On Dangerous Ground (19 page)

Dillon was aware of a kind of lazy content. The truth was that he was enjoying the girl’s company. He’d never had much time for women, the exigencies of his calling he used to say, and no time for relationships, but there was something elemental about this one that touched him deep inside. They didn’t talk much, simply concentrated on climbing, and finally came up over an edge of rock and stood there, the glen below purple with heather and the sea in the distance calm, islands scattered across it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful,” Asta said.

“I have,” Dillon told her.

The wind folded her skirt about her legs, outlining her thighs, and when she pulled off her Glengarry and shook her head, her near-white hair shimmered in the sun. She fitted the scene perfectly, a golden girl on a golden day.

“Your hair and mine are almost the same color, Dillon.” She sat down on a rock. “We could be related.”

“Jesus, girl, don’t wish that on me.” He lit two cigarettes, hands cupped against the wind, gave her one, then lay on the ground beside her. “Lots of fair hair in Ireland. A thousand years ago Dublin was a Viking capital.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Did you tell Morgan about my visit last night?”

“Of course I did. In fact, you almost came face-to-face. The noise you heard in the hall was Carl.”

“And what did he have to say?”

“My goodness, Dillon, you do expect a lot for your cigarette.” She laughed. “All right, I told him everything you told me, the Chungking Covenant and so on, but that was because you wanted me to, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Carl said he didn’t mind. He checked on Ferguson the moment he discovered he was at the lodge, knew who he was in a matter of hours and you. He knew you must have been aware of what was going on, otherwise why would you be here. He’s no fool, Dillon, he would hardly be where he is today if he was that.”

“You really think a great deal of him, don’t you?”

“As I said last night, I know all about you, Dillon, so don’t waste time telling me what a bad man Carl is. It would be the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you agree?”

“A nice turn of phrase you have.”

“I had an excellent education,” she said. “A good Church of England boarding school for young ladies. St. Michael’s and St. Hugh’s College, Oxford, afterwards.”

“Is that so? I bet you didn’t get calluses on your knees from praying.”

“You are a bastard,” she said amiably, and at that moment Ferguson came over the rise, Kim following with the gun case, a pair of old-fashioned Zeiss binoculars around his neck.

“There you are.” Ferguson slumped down. “Getting old. Coffee, Kim.”

The Ghurka put down the gun case, opened the haversack that hung at his side, took out a thermos flask and several paper cups which he filled and passed round.

“This is nice,” Asta said. “I haven’t been on a picnic in years.”

“You can forget that notion, young lady,” Ferguson told her. “This is a serious expedition, the object of which is to expose you to the finer points of deer stalking. Now drink up and we’ll get on.”

And so, tramping through the heather in the sunshine, he kept up a running commentary stressing first a deer’s incredible sense of smell so that any successful approach could only be made downwind.

“You can shoot, I suppose?” he asked her.

“Of course, Carl trained me, clay pigeon shooting mostly. I’ve been out with him after grouse during the season many times.”

“Well that’s something.”

They had been on the go for a good hour when Kim suddenly pointed. “There, Sahib.”

“Down, everybody,” Ferguson told them, and Kim passed him the binoculars.

“Excellent.” Ferguson handed them to Dillon. “Three hundred yards. Two hinds and a Royal Stag. Quite magnificent antlers.”

Dillon had a look. “My God, yes,” he said and passed the binoculars to Asta.

When she focused them, the stag and the hinds jumped clearly into view. “How marvelous,” she breathed and turned to Ferguson. “We couldn’t possibly shoot such wonderful creatures, could we?”

“Just like a bloody woman,” Ferguson said. “I might have known.”

Dillon said, “The fun is in the stalking, Asta, it’s like a game. They’re well able to look after themselves, believe me. We’ll be lucky to get within a hundred yards.”

Kim wet a finger and raised it. “Downwind, Sahib, okay now.” He looked up at the sky where clouds were forming. “I think wind change direction soon.”

“Then we move fast,” Ferguson said. “Pass me the rifle.”

It was an old Jackson and Whitney bolt action. He loaded it carefully and said, “They’re downhill from us, remember.”

