Deception (28 page)

Holding the torch in front of him, he inched his way along towards the damaged panelling, doing his best to protect his injured hand from buffeting on the way. He came to a sudden halt when he felt sure that something had moved near him and then he heard a metallic scraping sound. He moved his torch beam slowly upwards in an arc. At eye level, he picked out a rat’s hind legs scrabbling at the drum it was sitting on. It had been caught in a trap that had been left there but the impact of the trap had not been sufficient to kill it. Although badly injured, it was still desperately trying to free itself.

Steven squeezed himself round sideways so that he could reach into his jerkin pocket and bring out his knife. To open it, he required the help of his left hand, something that made him grimace in pain and whisper curses before the blade locked open and he inched towards the rat. Nausea at the thought was building inside him but knew what he must do. He rested his injured hand on the rat’s back and held it steady while he slipped the tip of the blade between the base of the trap and the animal’s throat where it was held fast by the bar. He closed his eyes and pushed the blade sharply forwards. The warm wetness on his hand and the sudden stop to the animal’s struggles told him that he’d been successful in cutting its throat.

Steven had to wait until he was outside the barn before he could put the dead animal into the plastic container he’d brought with him for the purpose. He cleaned his hands as best he could on the wet grass, secured his rucksack and picked his moment when the guard patrol allowed him to run back up to the perimeter fence and out on to the towpath. He set off back to the car, mission accomplished.

SIXTEEN

It was almost 2am when Steven reached the outskirts of Edinburgh. His injured hand had made changing gear painful all the way back and he began to doubt his earlier conclusion about there being no breaks involved. Maybe having it X-rayed would be a wise precaution, he thought. When he started to wrestle with another problem – just where he was going to get some ice to preserve the rat’s body until Sci-Med could get it to a pathologist – he saw how he could kill two birds with one stone. He changed his mind about returning to his hotel and started heading for the Accident and Emergency unit at Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary.

After a wait of some fifty minutes behind a woman who had scalded her foot, two drunks with facial lacerations and a variety of twists and strains, he was seen by one of the duty housemen. He was a young man in his early twenties with bad skin, sloping shoulders and a stoop, as if the stethoscope draped round his neck were proving too heavy for him. He looked Steven up and down, taking in the dishevelled appearance and dirty clothes and pursed his lips. ‘What’s your problem?’ he asked brusquely.

‘
I’ve injured my hand. I thought I should get it X-rayed, just in case there’s a break,’ Steven replied.

‘
Well, I’m Dr Leeman and I make the decisions about what needs an X-ray and what doesn’t.’ snapped the houseman. He started to examine Steven’s injured hand roughly, making him wince in discomfort as he separated the knuckles and flexed the fingers individually. He did it dispassionately as if he were manipulating a practice dummy. ‘Now, don’t tell me,’ said Leeman with a sneer in his voice. ‘You were quietly minding your own business when this other guy set about you for no apparent reason, right? The fight wasn’t your fault in any way.’

‘
There was no fight; I caught my hand in a rat-trap,’ replied Steven evenly.

‘
Oh right! Not a drunken brawl, a rat-trap,’ the quiet sneer continued.

‘
Not a drunken brawl . . . a rat-trap,’ repeated Steven in a measured, even monotone that signalled a warning. The nurse standing behind Leeman picked up on it but the houseman soldiered on in full sarcastic flow.

‘
And now you want us to fix you up and get you signed off work for a week so you can spend it down the boozer with your mates, right?’

‘
No, I’d just like my hand X-rayed to make sure there are no bones broken,’ replied Steven calmly.

Leeman looked at him but broke eye contact quickly. He now realised that he was making some kind of a mistake but didn’t know what exactly. He pretended to examine Steven’s hand more thoroughly while the nurse in attendance put her hand to her mouth to hide a smile.

‘
Perhaps I
will
have it X-rayed,’ announced Leeman, self-importantly. ‘I don’t like the swelling over the third metacarpal.’ He took the admission sheet from the nurse and studied the details. He asked with feigned casualness, ‘What exactly is it that you do, Mr Dunbar?’

