by G R Jordan
Grabbing a radio, Hope called up for the constable at the hall but there was no reply. She then called the station in Castlebay who responded and said they would send a runner round right away. ‘You should expect a call soon, Jona,’ she said; ‘must be struggling with signal and that.’ But something sat uneasy with her. Neither man at the hall had responded. Two minutes later, her mobile rang.
‘Sergeant, there’s been a break-in. You need to get over here now.’
Giving brief instructions to a nearby constable, Hope jumped in a car and drove briskly back to the village hall. There was an ambulance outside, blue lights flashing in the night and a number of officers standing guard. One nodded at Hope as she walked past him and entered the village hall. Inside, the neatly arranged evidence bags had been strewn about and the place was a sight. In the middle of the room, two paramedics were crouched around someone and one was pushing down on the chest of a prone figure. Across the hall, a man dressed in jeans and a light red jumper was up against the wall, shaking and holding his head in his hands. Beside him a constable was trying to calm him down but the man was having none of it.
‘Gregory, ma’am,’ said the female constable beside the agitated man. ‘He was here when they did that to Simon.’
‘Explain.’
‘A man and a woman came in here with Simon in the clutch of the man. It seems they knifed him in front of Gregory, screaming for maps, for Gregory to get them or they would knife Simon. After he gave them all the maps he could find, they knifed Simon anyway and then fled.’
‘And we’re all over on Vatersay, dammit.’
Another pair of ambulance crew arrived and watched them package Simon up and take him out to the awaiting ambulance. Hope stood up and looked around the room while the constable continued to sit with Gregory.
All the maps, all the damn maps, thought Hope. They have all they need and we’re clueless still—still don’t know where the treasure is to intercept them. And Seoras is down, right when I need him here. It’s all on Stewart or these killers will be gone with everything they came for.
Chapter 21
Stewart stood in front of another door in a different part of Newcastle. This time they were closer to the city centre and were three floors up. A large African man answered the door and Stewart reckoned he must have been at least six and a half feet tall. Even Ross was dwarfed by him, never mind Stewart with her smaller stature.
‘Sir, we are looking for a Carl Davidson with regard to an investigation we are carrying out. Do you know his whereabouts?’
The man looked nervous and simply said nothing.
‘It’s for his safety, sir.’
‘Carl has moved,’ came a slow and very deliberate reply. ‘And he’s taken his addicts with him.’
‘Addicts, sir?’
‘I bought this flat from him two years ago and then all these junkies turn up trying to score. Been two months since I saw the last of them—wouldn’t listen that Carl had moved.’
Stewart pushed her glasses further up her nose and saw the man staring at the side of her face. ‘Do you have a new address for him?’
‘Sure, but I doubt it’s real. Every bloody junkie kept coming back until I persuaded them otherwise. I’ll go get it for you.’
With the man gone, Stewart heard a whisper from Ross. ‘I’m sure he’s very persuasive.’ Stewart forced herself not to laugh.
‘Here,’ said the man returning and Stewart noted the address down in her notebook. Inverie.
When they had returned to the car, Stewart noted the time and saw that midnight had arrived. ‘Well, we can check this in the morning, Ross, time to get some sleep. Been a bit of a rough day.’
Ross took the hint and started the car, ready to drive to their hotel. But before he could press the accelerator, his mobile rang. ‘Ross here. Yeah, put it on speaker, Stewart’s here with me, McGrath.’
Together, Stewart and Ross listened in horror at the tale Hope laid out for them, of how Macleod was now in the hospital and two constables were seriously injured and possibly fighting for their lives.
‘And they have everything they need if they get Dudley. For all we know, they could be there already. What do you have?’
‘We’re chasing a lead for the woman who buried the treasure. As you know she was buried in the wall of Simon Green’s house, but her partner is still alive. It’s tenuous but it’s all we have. We’re going to Inverie in the morning to find him, or at least the next in his long list of house moves.’
‘No, you’re driving tonight.’ Hope was insistent.