“I know,” Dillon said. “Shoot low. Let’s get going.”

Asta found the next hour one of the most exhilarating she’d ever known. They moved through gulleys, crouching low, Kim leading the way.

“He certainly knows his stuff,” she said to Dillon at one point.

“He should do,” Ferguson told her. “The best tracker on a tiger shoot I ever knew in India in the old days.”

Finally, they took to the heather and crawled in single file until Kim called a halt and paused in a small hollow. He peered over the top cautiously. The deer browsed contentedly no more than seventy-five yards away.

“No closer, Sahib.” He glanced up. “Wind changing already.”

“Right.” Ferguson moved the bolt and rammed a round into the breech. “Your honor, my dear.”

“Really?” Asta was flushed with excitement, took the rifle from him gingerly, then settled herself on her elbows, the stock firmly into her shoulder.

“Don’t pull, just squeeze gently,” Dillon told her.

“I know that.”

“And aim low,” Ferguson added.

“All right.” What seemed like rather a long time passed and suddenly she rolled over and thrust the rifle at him. “I can’t do it, Brigadier, that stag is too beautiful to die.”

“Well we all bloody-well die sometime,” Ferguson said, and at that moment, the stag raised its head.

“Wind change, Sahib, he has our scent,” Kim said, and in an instant the stag and the two hinds were leaping away through the bracken at an incredible speed.

Dillon rolled over, laughing, and Ferguson said, “Damn!” And then he scowled. “Not funny, Dillon, not funny at all.” He handed the rifle to Kim. “All right, put it away and break out the sandwiches.”

On the way back some time later they paused for a rest on a crest that gave an excellent view of the glen below the castle above Loch Dhu and Ardmurchan Lodge on the other side. Dillon noticed something he hadn’t appreciated before. There was a landing stage below the castle, a boat moored beside it.

“Give me the binoculars,” he said to Kim and focused them, closing in on a twenty-five-foot motor launch with a deckhouse. “I didn’t know that was there,” he said, passing the binoculars to Ferguson.

“The boat, you mean?” Asta said. “It goes with the castle. It’s called the
Katrina
.”

“Have you been out in it yet?” Dillon asked.

“No reason. Carl isn’t interested in fishing.”

“Better than ours.” Ferguson swung the binoculars to the rickety pier below Ardmurchan Lodge on the other side of the loch and the boat tied up there, an old whaler with an outboard motor, and a rowboat beside it. He handed the binoculars to Kim. “All right, let’s move on.”

“Frankly I’m getting bored with this track,” Asta said. “Can’t we just go straight down, Dillon?”

He turned to Ferguson, who shrugged. “Rather you than me, but if that’s what you want. Come on, Kim,” and he continued along the track.

Dillon took Asta by the hand. “Here we go and watch yourself, we don’t want you turning that ankle again,” and they started down the slope.

It was reasonably strenuous going for most of the way, the whole side of the mountain flowing down to the loch below. He led the way, picking his way carefully for something like a thousand feet and then, as things became easier, he took her hand and they scrambled on down together until suddenly she lost her balance, laughing out loud and fell, dragging Dillon with her. They rolled over a couple of times and came to rest in a soft cushion of heather in a hollow. She lay on her back, breathless, and Dillon pushed himself up on one elbow to look at her.

Her laughter faded, she reached up and touched his face, and for a moment he forgot everything except the color of her hair, the scent of her perfume. When they kissed, her body was soft and yielding, everything a man could hope for in this world.

He rolled onto his back and she sat up. “I wondered when you would, Dillon. Very satisfactory.”

He got a couple of cigarettes from his case, lit them, and passed one to her. “Put it down to the altitude. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be. I’ve got twenty years on you.”

“That must be some Irish thing,” she said. “All that rain. Is it supposed to have a dampening effect on love?”

“What’s love got to do with it?”

She blew out cigarette smoke and lay back, a hand behind her head. “Now there’s romantic for you.”

He sat up. “Stop indulging in flights of fantasy, Asta, you aren’t in love with me.”

She turned to look at him. “You said it yourself. What’s love got to do with it?”

“Morgan wouldn’t think very much of the idea.”

She sat up and shrugged. “He doesn’t control my life.”

