Dreams to Die For (25 page)

Farther along the Arkaig road, they quickly found another track, this time definitely not marked on the OS map, which passed through a thick forest and which seemed an altogether more promising prospect in their search for a possible entry and exit route to Mealag. Although rough, the soil had been heavily compacted indicating that heavy machinery or vehicles had regularly passed over it and two distinct parallel tracks had been formed where the grass had been worn away. Attempts had been made to level the very worse bumps and troughs, as spasmodic small areas of compacted, crushed stone could be seen where it had been used to make the route more easily passable. A deer fence had been erected and threaded through the first line of trees on both sides of the track and two miles from where it joined the Arkaig road, a small clearing had been made. Here, double steel and wire-mesh padlocked gates marked the eastern boundary entrance to the Mealag Lodge complex and blocked the way ahead. Much higher and thicker gauge fencing depicting the side boundaries was fixed at the side of each gate and disappeared into the forest, eventually re-appearing where Nasra and Fadyar took their photographs at the shore of Loch Quoich just over a mile away.

Satisfied that they had at least found one alternative access, Fadyar and her team returned to the Loch Arkaig road. Like the Quoich dam road from Invergarry, this was a single carriageway and driving upon it was very slow due to the numerous humps and bends. The Arkaig road did not meet the sea, or at least not directly, as after a few miles from the recently discovered track it ended at a gated path that quickly deteriorated to just rutted, barren earth and projecting rocks that led for miles through the largely uninhabited area of Knoydart. Fadyar had read that those living in these parts did not welcome tourist motor vehicles but, whether true or not, at the very least their large four wheel drive vehicle would be conspicuous and its occupants observed, so they decided to turn around and head back.

They had used a stopwatch to get accurate timings of running and walking across the dam wall, as well as ascertaining the journey time by boat from the bay at Mealag to the small jetty below the road. Road distances were carefully measured, but more importantly the time it took to drive along them was scrupulously logged. Suitable places on the far shore near to Mealag were very discreetly examined as to their suitability for mooring or beaching a boat. They had visited several places on the coast nearby, such as Glenelg and Sandaig, in the hope that a road or track might be found through the mountains and ruled out ever being able to drive a vehicle from Kinloch Hourn through to Knoydart.

Crucially, they had also discovered that because of the mountainous terrain the signal for their mobile phones was non-existent around the lodge and the dam, but was normal by the sea at Kinloch Hourn. The communications problem deeply troubled Fadyar. The mission was fraught with difficulties and to have any chance of success she knew that she would need to be able to communicate with her team at all times. The challenges Fadyar faced were formidable. She had no doubt that she could succeed with an assassination attempt, but capturing Assiter alive and escaping safely would be very difficult indeed. Still, she was determined to do her best and obey orders. She had all the raw data needed. It was now her responsibility as leader to devise a workable plan with reasonable chances of success, and if possible an alternative, if the original idea failed. At the conclusion of their week in the Scottish Highlands, the four terrorists had all the physical information they needed in order to prepare for their September attack, but it would be a daunting challenge.

Jack Donaldson learned that Crossland and his wife had agreed the terms of their divorce whilst driving his boss back to Red Gables. Crossland, seated comfortably on the sumptuous black leather rear seat, seemed quite relaxed about telling his driver of his personal matters. He told Donaldson that there was no longer any need to continue his intermittent surveillance of Cindy.

“I'm upset, of course, Jack. Still don't know what brought about her change of attitude but life moves on. The quicker she is part of my history, the better.” Crossland sounded as if he had certainly become more confident and forward looking compared with the worried and morose figure he had been for the last few months.

Donaldson said little, but he was thinking a lot. There was something about Cindy Crossland's change of attitude towards her husband that still puzzled him. He had known them both for many years. Cindy had always been the outward going one of the pair, almost dazzling by comparison to Alan. It was Cindy that used to love sailing and horse riding, have a glamorous job in the Press Office of the Government, loved meeting people and enjoying parties. She even looked forward to the ritualistic pre-lunch Sunday drinks of the Stillwood crowd, only too eager when it was the Crossland's time to host to turn it into an open-house weekend party at Red Gables, that started on the Saturday afternoon and lasted late into Sunday evening. A mere two hours of topping up wine glasses on a Sunday morning wasn't Cindy's idea of fun. All were invited to her famed gatherings and she enjoyed nothing more than guests bringing along their own friends, especially if they were foreign as she could speak fluent French, German and Russian. And she was attractive. So much so that most of the men found excuses to gravitate in her direction as often as they deemed they would be safe from the admonition of their wives or mistresses.

