Читать книгу The Sideman - Caro Ramsay - Страница 12

THREE

MONDAY, 27TH OF NOVEMBER

Alastair Patrick did not say much to the three men who had snatched him from his guitar, his warm bedroom and from Wilma in the middle of this winter’s night. They said nothing to him; he was a package for delivery. A few curt words passed between them. Tonka cleared his dry throat.

How far?

A few klicks.

Where?

You’ll see.

They were following orders. They didn’t know any more than they were saying. They were being polite and they didn’t have to be. They were tooled. Alastair Patrick had noticed the guns in the quick dash from the front door of his house to the vehicle. It was important to notice these things, the sort of things that made only stupid men argue. Even in the noise of the wind, he had clocked the thrum of the 2.5 diesel engine; he’d been struck by the dull reflection of the street lamp from the resin composite shell of the vehicle. He saw the protection over the front grille and the lights, the lack of number plate. Christ, it even had a snorkel.

A snorkel.

He almost smirked as he climbed in. Boys and toys.

It was black beyond dark once the vehicle pulled out of the street. Rain poured down, making visibility difficult even in the bright glare of the Land Rover’s headlights. The rapid thumping of the wipers on full throttle filled the vehicle. Once out of Port MacDuff, they were winding their way along the single track road to Applecross. The driver switched on the roof-mounted spotlights to aid visibility. He drove quickly, skilfully. His position was relaxed and comfortable, not leaning forward to peer through the windscreen. The demister set on screen roaring loudly, the Landie banging and heaving like a boat.

This guy, the Glaswegian, was a professional. He knew exactly where he was going. He drove with confidence as if he had driven this road before, many times in darkness.

Patrick knew they were skirting the coast, even with the blacked-out windows in the back of the Landie. As the vehicle swung round, he could see the sea out the front window, the sweeping beam of the Rua Reidh lighthouse between the swish thump of the windscreen wipers. He began to have suspicions as to where they might be going, and why, but he tried to dismiss the thought. Surely not even these three, the Glaswegian and his two gorillas, would be that stupid.

Patrick felt a tremor of controlled fear run down his spine, images darting across his eyes, ball bearings flashing past in strobing light. A sledgehammer thumped in his heart at the intense memory of his mate Zorba, caught between the crags, screaming at his missing legs. Patrick blinked the image away, wiping his lips with the back of a gloved hand, removing a telltale smirr of nervous sweat. Never show them that you are scared; once they know that, they own you. Some things don’t change. Even now, helpless, he couldn’t help planning how to take them. Some things, like old habits, die hard. And he believed that he also would die hard.

He hoped it wasn’t tonight.

He looked ahead, examining the back of the men’s heads. Identical thick necks, short haircuts, the dark blue and black jackets invisible in the hours of darkness, the pattern varied to disturb any outlines. Their woollen hats were pulled down, the rim tucked up. Rolled out, their faces would be covered, save for two round holes at the eyes.

As they turned inland, Patrick tried to work out what to do as the windscreen wipers battered across the toughened glass. He wondered how the Glaswegian could see where he was going, even with all the extra light that dazzled on the tarmac in front of them, making spotlights dance on the road as rocks swerved, slid past and then vanished to darkness. The Landie occasionally bumping slightly as it impacted something unseen.

He looked at his watch. It was half one. Zero One Thirty Hours.

Instinct, training, made Patrick strap himself in tighter as the vehicle really began to bounce around with more force, the driver taking out the corners of the twisty road, moving faster than was safe. He tried to take in as many details as possible. He was sure he didn’t know any of the three men. The Glaswegian, his Gorillas, the brains and the brawn, but he knew the type.

Holding on to his seatbelt with both gloved hands, he looked round the vehicle: military, operational. He swore as it veered a sharp right, he heard the gears grind in protest but the driver didn’t let up as the incline suddenly steepened. Patrick gripped the seat belt tighter, trying to secure himself in the seat, his boots bracing against the brackets. It got darker outside as if the headlights had died and he could only see the small lines of prickly skin between the hat and the collar of the gorilla in front of him. He closed his eyes, wrapping himself in his waxed anorak, a thick woollen scarf, knitted by Wilma, pulled tight round his Rohan hat and his hillwalking boots. He had put on his warmest Thermawear jumper.

