One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (35 page)

Jackson was only one man, but the threat he posed could not be underestimated, and it went beyond the disruption he could cause here and now. He could name everybody, and he would, unquestionably: between that and his selflesss heroics, it would probably earn him a cosy little immunity when the investigations and recriminations began. And even if they took Jackson out, there was no way of knowing how much he might have already told the hostages. In that case, Connor was looking at either life in prison or no life in non‐
extradition shitholes for the rest of his days. He wasn’t even sure the latter was achievable: if they destroyed all communications and pulled out right away, he’d still have to make it to Glasgow and on to an international flight before the alarm was raised. Left unguarded, Jackson and the hostages were bound to find some way of doing that long before morning.

‘All units, all units, this is Connor,’ he stated grimly, that last thought still in mind. ‘Booth, I want you to proceed immediately to the comms pen. Acknowledge. Booth? Booth? Acknowledge.’

‘Acknowledged.’

‘Pettifer and Dobson, both of you join Booth. Acknowledge.’

‘Acknowledged.’

‘Acknowledged. Have you found Hutchison then, sir?’

‘Shut up. Repeat: join Booth at the comms pen. Kill anybody who attempts to approach it. And I mean
any
body.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Restoring comms would be Jackson’s first possible strategy. Connor knew he’d be listening, so he was letting him know who still held all the cards. His second would be getting ashore.

‘Look‐
out teams, remain in place. Destroy any vessels leaving or approaching the rig. Do not wait for authorisation from me. Shoot first and ask questions later.’

Connor then told everyone else to drop what they were doing and head for the ballroom, where he could debrief them without Jackson listening in.

There was no option now but to finish what they had started. If they played this right, Connor was confident they could still neutralise Jackson, recover the hostages and get what they had come for. But whether or not they managed that, the primary objective now was to ensure that when he and his men evacuated, no‐
one else was left alive.

Molly’s prescription of a large dram and an early night sounded just grand. McGregor sipped the measure sitting up in his bed, his wife reading the paper alongside. She was absolutely right. After the day he’d had, the only sensible strategy was to get the head down and put everything behind him. Unwind and forget about all of it. Relax with a generous glass of Speyside malt (he couldn’t drink Islay whiskies any more – too many painful memories) and chase from his mind all the torments and frustrations he’d been forced to endure on this, his first official day of retirement.

Such as being knocked unconscious by an independently airborne limb. Such as trudging ankle‐
deep into a pool of blood, cowshite and God knew what else trying to discover what had happened to the rest of the arm’s erstwhile owner. Such as attempting to flag down a lift looking like Dennis Nilsen. Such as nearly running himself over with an abandoned Renault. Such as getting chased by a helicopter and demolishing a police roadblock with the aid of a bouncing sheep. Such as getting shot at and arrested by an Armed Response Unit. Such as being interrogated by hapless dunderheids and then patronised by some suit‐
full‐
of‐
fuck‐
all who was treating him like he’d advanced‐
stage senile dementia just because he’d been off the job a fucking fortnight.

‘It’s not unusual for men like yourself, Mr McGregor, who’ve been in the force for so many years, to undergo certain difficulties during that initial transitional period, as they begin adjusting to everyday civilian life. You may feel a little left out of things for a while, and you may tend to overreact to what incidents you do find yourself at the centre of, for which there will always turn out to be a perfectly reasonable explanation. It’s not unknown for former officers’ imaginations to run away with themselves a wee bit, perhaps to compensate for the sudden lack of excitement and responsibility.

‘You were unfortunate enough to be witness to what appears to have been a tragic accident this morning, an accident we will be doing our utmost to get to the bottom of. But what you have to accept, having retired, Mr McGregor, is that investigating it is
our
job from now on. And though I’m very sure the force will miss you, it
will
manage without you. So please, trust us to get on with it ourselves. We know what we’re doing. We’re the police.’

‘Wee wank,’ McGregor muttered, placing his empty glass down on the bedside table

‘What was that, dear?’