“Really? I’d have thought that’s exactly what he does do.”

“Damn you, Dillon!” She was angry and stubbed her cigarette out on a rock. “You’ve just ruined a lovely day. Can we go now?”

She got up and started down the hill, and after a while, he stood himself and followed her.

They reached the edge of the loch about thirty minutes later and started to follow the shoreline. They hadn’t spoken since the incident in the hollow and now Dillon said, “Are we speaking again or what?”

She laughed and took his arm. “You’re a pig, Dillon, but I like you.”

“All part of my irresistible charm,” he said and paused suddenly.

They were close to the west end of the loch, the old hunting bothy where Morgan and Marco had dealt with Fergus on their left. He was still lying down on the shoreline, face in the shallows.

Asta said, “My God, isn’t that a body?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

They hurried down the slope and reached the sandbar. She stood there while Dillon waded in and turned Fergus over. Asta gave a sudden exclamation. “Fergus.”

“Yes.” Dillon waded back. “I’d say he was given a thorough beating. Wait here.” He went up to the hunting bothy. She watched him go in. A moment later, he returned. “From the state of things, that’s where the fight was. After they’d gone he must have come down to the shore to revive himself and fell in. Something like that.”

“An accident,” she said and there was a strange calmness on her face. “That was it.”

“You could describe it that way,” Dillon said. “I’m sure Carl Morgan would.”

“Leave it, Dillon.” She reached out and grabbed his lapel. “Do this for me, just leave it, I’ll handle it.”

There was a fierceness to her that was something new. He said, “I’m beginning to wonder if I really know you at all, Asta. All right, I’ll leave Morgan to stew in it.”

She nodded. “Thank you, I’ll get back now.” She walked away, paused, and turned. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

She hurried away. He looked out again at the body by the sandbar, then climbed up the slope and reached the road. He had walked along it for perhaps five minutes when a horn sounded and he turned and found the Range Rover bearing down on him.

Ferguson opened the door. “Where’s the girl?”

“She’s cut across to the castle on her own.”

Dillon climbed in and Kim drove on. “I must say you look thoughtful, dear boy.”

“So would you,” Dillon said, lit a cigarette, and brought him up to date.

Morgan was in the study when she went in, sitting at his desk and talking to Marco. He turned and smiled. “Had a nice day?”

“It was until things went sour.”

He stopped smiling and said to Marco, “You can go.”

“No, let him stay. You found Fergus, didn’t you, you beat him up?”

Morgan reached for a cigar and clipped it. “He had it coming, Asta. Anyway, how do you know?”

“Dillon and I just found his body. He was lying in the shallows down there in the loch just below that old hunting lodge. He must have fallen in and drowned.”

Morgan glanced at Marco, then put the cigar down. “What did Dillon do?”

“Nothing. I begged him to leave it to me.”

“And he agreed?”

She nodded. “He said he’d leave you to stew in it.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how he would play it.” Morgan nodded. “And so would Ferguson. It wouldn’t suit the dear old Brigadier to have a police investigation, not at the moment.” He glanced at Marco. “And it wouldn’t get anywhere without a body, would it?”

“No, Signore.”

Morgan stood up. “All right, let’s take care of it. You stay here, Asta,” and he went out followed by Marco.

In the trees that fringed the loch below Ardmurchan Lodge just above the small jetty, Ferguson and Dillon waited, the Irishman holding the Zeiss binoculars. The light was fading, but visibility was still good enough for him to see the motor launch
Katrina
moving along the shoreline on the other side.

“There they go,” he said and focused the binoculars.

Morgan was in the wheelhouse and he reversed the launch toward the shore, Marco in the stern. Marco jumped over into the water and Morgan went to help him. A moment later Fergus came over the rail. Morgan went back into the wheelhouse and turned out toward the middle of the loch. Dillon passed the binoculars to Ferguson.

The Brigadier said, “It looks to me as if Marco is wrapping a length of chain around the body.” He shook his head. “How very naughty.”

He passed the binoculars back to Dillon, who focused them again in time to see Marco slide the body over the side. It went straight under and a moment later the
Katrina
got under way and turned back toward the castle.