He was freezing.

The Land Rover jolted again, a teeth-juddering, bone-shattering jar.

‘You have got to be joking,’ he muttered, looking right at the back of the head of the Gorilla, as the vehicle tackled a hairpin bend. The Glaswegian’s black-gloved hands on the steering wheel pulled to the right, letting it slip through to return to neutral. Calm. Controlled. Then Patrick realised he recognised the road; he thought he caught another glimpse of the shimmer of water to his left; the Inner Sound, the deepest territorial water in the UK. He thanked a god he didn’t believe in that the Landie had turned further inland. There was a flash of domestic light ahead, engine screaming as it tackled another ascent. The driver had taken a left turn out of Applecross. And that could only mean one thing.

They were going up the Bealach Na Ba. ‘No. No way. Are you ripping the pish?’

‘Nobody’s laughing,’ growled the Glaswegian, moving the armour-plated Landie, an all-terrain vehicle, as if it was a Ford Focus.

There was no point in asking why, they wouldn’t tell him, mostly because their orders only took them so far. After that, something else? Someone else? But the driver knew exactly where he was going. Patrick just wished he was in a bit less of a hurry.

He fell back into his own silence, memories coming back, how easy it had been to slip back in harness. Even after all this time to drop into automatic mode. ‘Claymore’. His activation code had unlocked the door to the ghost world, a path to slip back into this way of life, a life of hard men and hard choices. No compromise. He decided to stop being brave, he was no longer a young man. He had left those days far behind him.

Or so he thought.

He shut his eyes and waited for it all to stop.

The Landie side shifted with the strength of the wind. They must be high up now, nearing the peak. This vehicle weighed tons yet it was being blown about like a toy car, buffeted by the wind as if the hills were pushing them away. They were not welcome here. Only a mad man would be up here at midnight driving around at altitude, in the dark, in fifty-mile-an-hour winds and driving rain.

He concentrated on the back of the heads of the two silent men in front, as they bobbled and lolled as the vehicle bumped and bounced. He was in the company of mad men.

It took one to know one.

*

IT WAS PAST ONE in the morning when Colin Anderson let himself into his own house, the big house up on the terrace. He had left his own car in town, too drunk to drive back, so he immediately noticed the white Volvo parked in his space at the kerb. George Haggerty’s car. Here to see his grandson.

Anderson closed the front door quietly behind him and let out a long slow breath. This was a difficult situation, and one that Anderson, while sympathetic, was getting more than a little fed up with. He slipped off his jacket and hung it up on the stand. Nesbit came running from the direction of the kitchen, looking innocent of any charges of fraternising with the enemy. Anderson bent down and patted the velveteen fur of the dog’s head as Nesbit leaned against his leg and twirled round and round, looking hungry. Anderson ignored him. It was an old ploy.

Anderson was sorely tempted to creep upstairs and go straight to bed, but that might be construed by his family as weak, or rude. And there was plenty of chatter coming from the kitchen, so somebody was up. He followed the noise and the dog’s wagging tail, gritting his teeth slightly. The dimmer lights were on, the room was illuminated by a gentle amber glow more suggestive of a high-end café. His daughter Claire, and her friend Paige, were sitting round the table with George Haggerty, in between them was Moses, fast asleep in his basket on the kitchen table, snoring gently.

The first thing Anderson saw as he entered the room was George’s little finger clutched in the baby’s tiny, chubby hand. It was difficult to pull his eyes away from his grandson. If he had been slightly drunk when out with Archie, gently floating on a little sea of beer, he was grounded now.

‘Hello. Do you three know what time it is?’ Anderson said, consciously keeping his voice friendly.