Know what they’re doing my arse, he thought. An unfortunate accident? Where was the rest of the body, then? What about the bullet holes all over the place at the farm? What about the spent shell he had found? What about the blood inside the shed? Did the mystery dead punter go in there for a wee bleed before taking a walk outside and spontaneously combusting?

‘Fuckin’ idiots.’

‘Did you say something, Hector?’

‘Sheep‐
shaggin’, carrot‐
crunchin’, tumshie‐
munchin’, teuchter half‐
wits,’ he declared, getting out of bed.

‘Are you going for another whisky, dear? Hector?’

‘I’ll no’ be a minute,’ he told Molly, pulling his socks back on.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just ootside for a wee look at somethin’.’

‘Oh, Hector, come back to bed. It’s after ten. Just leave it.’

‘Five minutes, Molly.’

He shuffled into his shoes at the front porch and lifted his raincoat from the hook, pulling it on over his pyjamas. Exploding teuchters. Pools of blood. Bullet holes. Thirty‐
odd years on the force, and if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that there’s no such thing as a ‘perfectly reasonable explanation’. Throughout his career, even in the explanations that made incontestable logical sense, reason had always been the last thing to factor into the equation.

The available evidence couldn’t tell him what had actually taken place at that farm earlier today, but what it did say to him, in big, bright, blood‐
red neon capitals, was ‘BAMPOTS AT WORK’.

He trudged out of his house and into the garden.

‘I don’t think we need lose too much sleep over mad bombers. I mean, what could terrorists find to interest themselves around here?’

From his front driveway he could see the moonlit silhouette of one corner of that holiday‐
resort place, the rest of it obscured by the spur of Kilbokie Brae. McGregor’s new cottage was less than a quarter of a mile from the water’s edge, and even in the half‐
light he could make out the shape of the rowing boat that came with the place, resting down on the shingle.

It wouldn’t hurt to take a wee look. Just get that bit closer, round the spur, see what he could see. The fresh air would do him good, help clear his head. And besides, he knew himself too well: he wouldn’t get any sleep until he’d at least had a wee nosy.

The night felt warm, like Edinburgh during the Festival, except he’d always put that down to the accumulated bodyheat combining with kebab grills, pizza ovens and self‐
immolating performance artists. Maybe this keech about ‘micro‐
climate’ was true. The weather had been un‐
Scottishly hot up here for a few days now, and even the breeze was warm. It was a night for moonlit walks, midnight swims and knee‐
tremblers in the woods.

He’d half a mind to go and get Molly and suggest she come for a wee boat trip under the stars: prove he wasn’t going to turn into some curmudgeonly old pensioner just because he’d retired. Ach, maybe tomorrow night. Or maybe later on, once he’d satisfied his own curiosity.

McGregor pushed the boat into the water and clambered in, inadvertently dooking one shoe while he did so. As his momentum carried him the first few yards out, he was relieved to find that there were oars inside, having failed to check this first. For a horrified moment, he had images of Jimmy Johnstone heading helplessly into the Irish Sea, one of the more imaginative ways a Scottish internationalist had attempted to flee the inevitable horror of a World Cup campaign.

He settled into a rhythm, ploughing the surface with his back to his destination and meeting little resistance in the way of wind or current. Now and again he’d glance over his shoulder at the approaching monstrosity. The place was silent, with no lights visible other than the glow that peeked between the structures on the platform’s ‘ground’ level. Apart from that it was simply a big, dark mass blocking out the stars.

As he drew ever nearer and there remained nothing more specific to see, McGregor had to confess to himself that he had no idea what he might actually be looking for. Blisters were beginning to form on his hands from the rub of the oars, and he was aware that every further stroke he took now, he’d have to duplicate to get back. He was beginning to feel a bit daft, in fact, floating out there in his bloody pyjamas and raincoat. If he did discover anything untoward, he was hardly going to cut a very credible figure confronting it. Worse, if something went wrong and he had to be rescued, the last thing he wanted was those numpties from Rosstown nick finding him in this state and reinforcing their impression that he was some attention‐
seeking head‐
banger.

