Bitter Water (39 page)

‘What are you planning?’

‘That depends.’

‘On?’

‘Whether there’s any way we can get there before them.’ I was inspecting the map. ‘We’d never get round there by car in time, if we have to drive back down to Glasgow. What about these ferries?’ I pointed to two marked crossings of Loch Lomond, north of us at Inveruglas and south at Inverbeg.

She shook her head. ‘Foot ferries only. Do you fancy a hike?’

‘Rowardennan?’ I pointed at the crossing south from Inverbeg to Rowardennan. From there it was a stiff climb over the top and into Loch Ard Forest.

‘We did it once. My folks and me. Met Colin and his dead wife, Clarinda, for a shoot. I was fourteen. Charlie was there. Being smug. Showing off. Beating his poor horse and his dog.’

‘How long did it take?’

‘About two hours from Rowardennan. It’s a tough climb, mind.’

‘Are you saying I’m not up to it?’

‘I’m saying I was fourteen the last time. And didn’t smoke or drink.’

‘What are we waiting for?’

FIFTY-THREE

W
e dressed in our tweeds and checked the Dixons. We filled the two knapsacks with spare shells, water bottles and binoculars, a slab of Dundee cake and some chocolate. I called the newsroom again. Duncan had left, so I asked Elaine to get hold of him at Central Division and tell him to get some armed coppers to Maxwell’s estate. On the double. We piled everything into the Riley and drove south.

The ferry was little more than a wooden raft tethered to a landing at the prominence of Inverbeg. We parked and walked on board with our shotguns over our arm and our knapsacks firm on our backs.

We chugged across under the thoughtful gaze of a monosyllabic ferryman. The loch was mirror calm so that the inverted image of the approaching mountains seemed like a drowned landscape. It took twenty minutes to beach at a similar ramshackle jetty at Rowardennan.

The day was warm and still. By the time we reached the foothills of Ben Uird we’d opened our jackets and stowed our caps. Then the real work began. My legs protested to begin with but soon loosened up. Sam climbed steadily with as little apparent effort as the 14-year-old version. The slope steepened so that we had to work our way diagonally, twenty paces one way then back. We paused at what seemed halfway and gazed back over the shimmering water. The massive mountains rolled to the horizon on all sides, here and there interrupted by flashes and darts of rivers and lochs. We shared some chocolate and gulped from our water bottles, the cool fluid tasting of rubber and reminding me of North Africa.

The going got tough across a huge expanse of purple heather. The deep springy branches clutched at our ankles and slowed us to half-pace. After a hard hour, with the sweat pouring down my back and my thighs shrieking, the top was in sight. But as is the way with Scottish hills, it was a pitiless illusion. Another summit beckoned. Then another. At least it was cooler. A breeze rolled over the rounded top, ruffled Sam’s short blonde hair and cooled her flaming cheeks.

We reached the real summit, panting, by one thirty. Behind us the loch stretched north and south, glistening dully like escaped quicksilver in the school science lab. Ben Lomond’s mighty shoulders still towered above us to the north but we could turn east and look down over the Forest of Ard.

‘There,’ she said and pointed to a distant cleared strip by a winding river. We took out our binoculars and focused.

The clearing swam into view. At its centre was a castle, one of the fashionable Victorian fortresses with four or five floors and jutting towers. The sort that was built for vanity rather than protection and would be full of the skulls of slaughtered deer. The heating bill would be enormous.

The castle sat at a horseshoe bend of the river, with clear views up both arms of the horseshoe leading away from the buildings. Good salmon, I’d expect. A road emerged from the forest to the east of the castle and terminated in a flight of steps up to a heavy front portal. I let my glasses follow an imaginary line through the woods until they found another clearing and a glittering stretch of water which I presumed was Loch Ard itself.

To the right of the castle stood a single-storey building studded with windows and half-doors: the stables. Around the castle grounds, at the extremities of the cleared area, were outbuildings and a cottage or two. I lowered the binoculars and took a broader view, then raised them to my eyes again. On the side closer to us, running east to west, was a long field delineated by parallel lines of markers. A pole with a drooping wind sock stood to one side. Alongside was a building with a wide front door, like a large garage. Inside, with its nose and propeller jutting out, was a small plane.