‘George popped in to see Moses, and to collect his drawing.’ Claire waved a wine glass that seemed half empty of a full-bodied red, towards the parcel. Colin looked at it, then her. She was too relaxed to notice the dangerous glint in his eye, the one she called his ‘look’, the one that said wait until we get home young lady. He noticed the remains of Doritos, olives, bits and bobs of dips on saucers. Paige had a glass full of wine, the empty bottle beside her. Her peroxide hair was buzz cut, emphasising the narrow snaky eyes that normally glowered at Anderson with suspicion and something that bordered on loathing. Now she was almost smouldering at him through her false eyelashes. Anderson ignored her, as he was trying to ignore that uncomfortable feeling he had about Haggerty sitting in his kitchen, pouring alcohol down the throats of two seventeen year olds. And then he felt guilty, as Haggerty stretched out an arm and shook him warmly by the hand. The man had lost Mary Jane, a young woman he had brought up as his daughter from the age of seven to twenty-four, so maybe this round-the-table girlie chat was usual for him. Although, should the girls not be in their bed, or studying? Anything but drinking.

Maybe he was old fashioned.

‘Sorry, Colin. Once again I have interrupted.’ George Haggerty, contrition glowing from his deep brown eyes, shrugged. ‘I was about to go back up north to see Dad but I haven’t heard anything and wondered if you knew of any developments. Anything at all, about Abigail . . .’

A huge tug on his heartstrings, then Claire joined in. ‘Yeah Dad,’ said Claire, her words slurring slightly. ‘About Abigail? Surely they must have some news.’

‘They are telling me nothing. And they will tell me nothing. I have a personal link to the case. Him.’ He pointed to Moses.

‘The case. The murder of my wife and child. The case?’ George Haggerty ran his fingers down Moses’ chubby cheek.

Anderson wanted to tell him to leave the baby alone. ‘And that’s why it’s not allowed. If I don’t think of it as “a case” and a job to be done, it would become personal and that can lead to mistakes.’ Like Costello, he nearly added, then remembered who he was taking to, a man Costello believed responsible for the murders. He wished she was here now, smashing a wine glass across the table and stabbing him in the throat with it. At least then it would be over with. She would have the courage of her belief, not constrained by legality, decency and a lack of self-courage the way he was.

Anderson was aware that he smelled of drink so he walked round the table and switched on the kettle, feeling absurdly guilty. The man was innocent. He himself had been out socialising when George’s wife and child had been killed and they had no idea who had done it, Police Scotland seemed to be doing nothing. He was aware of Claire’s eyes watching him, wanting him to come up with something to comfort the man.

‘Claire, have you not got uni tomorrow?’

‘That’s a polite way of telling me that I have to get up in the morning. Bloody hell, Dad!’ She stood up, swaying slightly. ‘And Paige’s staying the night, if that’s OK.’

Yeah, turn the house into a hotel why don’t you? ‘Why would it not be OK? There’s plenty of room. And it’s very late.’

Paige stood up as well, taking the last Dorito from a plate and slowly placing it on her tongue, seductively.

‘You’ll both want paracetamol and black coffee in the morning,’ said Anderson, holding the kitchen door open, ushering them through.

George gave them both a smile, as they retreated to the hall. ‘That Paige is worth the watching.’

‘Indeed. She didn’t have the best start in life so she’s here getting some stability, if you can call this madhouse stable. You do what you can.’ He watched as George closed his eyes, biting his lip a little.

‘Nice thought, nice to try and make a difference.’

Anderson needed to be careful here. He kept reminding himself that this man had lost his wife and his child, and tried to wish him well. But somehow, he just couldn’t empathise without immediately feeling a churning anger that it might have been him who killed them.

‘Do you want a coffee? I’m having one,’ said Anderson.

George shook his head, his arms out. ‘No, no, I didn’t want to interfere with your night. I popped in to see Moses and the girls invited me in. I had brought you a nice Rioja. They have drunk it. And I had a game of Zombie Gunship with Peter. He beat me, he absolutely wasted me.’

Anderson made an empathetic noise as if he knew what Haggerty was talking about, trying to hide the increasing unease that Mr George Haggerty was becoming so familiar with his own children. And a rage of jealousy that Peter had never, ever, asked his dad to play Zombie Gunship with him.

‘Yet again I have abused your hospitality, but I did want to know if you had heard anything.’ He sat back down, waiting and cautious, keen for any details. ‘In case you didn’t want to say in front of the girls.’

‘I’m sorry, George, but honestly, you probably know more than me. DCI Mathieson is good. She will be working away but keeping it from public attention. The exact time of death is causing problems. The pathologist thinks very early in the morning, you know, around 6 a.m., so why were they both dressed. They should have been in their night clothes.’