‘
I’m a doctor,’ replied Dunbar.

The nurse’s hand went to her mouth again. Leeman was silent for a moment and he looked down at the floor. ‘You don’t exactly look like a doctor, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ he said, trying to recover lost face.

‘
And you don’t exactly behave like one,’ replied Steven, making sure he didn’t get the chance. ‘Perhaps a career more suited to your personality might be an idea, say lighthouse keeper in the Arctic Ocean?’

‘
Nurse will show you to X-ray,’ said Leeman, his face reddening and anxious to end the confrontation.

‘
He had that coming,’ confided the nurse as they walked along the corridor. ‘He’s an insufferable little shit at the best of times. I keep hoping we’ll get Dr Ross from ER but all we seem to get are a succession of Alastairs who think they’re God’s gift to medicine when in reality they couldn’t pick their nose without poking their eye out.’

Steven smiled but didn’t add fuel to the flames. He did however wonder – and not for the first time - why so many people like Leeman, who clearly had so little time for the human race, should choose to become doctors.

‘
I bet it really was a fight,’ said the nurse conspiratorially.

Steven insisted again that it had been a rat-trap but the nurse would have none of it and preferred to believe her own version. ‘I suppose we can expect the other guy later?’

‘
Probably,’ said Steven, giving up. ‘Could I ask a favour of you?’

‘
You could try.’

‘
I’d like some ice, preferably in some kind of polystyrene container so it won’t melt on the way back.’

‘
For your hand?’

‘
Yes, I don’t have access to a freezer: I’m staying in a hotel.’

‘
I’ll see what I can do while you’re having your X-ray.’

‘
You’re an angel.’

‘
That’s what they keep telling us.’

The X-ray confirmed Steven’s earlier finding that there were no broken bones in his hand: it was just badly bruised. He left A&E with an easier mind and a polystyrene box full of ice, just what he needed to pack the rat in before sending it off to London.

As soon as he got in, he sent off a coded message, asking that Sci-Med arrange to have a courier pick up the rat. He would leave it, suitably parcelled in the hotel’s Reception. He wanted toxicology carried out on it by the best forensic analyst they could find. As for the samples of weed-killer, he wanted them analysed to the same exacting standards. He’d provided details from the labels on the drums. He wanted to know if any of the samples deviated in any way from the stated contents.

Steven took a shower and revelled in the warm soothing spray for fully five minutes before towelling himself down and putting on jeans and a sweatshirt. Although he felt exhausted, he would have to parcel up the rat before he could go to bed. There was a chance that the courier might arrive first thing in the morning and it was already close to 4 am.

The polystyrene box the nurse had given him was full to the brim with crushed ice when he opened it. This was a bonus: he could afford to use some of it on his injured hand to help reduce the swelling. He brought the tumbler from the bathroom and used it for the moment to store the ice he didn’t need. He continued hollowing out the centre section of the box until the hole was big enough to accept the body of the rat, then he removed the animal from its plastic container and pressed it lightly into the ice and gently packed a further layer of ice over it.

There was no need to keep the chemicals ice cold but it wouldn’t do them any harm, he concluded and it would be easier to make up just the one parcel. He pressed the nine small bottles into the ice surrounding the rat’s body and secured the polystyrene lid to the box with sticky tape. He addressed the box and took it downstairs to leave with the night man, telling him that it was due for collection later that morning.

Steven slept until a little after eleven when he was woken by the sound of a vacuum cleaner out in the hall. ‘The mighty Hoover speaks and I obey,’ he murmured, swinging his legs round and sitting up on the edge of the bed. He was pleased to see that the swelling in his left hand had gone down overnight and it was much easier for him to flex him fingers this morning. A good start to the day, he reckoned. He checked with reception that the rat had been collected. It had.