‘How far?’ I asked.

‘About two miles. If we head down and to the left we’ll pick up a path that follows the river.’

We took on more water and set off, making much faster progress on the downward slope. As the ground steepened we again had to switch to diagonal progress rather than straight. Within twenty minutes we were entering the woods, and savouring the tang of hot pine resin. Our going slowed again as we picked our way through the trees, but at least we had shade. Sam brought us out by the river and we walked with its flow towards Inverard.

We lost all sense of time and distance, and any perspective on why we were there and what we were doing. I had no plan. I just assumed something would come to me as the situation became clearer. When in doubt, press forward.

Suddenly we were in a clearing. Dead ahead was a pair of labourer’s cottages. Beyond rose the bulk of the castle. We crouched down behind some rhododendrons. I peered through the bush, being careful not to disturb the shrubs.

‘Now what, Davy Crockett?’ asked Sam. ‘I hope there’s a plan?’

‘That depends.’

‘On?’

‘Who’s here. My first objective is to find McAllister. If he’s alive.’

‘Why would they bother to bring him here? Why would they treat him differently to Sheridan, for example? Wouldn’t they just dump his body somewhere?’

I looked at her. Her pale skin face was freckling up nicely. But it wasn’t the hectic flush of a woman about to confront a bunch of sadistic murderers. She looked as if she was out for a Sunday hike, maybe planning to pick a few bluebells on the way back, before sitting down to high tea.

‘His body hasn’t been found. They might be holding him, trying to find out what else he knows.
Who
else knows.’

As I said it, a giant pang of concern welled up for Wullie. The old rascal was hard work at times, but he was
my
old rascal. The idea had been growing since he went missing. The idea that he was dead. And we would be next if weren’t careful.

‘Would they bring him here?’

‘It’s quiet. All they had to do was wait till closing time and pick him up. They probably wouldn’t have needed the chloroform. But if he’s here he’s not likely to be wandering about the grounds taking his ease.’

‘We could knock on the front door and ask. Just like at Rankin’s.’

‘Kenny and Moira had old Calumn. Maxwell has at least two former hit men for a Glasgow razor king, and two thugs who tried to murder us in our beds last night.’

She nodded and her face finally began to take on the gravity of the situation.

‘So, what do we do?’

‘We need to get closer to find out if old Colin and Charlie boy are here and with how many of their hoodlums. There’s no sign yet of the Marshals but I don’t expect them to rip up here in a stolen truck shooting from the hip. They’re more likely to be parked down the road somewhere and sneaking up on the place, like we are.’

‘Assuming this is where they were headed.’

‘We’re making a lot of assumptions, aren’t we?’

‘We could wait for the police . . .’

‘If they get the message, and if they act on it, they’ll still be a couple of hours behind the Marshals.’

She raised her eyebrows, then dug into her pack and pulled out her binoculars. ‘Let’s see.’

We both peered through our glasses, quartering the castle, the grounds and the outbuildings. We looked down past the castle towards the road that ran east to Kinlochard. It might as well have been a plague village in the Middle Ages. All we lacked were scavenging dogs. As if in response to my thought, barking started up in the castle.

‘Tell me what you know.’

‘Inverard was built about eighty years ago. A mad folly by a former Maxwell to ingratiate himself with Victoria. Everybody was doing it. So it’s a kind of mock castle. Solid enough, I suppose, but not built to withstand a siege.’

‘That’s a relief. I’ve only got half a bar of chocolate left.’

‘It’s been a few years, but I used to run around the kitchens and cellars. Usually being chased by Charlie and his pals in a game of sadistic hide and seek.’

‘Dare I ask?’

‘Oh, you know, if you get caught you got Chinese burns or your pigtails pulled.’

‘You’d look cute in pigtails.’

‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

‘So there’s a lower ground area. Kitchens and storerooms. Ground floor?’

‘Big baronial hall. Lots of shields, claymores, flags . . .’