With that thought, he stopped the boat and turned to face the other direction. He flexed his shoulders a little and rubbed the smarting palms of his hands, then gripped the oars again to begin his return journey. Now that he was looking
towards
the floating hotel, he therefore had a perfect view of the rocket‐
propelled grenade that had been launched from it and was fizzing through the night sky towards him.

‘Sufferin’ Christ!’

The missile plunged into the water only a few yards to the left of the boat, sending out an arc of spray and a circular wave that pulsed powerfully underneath. McGregor heard the fizzing sound again, and saw that a second projectile had been fired from the platform. He let go of the oars and dived over the side of the boat, kicking downwards to take himself deeper into the water, where he struggled free of his shoes and the now somewhat moot raincoat.

The shock of the cold jolted through McGregor’s body, electrifying him into frenetic, energised thrashing and clawing, which took him further away from the grenades’ intended target. To his enormous relief, he could tell that his body temperature was non‐
fatally readjusting to that of the water, but he estimated that you’d need an electron microscope to see his scrotum at that point. A few seconds later there was light and sound from above him as the boat suffered a direct hit, exploding into matchwood third time lucky. It was a small but important consolation that the explosion at least reminded him which direction the surface lay. He stayed under for as long as his complaining lungs would allow, all the time swimming further away from the wreckage.

McGregor’s head emerged from the waves with a gasp and he began to tread water. He’d learned that, God knows how many years ago: treading water. They taught you it at life‐
saving classes, during which he’d always been extremely sceptical about the instructors’ insistence that you jump into the swimming pool clothed in your pyjamas. Well, he knew now: never let it be said they were anything less than prescient at the Leith Vicky baths.

Debris was bobbing on the surface a few yards away. Watching it, McGregor was fairly confident that he could now supply an accurate but strictly non‐
reasonable explanation for what had happened to puddle‐
man back at the farm.

‘An unfortunate accident.’

‘It’s not unknown for former officers’ imaginations to run away with themselves a wee bit.’

Fuckin’ arseholes.

He glanced around himself, turning in the water. He was a lot nearer the rig than the shore, and in recent years the most strenuous swim he’d attempted was a couple of lengths before lunch in Majorca. On the other hand, there were men with explosives complicating his alternative. He was truly caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

McGregor looked closer at the giant construction, focusing between the pillars that jutted up from the water. Around the central support there appeared to be three rubber dinghies, equipped with outboards. If he could fire up one of those, he would be a lot harder to hit, moving fast and zig‐
zagging erratically all the way to shore. It had taken them three goes to blow up a near‐
stationary rowing boat, so it was definitely worth a shot. He trod water for a few more moments until he was happy he had his breath back, then he began a cautious breaststroke towards the rig.

He kept his gaze trained on the central pillar as he approached, gradually making out the encircling jetty that the dinghies were moored to. There didn’t appear to be anyone guarding it, which made him all the more nervous of where else his approach might be observed. The rockets had been launched from platform‐
level, and he was confident that he was now beneath their line of sight, but there were decks and gantries above him, any of which might be patrolled. He turned on to his back for a few strokes. He couldn’t see anyone, but that was hardly reassuring. Snipers generally didn’t tend to be extroverts.

His arms were starting to seriously ache from the combined efforts of rowing and swimming. The sleeves of his pyjama shirt weren’t proving very aqua‐
dynamic, but pulling the thing off while in the drink would be like trying to do origami with clingfilm. In space. He trod water for another few breath‐
restoring seconds, then, heartened that he hadn’t been machine‐
gunned yet and that neither had he seen any heavy ordnance for a good ten minutes, he summoned up renewed effort and crawled the last twenty yards.

McGregor reached the nearest of the dinghies and threw an arm over the side, preparing to climb in. The rubber tube compressed flacidly under his weight with an incontinent rasp of air, causing him to slither helplessly back under the water. He came up and tried again, gripping the dinghy a bit nearer the front, but with similar results.