‘Do you know where Inverie is? We haven’t had a chance to look up the Satnav.’
‘Knoydart, up from Mallaig.’
‘Seriously,’ Ross burst in. ‘But you can’t get to Knoydart without a two-day hike or a boat.’
‘Well, get on it, Ross. We’re up to our eyes over here. And don’t hang about.’
The mobile went silent and Ross started the engine. ‘Hotel and then Mallaig, and you’ll need to get hold of something that can get us over there. In fact, try the helicopters now. There’s enough of a body count to justify it.’
Stewart dipped her glasses at him. The comment was crass, but it was also absolutely true. With the amount of blood spilt, the justification to spend to bring the killers to justice was not a hard argument to make. As Ross drove to the hotel, Stewart tried in vain to get a helicopter to fly them to Knoydart.
‘They say it’s a no go with the weather over the next twenty-four hours. The cloud’s too low and then the wind’s coming in. Looks like it’s going to be a real howler.’
‘Right then, bags and we go. We’ll have to try for a boat and get there before the wind starts; otherwise, we might struggle to get round at all, and I am not doing a two-day walk in this nonsense.’
Stewart called the Newcastle station to advise them of their plan while Ross drove back to the hotel. They took ten minutes over collecting their bags before starting north, driving the A1 to Edinburgh before cutting across to Glasgow and then out to the west coast. Ross stopped once to pick up some food and drinks at a service station. Sitting in the seat opposite, Stewart had been determined to stay awake as Ross drove, occasionally chatting to her partner to keep him alert but at some point after Glasgow, she had nodded off and did not awake until the city was far behind them.
Before she had fallen asleep, Stewart had been calling several numbers in an attempt to secure a boat for passage to Inverie. Due to the lateness of the hour, she had little luck in actually speaking to anyone, but she had managed to leave several messages and now she was awake, she checked her email to find a reply.
‘I’ve got us a motorboat to take us over, Ross. Are you holding up?’
Ross, blinking his eyes in the dark of the early morning, gave out a yawn. ‘Fresh as a daisy. Did you sleep all right?’
Stewart thought this an odd question considering she had been tucked tight in a car seat and not in a comfortable bed, but she nodded anyway. It would be harsh to complain when the man had taken all of the driving. In truth, she had not slept well. Her dreams had been fraught with being punched in the face and the threat of death from a woman dressed like she was working the street. She never actually saw their suspect’s face but that fear of being her victim hung throughout her overly active nightmares.
When Mallaig arrived, it was a relief to both and parking the car at the harbour, Ross took some time standing in the early morning cool trying to revive himself. Their boat would be there at nine and Stewart walked the town in search of breakfast returning to the car and finding Ross asleep inside. Moments like this showed the lie in the glamour of police work.
A small but powerful rib arrived at nine o’clock on the dot and having woken Ross for his breakfast, the pair and their transport took the reasonably short trip around the coast to Knoydart and the small village of Inverie. The sun was up but hidden behind a wall of grey cloud and there was a dampness in the air. But the cool and the spray of t
he sea seemed to wake Stewart up as she sat at the rear of the boat, decked out in her lifejacket. Ross, however, was sitting with his back up against a seat with his head hanging low. His snores made the pilot laugh but the rest was brief as the boat rounded into the loch and came to the pier at Inverie.
With her mobile in hand, and a saved picture of a map showing the location of Carl Davidson’s latest abode, Stewart led the way, Ross silent in her wake and she wondered if he was actually sleep walking. Inverie was becoming alive but being winter and given its remoteness, there were few people about and Stewart only managed a nod to the occasional dog walker.
Carl Davidson’s house had a small, green hedge running around it and was a small bungalow painted white, although the sharp edge of the colour had faded. Stewart passed through a green-painted gate and knocked on the front door. No answer was forthcoming so she tried again and Ross, in an automatic response, strolled around the outside of the bungalow, peering into any window he could find.
‘Knock louder, he’s in!’ shouted Ross from the rear of the house and Stewart gave the door a battering. There was a commotion inside and then the door swung open to a man in a dressing gown looking startled and then indignant.
