Pay Off (22 page)

It wasn't overlooked; behind the boundary wall was a field of yellow oil-seed rape and in this part of the country a shotgun going off at dusk wouldn't worry anybody, local farmers were forever taking potshots at rooks and rabbits. The stable wall furthest away from the house was bare brick with no windows or doors, and I hung the blanket over it by tying two of the corners to the old rusting "uttering.

I stood about twelve feet away and let go with both barrels, one at a time, the shot ripping through the blanket, shredding and tearing it and kicking up puffs of brick dust from the wall. At that distance the shot spread out in a seven-foot wide circle, much wider than a standard shotgun but that's why the barrels are normally so long, to focus the energy and the destructive power. Shorten the barrel and the range is drastically reduced, but close up that didn't matter and judging by the state of the blanket there wouldn't be much left of the target from twelve feet away.

The gun had kicked in my hands and pulled to the left when the first barrel exploded, but when I fired the second I was ready for it and steered the gun round, held it steady and firm and hit the already tattered blanket dead centre.

Back in the study I cleaned and polished the Purdey, much as my father used to, carefully, lovingly, but above all efficiently. When I had finished I tried to fit it into my brown, metal-framed leather briefcase, a present from Shona, but it was too narrow and the lid wouldn't close.

Then I remembered my father's old briefcase, a black plastic one, scuffed and grubby with a thick plastic handle with indentations for the fingers. The reason he'd always used it was that it was a good five inches deep and held twice as much paperwork as any other case he'd ever had.

I found it in the cloakroom under the stairs and by its weight it was obviously full of papers. It was locked with two gilt combination locks at either end, the gilt finish long since worn away. The numbers were my father's birthday, 611, and my mother's, 129, and I tipped out the papers onto the floor, took the empty case through into the study and heaved it onto the desk. The gun fitted diagonally, plenty of space above and below and at least an inch and a half to spare at either end.

I took the shotgun out and untied the rolled up piece of foam rubber which was about half as big again as the case but about the right thickness. All I needed was a pair of scissors or a sharp knife to cut a hole for the gun, and I found the former in one of the drawers under the kitchen sink and I hacked and cut the foam rubber so that it fitted tightly around the gun with a couple of gaps where my fingers could grip the barrel and the butt and pull it out smoothly.

It was six-thirty pm and I spent a full thirty minutes practising walking with the case, swinging it onto the desk in one fluid motion, then flicking the locks open, lifting the lid and bringing the gun out.

I did it again and again, until the actions felt right and I could get the shotgun into my hands while looking perfectly calm and relaxed, until I could do the whole operation blindfold, doing it all by touch while my eyes looked 180 straight ahead. I did it with my eyes closed, I recited poetry with a fixed grin on my face and eventually it came natu- rally, one moment I was placing the case on the desk, the next the gun was in my hands, cocked and ready to fire. Bang, bang, you're dead. Maybe.

The call came at seven, exactly as promised, and it was a girl. At first I thought it was Sammy, and half a sentence had passed before what she was saying registered and I realized the voice was slightly softer and younger than Sammy's and that it came with a warm, Irish brogue.

It was a voice J. Walter Thompson could have used to sell Guinness, Irish whiskey, or holidays in tinkers' caravans, a voice that was mellow and sweet, that you felt was ready to break into an infectious laugh and tease you and scold you.

'. . . but I suppose there was no way you wouldn't be there, now was there? You have the money with you?' There was a slight intake of breath as she asked the question, a startled gasp as if she'd just been kissed unexpectedly on the cheek.

'I have it here,' I said. 'I want to speak to Sammy.'

'Well now, you'll just have to be wanting, for a while at least. They're quite safe, and they'll stay that way as long as you do as you're told, and you are going to do as you're told, aren't you?' A pause. 'Aren't you?'

'Yes. Don't hurt them. Please.'

'Do you have a pen and paper? I'll say this once, and only once. Drive from Edinburgh, across the Forth Bridge to Perth and from there take the A9 to Pitlochry, exactly as if you were going to Shankland Hall to see your darling brother.

