’
‘I was enjoying it fine until you came along.’
‘Tsk, tsk, tetchy ain’t he? Now listen up both of you. I’m here because you, Mr Police Inspector, put a stop on my money. To be more precise, the money the late Fraser Brook stole and squirrelled away in a Swiss bank account.’