‘What the hell, love?’ The man was short, no taller than Stewart, and he stared at her. ‘Wow, that must have been a heck of a thump. Did someone hit you?’
‘DC Stewart and this,’ said Stewart as Ross returned from the rear of the house, ‘is DC Ross. Are you Carl Davidson?’
‘Yes, that’s me. What have I done?’
‘Nothing as far as I’m aware but can we come inside. We need to talk to you about Angel Jones.’
The man started for a moment and then pushed the door open wide. ‘That’s a name I haven’t had spoken to me in a long while. Lovely Angel. Mad, reckless, and lovely Angel. Through to the lounge, please, I have a guest in the house, and I need to tell her we have company. Make sure she’s decent.’
The man disappeared leaving the officers to wander into his front room which housed a sofa and a television before a stove. Last night’s fire was still burning—barely—but the room was warm and cosy. Stewart saw the remnants of two glasses of wine and a few bottles lolling about the floor. Last night must have been good, she thought, and then watched Ross lift a bra off the sofa before sitting down.
Carl Davidson appeared back through offering a coffee and Ross answered in the affirmative before Stewart could say anything else. As Davidson disappeared, presumably into the kitchen, a woman in her fifties came through dressed in a silk dressing gown. She was not overweight but was a large build of woman, standing almost six feet tall, and the gown only went down to her thigh, revealing powerful, muscular legs. If Stewart had guessed who last night’s lover had been, she would have missed the target completely.
‘Hi,’ said the woman in a husky voice before extending a hand. ‘Liz Duran, pleased to meet you. Carl never said he was expecting anyone.’
‘We’re police, ma’am. I’m DC Stewart and this is DC Ross. We’re just requiring Mr Davidson’s help in a matter. Hopefully, we can shortly leave you in peace.’
Liz smiled and sat down next to Stewart, dwarfing the constable and she saw Ross almost laugh at the discrepancy in size. Sitting in silence, Stewart couldn’t help noticing the enormous thighs on the woman and they reminded her of a fight she had taken at her mixed martial arts group with a woman who felt twice her size. But Stewart had won that battle. Nobody knew the tiger she was underneath. And then something reminded her of watching Debbie MacPhail slit that man’s throat. Where was the tiger that time?
Carl Davidson returned with a tray of coffee and toast, running between everyone and making sure all were supplied with breakfast essentials. Stewart saw Ross hungrily attack the offering and she decided that questioning duties were remaining firmly with her.
‘Mr Davidson, we’re investigating circumstances involving a number of deaths, including that of Angel Jones. We’d like to know what you remember about her, including the last time you saw her and who she was acquainted with.’
Carl drunk a large draught from his coffee before settling into an armchair. Tossing back his mousey hair, he seemed to be looking into the past and pulling his thoughts together. ‘Lovely Angel. Like I said, no one’s said her name to me in a long while but I’ve never forgotten her. We were friends from school, but she was always different. Angel wanted adventure and we travelled to far-flung countries on a budget. We got arrested in Vietnam, had to run from thugs in Bangkok, and nearly died in the Australian desert. And all before we were twenty-five.’
‘But you were living in Newcastle the last time you were together?’ asked Stewart.
‘Yes, Angel was a proper Geordie, had that gorgeous accent they have, totally unintelligible like, but God, did I love it. It was funny because she had gone away not long before she disappeared.’ The man paused. ‘You just said she was dead.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How?’
‘Murdered, we believe, sir.’
‘When?’
‘Twenty to twenty-five years ago, something like that.’
‘But she left . . .’ he counted for a moment, ‘twenty-four years ago. Out one day and never came back. I thought she had just left. I wanted to settle down and she just wanted to wander.’
The man’s coffee began to shake, and Liz Duran got up and came over to him, taking his hand. The man went quiet before suddenly standing up and disappearing out of the room. Liz followed and they returned a minute later but Davidson had a large album of photographs in his hand. The front of the volume simply said Angel.