'This time, though, you'll continue along the A9 for another forty-five miles or so until you reach Kingussie. Then you'll leave the A9 and take the B9152 to Kincraig, on the northern shore of Loch Inch.

'Go through Kincraig and drive for exactly 2.4 miles from the last streetlight in the town. Then you'll see a signpost on the right for Inshriach Distillery, down a single track road. The distillery has been shut down so we won't be disturbed.

'Follow the track to the end, you'll pass a terrace of cottages on the right, and then you'll come to the carpark in front of the distillery building. It's E-shaped and on the left you'll see a large black door. Immediately to the right of it are metal steps leading to another door on the first floor. You'll be met there.

'Now, I want to make one thing clear to you. You will be watched, and if we should for one minute think you are trying to double-cross us again your lady friend and your brother will be dead. If you don't come alone they're dead. If you don't have the money with you they're dead. The drive will take you four hours if you're lucky, four and a half if you're not. If you are not here by midnight then they're dead. And once they are dead we'll come for you. I suggest you hurry.'

Then the line was dead, and the message was all the more chilling coming from such a provocatively sexy voice. In the bookcase behind the desk was a leather-bound atlas and I turned the pages until I came across a large-scale map of the Scottish Highlands. The distillery would be close to the River Spey and by the look of the map it was in the middle of nowhere which is why they had chosen it. To the west was Loch Ness and south west was Loch Ericht. To the east were the Cairngorm Mountains and the whole area around the distillery seemed to be thickly wooded so there'd be no problems if they had to make a run for it. But at least it would be dark when I arrived, and tonight the weather 182 forecast was cloudy and there wouldn't be much in the way of a moon.

Four hours sounded about right for the drive so I sat for a while, head in my hands and elbows on either side of the atlas, thinking harder than I had ever thought before because this time it was my life that depended on the decisions I made now. My life-and Sammy's and David's.

Fight your own battles, Tony had said. How? With a gun I'd fired twice? Against professional killers? My conscience was in cold storage now because I had already accepted that this time it was going to be my finger on the trigger. The luxury of getting somebody else to do the killing, of removing myself mentally and physically from the end result, was something I couldn't afford now.

As I studied the map and tried to put together a workable plan I felt no guilt for what had happened or for what was about to happen. That would come later, and I'd try to deal with it then. For the moment the part of my brain that solved problems and worked out strategies was insulated from the part that decided morality and apportioned blame. Friends and enemies were just pieces on a chessboard, taking part in a game I had to win.

There were three points in my favour. They were professionals dealing with an amateur, which meant there would be an element of surprise on my side. They wouldn't expect me to be armed, but I would have a shotgun and I was prepared to use it. And it would be dark. They were my strong suits and however I played it I'd have to maximize those advantages.

In the kitchen I found a pile of large, black plastic bags and a ball of thick string. In the stable building I dug out an old inflatable dinghy in which my father had taken me fishing before the pain in his back became too much to bear. It had been deflated and carefully packed into a green nylon bag with rope handles, and I loaded that onto the back seat of the car along with a foot pump and two plastic oars.

- All I needed now was something heavy, and under a trellis table I discovered four long rusty chains made up of half-inch diameter steel links. Each was about fifteen feet long and I could only lift them one at a time into the boot and the car sagged on its back axle. A helicopter buzzed over the distant fields like an angry wasp as I slammed the boot lid shut.

Back in the house I raced up the stairs three at a time and rushed through my wardrobe, picking out the darkest pull- over and trousers I could find, and choosing a pair of dark brown walking shoes. In the cloakroom I grabbed a green Barbour jacket and hurtled through the front door as a tall figure in a fawn raincoat came around the side of the house. I fumbled for the locks on the briefcase, cursing loudly, as the man broke into a run, coat flapping against his legs as his feet crunched into the gravel.

'Whoa, sport, it's me,' shouted Tony, and for the first time I heard the high-pitched whirring whine of a grounded helicopter as the blades came to rest. I'd been so caught up with my own thoughts that I hadn't noticed it land in the field behind Stonehaven.