Yet she had turned her back on that life and was apparently settling down alone in a reasonably sized, but not large, cottage in Grimley, going to coffee mornings, charity functions and genteel ladies lunches. True she retained an apparent liking for holidays, but her relatively new interest of gun dogs – when she herself didn't possess a dog or shotgun – totally baffled him.
No, it simply didn't add up,
he thought. He determined that he was going to find the answer, even if her husband had given up trying. What had he to lose? He still fancied his chances with her and if she were alone she would be missing male company. Why shouldn't they have some fun together? Alternatively, if she did have something to hide that he could find out about, she might be willing to reach a mutually acceptable agreement for it to remain a secret. Either way, Donaldson's interest in Cindy was far from diminished at hearing of her impending divorce.

He suddenly became aware that Crossland was still talking to him, saying something about a woman named Chloe.

“Sorry Sir, concentrating on the road. I didn't quite catch that last bit.” He leaned back over his left shoulder as he spoke in order that Crossland might speak up.

“I was saying, Jack, that I recently met a woman named Chloe. She's quite a bit younger and we're getting on really well, so there was no point in trying to hang onto Cindy.”

“Does she know? Mrs Crossland I mean? Does she know about this Chloe?” Donaldson was not simply a thuggish ex-mercenary. He was sharp, with a quick brain which he had needed to use on several occasions to survive some very dangerous situations.

“No, Jack. I haven't told her. Prefer her not to know just yet. Not until everything is finalised.”

The chauffeur nodded, saying nothing, but logging another piece of information that might be useful sometime.
Perhaps,
Donaldson thought
, this might be an opportune time to raise the subject of his pay, especially as Crossland seemed in a good frame of mind and had now imparted some very personal information.
He explained that his own domestic situation had become somewhat expensive lately but did not tell Crossland that the long suffering Russian wife had finally sought the advice of a support group for East European immigrants. They had ensured that Donaldson had finally paid her in cash for the pleasures he had experienced and the pain he had inflicted. In return, they would not inform the Domestic Violence Unit of the local police.

“I know you have always paid the expenses, Sir, of my trips to keep watch on Mrs Crossland, but that has entailed some very long hours and has frequently been quite tiring. Perhaps sometime, I don't wish to trouble you now, you could consider the whole matter of my remuneration as it must be nearly two years since it was last reviewed.”

Crossland's reply was not to Donaldson's liking.

“Well, Jack, to be honest, I think the bank pays you pretty well for what we might term your official duties. You have though been a great help to me personally and of course that is not strictly the bank's business so I think something in the way of a special bonus is called for. I tell you what, I'm going to order one of the new Mercs soon – you know the latest S class – they are really good. You can have this Jag. It's worth a few thousand and we'll call it quits. Your bank salary always increases at the rate of inflation so you have that protection. Also, you must be one of the very few drivers, if any, that is in receipt of a bank-subsidised mortgage plus an excellent pension scheme. All in all, I don't think you can grumble.”

“OK Sir, thank you.” Donaldson was so angry he could hardly get the few words out of his mouth. He didn't want the fucking Jaguar. What was he supposed to do with that? He couldn't afford to insure it, let alone pay the cost of pouring petrol down its greedy throat. He surmised, correctly, that the bank had probably written down its value to zero in its books, so the cost to Crossland or his bloody bank was nothing. All Donaldson would be able to do would be to hawk it round various dealers, or try and sell it privately for a measly few thousand quid. Three year old excessive-mileage luxury saloon cars were not renowned for fetching high second hand prices. The conversation marked a turning point for him. Henceforth, he would have a much more formal relationship with his boss and the next time Crossland needed a personal favour he would extract a high price, in cash, up front.

* * *

The months of May to August had been utter bliss for Cindy and Gordon. They had holidayed at the villa again and also taken short breaks in Rome and Milan. Cindy had wanted to see the Papal Basilica of St Peter for many years and was spellbound by its grandeur, architecture and frescos. They also visited the Sistine Chapel within the Apostolic Palace, where Cindy marvelled at the beauty of the paintings by Perugino, Botticelli and Ghirlandaio and was moved to tears at the unparalleled magnificence of the Michelangelo ceiling. In Milan, Gordon escorted her to the famed La Scala opera house for a performance of Tosca, with Cecilia Bartoli in the lead role and the orchestra under the baton of Daniel Barenbohm – the theatre's recently appointed principal conductor.

When they were not abroad, Gordon had found time to visit the cottage at Grimley a couple of times and Cindy had made a brief visit to Mealag. She had never felt such happiness. She was totally at ease within herself and everyday was an excitement for her. The cottage was proving to be the perfect base. It was near to the M5 motorway, making road travel easy, and the more she discovered about the city of Worcester the more she admired the way in which it had blended a modern pedestrian-only shopping centre alongside the old architectural and historically important buildings, none more so than the divine cathedral itself.