‘Antlers?’

‘Dozens. Great sweeping staircase up to umpteen draughty bedrooms and freezing bathrooms. The place is a maze.’

‘The buildings alongside the castle?’

‘Stables. Cars and a few horses now. Tack room. Smithy. The usual.’

‘How many loyal retainers would you guess?’

‘Clarinda had a full staff upstairs and down. But since she died, they seemed to let everything and everybody go. Charlie’s never around. As I said, he’s got his own wee plane. Flies to London or over to France again now the war’s over. I imagine Colin still keeps a butler, a housekeeper, a cook, a maid or two. Four at least?’

‘At least.’

‘And of course when Charlie’s in residence, his killing crew.’

I put my glasses away and stood up. ‘Come on. We need to get closer. But let’s take precautions.’

I dug into my jacket pockets and pulled out two cartridges. Sam did the same. We slid them into the breeches of our shotguns but kept them broken. We didn’t want accidents as we manoeuvred. We kept low and followed the riverbank round. As we snaked our way towards the castle, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of déjà vu. I was heading towards a rendezvous with a pair of Slattery hoods with a gun in my hands.

FIFTY-FOUR

T
he riverbank had eroded in the horseshoe bend as the winter’s melt had tunnelled away at it. We were able to walk upright or bent over on the shingle without being seen from the castle. I stuck my head up carefully above the grass verge to get my bearings until we arrived opposite the rear of the castle with the stable block to our left. Between us and the buildings was about a hundred yards of open ground. Not the ideal set-up for a daylight attack. The sort of situation I was trained to avoid unless you had surprise or a diversion on your side. At least there was no barbed wire or mines, so far as I could tell.

Sam was at last looking worried. ‘What do we do now?’ she whispered.

‘Wait. We need something to happen.’

‘That’s it? That’s your plan?’

‘If nothing happens then we’ll make something happen. We’ve got six hours of daylight.’

‘What if someone looks over and finds us?’

‘I’ll be even more unhappy I didn’t bring my rods with me.’

We hunkered down with our backs to the crumbling bank and wished we could smoke. We closed our Dixons but left the safety catches on.

I gazed at the burbling river. It was too exposed to make a good fishing spot. Too open. I’d have chosen downstream about two hundred yards where the forest started and where the water would be dappled and shaded. There would be flies dancing in columns near the trees, whirling in the light, dropping to the surface and tantalising the fish. A chance for Jamie Frew and me to settle which fly worked best.

My daydreams were shattered by the sound of a car. Its engine was racing towards us from the forest road. I took the chance and peeked but was just in time to see it disappear behind the castle. It couldn’t have been the Marshals. There were no sounds of shots. It gave us an opening. Was it an adequate diversion? Would there be anyone keeping an eye from the rear windows?

‘Quick, give me a leg-up.’

Game girl that she was, Sam never hesitated. She pushed her back against the bank, locked her legs and laced her fingers together in a cup. I took one last peek, then pushed my shotgun on to the bank, clasped her shoulders and put one foot in her cupped hands. I pushed up as best I could without putting too much weight through her slim frame. I scrambled on to the bank, lay down, took her gun, and gave her my hand. I yanked her up, thankful she was such a slight load. She got on her knees, then her feet. We grabbed our guns and ran for the stable blocks to the left of the whitewashed edifice. We crashed against the wall of the stables and crouched there panting, waiting to be discovered.

We could hear a door bang and voices, but then all was still. No running feet. To our left was a stable door, half open at the top. I crept over and keeked in. There was a strong smell of horse and straw and a bit of snuffling and hoof-tapping, but otherwise the stables seemed deserted of humans. I leaned in and opened the bottom half of the door. I signalled to Sam and we slid into the warm dark. We moved through the building and found five horses in their individual stalls. Their tack was polished and neatly hung by each stall. The horses seemed healthy and not nervy, which showed good care and grooming. We steered our way through to the front of the stables and looked out on to the gravel and grass in front of the castle entrance. A car was parked at a cavalier angle as though whoever had driven up in it had abandoned it in a hurry.