Opening the album, Davidson set it down on a coffee table allowing Stewart and Ross to view it. The first page contained a large photograph of an Asian woman who looked full of life and fun. She was dressed in an open shirt with a bikini top underneath and a pair of denim shorts. The weather was spectacular, and Davidson was at her side, bare chested in shorts.
‘That’s Vietnam. Amazing days,’ said Davidson.
Stewart glanced through the album and Davidson’s fondness and love of the woman shone through. Beside him, Liz continued to hold his hand and showed no jealousy.
‘So, what happened before she left? Did you have a row?’
‘No. But she had started going off on her own, and the last time was somewhere on the west coast of Scotland. She never said where and I had started a job which involved a lot of training and learning so I didn’t even think about it. Then she came back from Scotland in a strange mood but we made love that night. I remember it well, one of those special moments you recall, and then she left the next morning, not in anger, just off to another normal day. And she never came back.’
‘And you never reported her missing?’ asked Ross.
‘She wasn’t missing,’ said Davidson, ‘not to me. I thought she had just gone off to the rest of her life, travelling and that. She was very free spirited, we had no ties, everything was just in the moment. There are not many people like that, and I loved her for it. But you have to accept the other side of that.’
‘Which is?’ asked Stewart.
‘They just go when and wherever they want. Everything was a wonder to her but nothing was precious enough to hold on to.’ Again, he paused. ‘It was two days before my birthday as well. But she left me a gift. It was in her wardrobe along with the clothes she didn’t want. Strange thing too, a map of Scotland’s west coast, her last trip before she left me.’
Stewart nearly jumped from the seat. ‘Where is that map?’
‘Easy, it’s just a map.’
‘No, it’s not,’ shouted Stewart and Ross rose from his seat.
‘Easy, Stewart, I’m sure Mr Davidson will fetch the map directly, won’t you, sir?’
‘Of course, but I really don’t see what’s so special about . . .’
‘Just get them the map, dear,’ said Liz, stroking Davidson’s forearm.
Stewart cast an excited look at Ross, but he sent a calm
down signal in the form of a simple yet subtle wave of his right hand. Feeling a pounding in her heart, Stewart stood and paced the room for what seemed an age until Davidson returned. When he did, he was carrying a framed map which indeed showed the west coast of Scotland, including the Inner and Outer Hebrides. Various points were marked on the map but none had any names. Looking at the legend, Stewart saw one name only, ‘Dusty’s Harbour’—but every mark on the map was labelled as such.
‘Dammit, how are we meant to work that out?’ asked a despondent Stewart. Ross stood up and approached the map, carefully lifting off the front frame. He then removed the map and turned it over to see a grid on the other side. It had some numbers in it but also had letters on the side. Ross studied it for a moment and then took his mobile and photographed the map front and back.
‘We need to crack it,’ said Stewart but Ross held up a hand.
‘Not the Royal we, we the force, Kirsten.’ The use of her first name felt like a rebuke but Ross was still smiling as he said it. For so long he had let her lead in this case but now as the moment of truth got closer, she realised he was stepping in to make sure her inexperience and excitement did not defeat her. ‘There’s no signal,’ said Ross. ‘Mr Davidson. Would you by chance have a computer and an internet connection? My boss needs to see this right away.’
Chapter 22
Macleod exited the cottage hospital that served the community on Barra and stepped into the awaiting police car. In his hand, he clutched the printed map and grid sent through from Ross and Stewart. Prior to being discharged, he had taken a moment to study it but was at a loss. He had given orders for it to go to Glasgow and Inverness, to those who studied cryptography but so far there had been nothing returned.
Teams had been sent to scour Barra, checking beaches and coves for anyone digging. Moving further afield to other islands would require such a ridiculous amount of manpower and resources that Macleod figured time was better spent where he knew the MacPhails currently were. They had the maps though and could make a bid for the final treasure at any point. Loot, Seoras, it’s loot, ill-gotten gains, he reminded himself.