The brightly coloured spring and summer bulbs in her garden seemed to match her own bourgeoning joy as they rose strongly upwards before bursting into full bloom. The well-cut lawns provided her with a private resting place on warm afternoons, and the colours of the flowers and lush, fine grass contrasted pleasingly with the white stonewash of the cottage.

Gordon, too, was elated. He was pleased at Cindy's divorce and that she and her husband had settled matters amicably. He had never before contemplated marriage, but he was now thinking more and more about when would be the right time to mention it. Margaret MacLean was in no doubt that before the year ended he would be engaged to Cindy, and was already speculating to her husband as to where the marriage would take place. She looked upon Gordon as the surrogate son she could never have borne, cancer in her early twenties necessitating major surgery that removed her womb and other internal organs. She had noticed how much in love Gordon was, and it gave her great pleasure to welcome Cindy whenever she made the long journey to Mealag.

Cindy and Gordon would not have been quite so ecstatically happy had they known that in June, when Gordon had stayed at Cindy's cottage, his arrival had been noted by Jack Donaldson sitting in his newly acquired second-hand blue and gold Subaru Imprezza. Donaldson had not really expected to find out anything new when he undertook one of his random surveillance trips out to Grimley to see if Cindy was at home. It was a Friday evening and he had already driven Crossland from his London Office to Red Gables, collected his car and instead of eating at home had decided to have a meal in the Dog and Whistle at Drakes Broughton en route to Cindy's cottage. He arrived a little before ten in the evening and stopped his car half way along a horseshoe curved cul–de-sac. The frontage of her cottage was in sight, about fifty metres farther along the road. He saw instantly that Cindy was home as the lights shone brightly against the darkening sky. He wondered what she was doing, how she would be dressed. His thoughts recalled how she had looked when he had visited Red Gables and how she had provocatively and deliberately leant over the table to tease him, only then to humiliate him when he responded.

“One day”, he muttered to himself. “One day”.

He had been stationary for about ten minutes when a car swept around the bend, travelling quite fast. It passed him so quickly that he was taken by surprise, but he noticed that it was a large silver Volvo estate. Almost immediately, the trio of rear braking lights glowed red and the driver stopped on Cindy's driveway leaving the engine running. Within a few seconds, the electric garage door swung upwards. The car moved slowly forward and the garage door started to close behind it. Donaldson instinctively knew the driver would be male, even though he had failed to make out any features of the person behind the steering wheel, as no woman he had ever known would drive a large estate at such a speed. He pondered what to do next, whether he should walk past the cottage or stay in his car. The open lounge windows might enable him to get a good view of the visitor, but what if he was recognised? Before he had decided, Cindy began closing the curtains just as he glimpsed the silhouette of a man at the back of the room. He couldn't recall Crossland ever implying or mentioning to him that Cindy had any living relatives, distant or near, in the various conversations the two had had over the years. No, Donaldson reasoned, this had to be someone new in her life, perhaps the reason for her changing attitude towards her husband that has led to the divorce.

As he waited, any lingering doubts Donaldson had about the nature of Cindy's visitor vanished the moment the lounge light went out half an hour later and a single upstairs bedroom light went on. He watched intently, looking to see if he could make out any shadows behind the curtains, but their thick lining thwarted his voyeurism. Donaldson started the car and returned home, determined to find out more about Cindy Crossland's new lover. The next morning he hired a small Fiat and drove to Grimley. The cottage windows were open, the curtains drawn back. He drove to the end of the road and slowly executed a three-point turn outside Cindy's cottage. He saw nothing. Disappointed, he left the cul-de-sac and parked half a mile away and waited.

An hour later he gave up and returned home, but in the afternoon he revisited the cul-de-sac. Cindy was kneeling in the front garden removing the dying and dead blooms from the flowers, and he thought how good she looked even when dressed in her old gardening clothes. There was no sign of the man and Donaldson wondered if he had left early that Saturday morning, if so why? Perhaps he was married, a salesman perhaps, who had to get back to the wife and kids at the weekend, but could use some excuse about being held up during the week. His thoughts ran riot, but none came close to the truth.

As he watched her, Cindy stood up, her gardening finished, and she opened up the garage door by pressing a remote control taken from her pocket. The Volvo was still there! Not a salesman then for a quick stopover on a Friday night. His Saturday vigil gleaned no further information but Donaldson was not dismayed, knowing he would visit again on Sunday morning. He was pleased that his tactic of regularly switching cars and parking in slightly different places had been successful in ensuring his visits had not aroused the suspicion of Cindy's neighbours. Nonetheless, he thought he should only visit twice on Sunday, first in the morning and at about ten in the evening. He never made the evening trip.