'Thanks for dropping in, Tony,' I said, trying to clear my head. He still wasn't smiling, and neither was I. What the hell did he want? I thought, but I already knew the answer. I didn't offer to shake his hand, this wasn't a social visit.

'Who's the chauffeur?' I asked.

'A friend. A good friend and somebody who's done me a great many favours in the past. I didn't like having to ask him again. And be careful what you say, you're skating on very thin iceat themoment. His nameis Joel Riker. Helearnt to fly in Vietnam, Hueys, H-23 Hilliers and Chinooks, but now he can fly anything with a rotor blade. That's a Sikorsky we picked up at Edinburgh. I'd cut out the cracks about him being a chauffeur, too. A year before the war ended he was flying a gunship near Pleiku in South Vietnam when he was shot down. The gunner was killed and Joel and his co-pilot 184 were on their own for six days. They had to fight their way through thirty miles of Viet Cong infested jungle before they were picked up. Between them they killed sixteen VC, most of them with their knives.'

Over Tony's shoulder I could see Riker climbing down from the white helicopter and walking towards us, head bowed under the slowly-turning blades. He was tall, thin and wiry, three inches of wrist sticking out of the sleeves of a tatty old sheepskin flying jacket, a gaunt face topped with a shock of prematurely grey hair.

'How do you know they weren't exaggerating?' I asked. 'These Yanks are all the same.'

'They came back with sixteen sets of ears,' said Tony quietly, and there wasn't a lot I could say after that.

I shook Riker's outstretched hand, his grip was soft and gentle, the handshake of a dowager duchess. His voice, too, was effeminate, a nasal, slightly out of breath purr. He sounded a bit like Bambi.

'What's the game plan?' he asked Tony.

'Give me a chance, Joel. I haven't even found out what the rules are yet. Come on, inside.'

'Tony, I don't have time. I have to go. Now.'

'You're not going anywhere, sport. Inside.'

The two of them bundled me back through the front door, along the hall and into the study.

'Sit,' said Tony, and as I opened my mouth to speak he placed a finger across my lips. 'Be silent.'

Riker leant against the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest as Tony paced slowly up and down in front of me, thoughtfully chewing the inside of his cheek.

'I rang up Shona from London and got the number of David's nursing home. So I know he's missing. And Sammy's disappeared, too. And you raced up here like a dog with its tail on fire. I want to know where they are and what you plan to do. Come on, Rover, give.'

I gave. I had no choice, I didn't have the time to mess Tony about, and even if I ran out on him all they would have to do was to follow in the helicopter. I gave. Where, when and how. The lot. When I had finished Tony looked at Riker and raised his eyebrows.

'It could work,' said Riker, answering Tony's unspoken question.

'There's no alternative,' I said. 'I have to go in alone. They'll be watching me.'

'I agree,' Riker said to Tony. 'If we had enough time and manpower, then we'd stand a chance of storming the place, but as it is . . .' He dropped his hands to his sides, palms out. 'I think we should let him do it.'

'OK,' nodded Tony. 'You're the expert.' He turned to me, rocking gently back on his heels. 'We're coming with you.'

'No,' I said, and stood up. 'I have to go alone. Haven't you been listening?'

'You will be going alone,' he said patiently. 'We'll take the high road.'

'They'll hear you coming for miles in that thing.'

'Give me credit, sport. Have you got a map of the area?'

I pointed towards the atlas on the desk behind Riker. Tony picked it up and stood with the pilot as he ran his finger across the page.

Riker spoke quietly. 'It'll be dark so we won't be seen, but the noise will carry for at least two miles, possibly three, even if I come in low. Let's say three and a half to be on the safe side. Here.' He jabbed at the map. 'Then we move through the woods on foot. That could take two hours, say two and a half at most if we don't get lost. We can do it. But we'll have to leave soon. Like now.'

'Me too,' I said, but they weren't listening to me.

'Fuel?' asked Tony.

'Enough.'

'Anything else?'

'Artillery,' said Riker, and I realized that they had also flown up from London and passed through the metal detectors. I unlocked the gun cabinet and pulled open the doors like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat.

'Gentlemen,' I said. 'Choose your weapons.'