It was too late for breakfast at the hotel so he washed, dressed and walked up to the local shops where he bought a couple of morning papers and had coffee and croissants in the Montpelier bistro while he planned his day. He had stayed two nights in his present hotel so he thought that he would check out of it and use somewhere different tonight. He would also drive over to police headquarters at Livingston at some point and change his current car for another from the pool.

Steven failed to find any mention of Blackbridge in the morning papers and took this as a good sign. The rat cull was under way and had been milked for credit and there was nothing new on the GM crop front. It was time for the vultures to move on and seek out new reservoirs of human misery. But they’d be back, he thought. This was merely a lull in the proceedings.

It was around three in the afternoon when Steven drove into Blackbridge and knocked on the door of the Binnie household. He had moved hotels and was on his way out to Livingston to change his car when he thought he would call in on the off chance that James might be there and ask if he’d had any contact with Sweeney at the vet school.

‘
I’m afraid James isn’t back yet,’ said Ann. ‘Actually, I’m a bit worried about him. It’s not like him not to call in. He’s been away for hours.’

‘
Have you tried calling him on his mobile?’ asked Steven.

‘
No reply. I keep being diverted to his answering service.’

‘
It could be that he’s working somewhere where the signal’s weak,’ suggested Steven.

‘
I suppose. But I do wish he’d call in,’ said Ann, wringing her hands. ‘It really isn’t like him.’

‘
Do you have a note of his schedule for today?’ asked Steven.

‘
I think he had just three calls to make but I’m not sure of the order he was doing them in,’ said Ann. She brought out an A4 sized diary from the drawer of the telephone table in the hall and flicked through the pages. ‘John Simpson at Mossgiel,’ she read. ‘Tom Rafferty at Crawhill and Angus Slater over at Hardgate.’

‘
Why don’t you call the farms and ask?’ suggested Steven.

Ann looked indecisive. ‘It’s probably just me being silly. I really don’t like disturbing him when he’s busy,’ she said.

‘
But you wouldn’t be disturbing him,’ said Steven. ‘You’ll be phoning the farm. I’m sure they won’t mind telling you if James is there or has been there, and at what time he left.’

‘
I suppose . . . said Ann uncertainly. ‘But it’s like you say. He’s probably out wrestling some cow in a ditch and his mobile’s not picking up the signal.’

You’re obviously worried about him,’ said Steven. ‘I really think you should give the farms a call.’

It started to rain. Ann looked up at the sky and said, ‘Come in for a minute. Maybe I will give them a call.’

Steven stood in the hall while Ann called Mossgiel Farm and asked about her husband. The only part of the conversation that he heard was, ‘I see, right, thank you.’ Ann put down the phone and said, ‘He was there at ten thirty this morning. He left around eleven.’

Next, Ann phoned Hardgate Farm and spoke to someone called Maud. Steven guessed from their conversation that Maud was Angus Slater’s wife.

‘
He hasn’t?’ exclaimed Ann. ‘I wonder where he is. He left Mossgiel hours ago.’

Ann told Steven that Binnie hadn’t visited Hardgate Farm yet, something he’d already gathered. ‘So he must be at Crawhill,’ said Steven.

‘
Ann dialled the Crawhill number and made a face when it went on ringing without answer. ‘Come on . . . come on,’ she urged but still no one answered.

‘
Why don’t I drive down there and check?’ suggested Steven. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’

‘
Would you?’ said Ann. ‘I know I’m probably worrying about nothing but I’d be ever so grateful.’

Steven assured her that it was no trouble and left to drive over to Crawhill.

Unusually, the gate at the foot of the access road was open so he drove straight through into the compound in front of the house and got out to have a look around. He was reassured to see Binnie’s Volvo parked at the side of the house and went up to knock on the front door. There was no answer.

He walked slowly round the compound looking for signs of life but found no one. He could see that Rafferty’s mechanic, Gus Watson, had been working on a ditch-digger because an open toolbox was lying next to the partially disassembled bucket arm, but there was no sign of Gus himself.