Never Go Back (25 page)

They saw the boat standing offshore as they rounded a bend in the road and headed down towards the jetty. It was a smartly painted, newish-looking launch. A figure was visible on deck — a tall, broad-shouldered, darkly clad man, his head in shadow. He moved out of sight as they approached. Then the launch nudged in towards the jetty.

‘You want to know what I think?’ Chipchase enquired in a gloomy undertone.

‘No,’ replied Harry.

‘This is suicide.’

‘I said I didn’t want to know.’

‘But you already knew.’

‘True enough.’

‘As a betting man, I’ve got to tell you—’

‘Don’t tell me, Barry. Please. Don’t tell me.’

They reached the jetty. The launch was bobbing in the gentle swell of the rising tide at its far end. The man they had glimpsed earlier stepped into view and nodded faintly in greeting. He was dressed in black jeans and sweatshirt, his clothes filled out by a muscular frame. His face was gaunt and raw-boned, his hair a close-cropped thatch of grey-flecked black. He studied them with chilling impassivity as they walked slowly down the ramp of the jetty.

‘Frank?’ Harry called.

‘You’re a little late.’ Frank remained expressionless. But he moved his right arm, which had been folded behind his back, so they could see the pistol clasped in his leather-gloved hand. ‘I’ll overlook it, though. Seen Murdo, have you?’

‘Yes. We’ve seen him.’

‘So, you know I’m serious.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Good. Come aboard.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘Just come aboard, Harry.’ Frank raised the gun. ‘Or I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Chipchase under his breath. And, silently, Harry echoed him.

It was an awkward step from the jetty down into the launch. Harry managed it in a stumbling stride. As he looked round, he was astonished to see Howlett sitting calmly at the wheel, smiling over his shoulder at him, without the least sign of duress. Indeed, he was in control of the vessel, a fact that loosed a cascade of sickening thoughts in Harry’s mind.

The slack-jawed look of amazement on his face had caused Chipchase to hesitate. But Frank was having none of that. ‘Get down here, Barry. Now.’

Chipchase cannoned into Harry as he scrambled aboard. Then he too saw Howlett, screened from him until then by the cockpit roof. ‘Bloody hell. Marky. You’re—’

‘Not Marky. And not a hostage. You’ve got it, Barry.’

‘Where are the hostages?’ Harry demanded, anger simmering beneath his fear.

‘There’s just the one actually,’ Howlett replied. ‘Ailsa Red-path. She’s in the cabin.’ He nodded towards a pair of closed doors sealing off the fo’c’sle.

‘What about Karen?’

‘Probably cataloguing a mummy in the British Museum even as we speak. All that crap I served you about her going missing was just a come-on. And you fell for it big time, I have to say. I put on a pretty good show, didn’t I?’

‘You lured us all the way up here?’

‘Correcto.’

‘Why?’

‘Never mind,’ snapped Frank. ‘Unbolt the cabin doors and go through.’ His gaze flicked up to the shore, then back to them. ‘Move.’ He gestured with the gun.

Harry edged past Howlett, slipped the bolts holding the doors shut and pulled them open. A cramped triangular cabin revealed itself, a narrow bench running round either side to meet at the end, with a table in the middle. A slim, grey-haired woman dressed in jeans, trainers and fleece was seated awkwardly on the bench, her hands tied with rope behind her back, the rope fastened in turn to one of the table legs. A strip of brown tape had been placed across her mouth. She flinched at the sudden invasion of light, closing her eyes for a second, then turning to blink at Harry in obvious alarm.

‘Keep moving,’ barked Frank. And Harry did, stepping down into the cabin and making room for Chipchase, who stumbled in after him.

‘What are you—’ Harry’s question was cut off by the slamming of the doors behind them. Darkness descended on him like a hood. He heard the bolts slide back into place. Then the woman moaned. ‘Don’t worry, Ailsa,’ he said, to raise his own spirits as much as hers. ‘You’re not alone now.’

‘I spotted a switch here somewhere,’ said Chipchase, fumbling around the door frame. ‘Yeah. Here we are.’

An overhead light flickered into life. As it did so, the engine revved throatily and the launch reversed away from the jetty. Then the sound altered again to a smooth, surging rumble. The boat changed direction and accelerated forward.

‘Snug quarters we’ve got here,’ said Chipchase. ‘Snug as a bloody tomb.’

‘For God’s sake, Barry,’ said Harry, shooting him a glare before moving round the table to where Ailsa was trapped. Gingerly, he removed the tape.

‘Thank you,’ she gasped, grimacing at the taste the tape had left on her lips. She was, Harry saw, a good-looking woman who had once been beautiful, with high cheekbones, a heart-shaped face, gentle features and grey-blue, far-seeing eyes. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Harry Barnett. And this is—’

‘Barry Chipchase.’ Chipchase moved round the other side of the table. ‘I’ll untie you.’

‘Ah. Of course.’ Ailsa sighed, as if some dismal expectation had only now been fulfilled. ‘Barnett and Chipchase. The scapegoats.’

‘Too bloody true that’s what we are,’ said Chipchase, his voice muffled by the tabletop beneath which he was crouching.

‘Have you read Maynard’s statement?’ Harry asked.

‘Their version of it, yes,’ Ailsa replied.

‘You realize we didn’t kill your father and brother?’

‘Of course I do. This entire exercise is designed to conceal the identity of the real killer. He’s who these people work for. And now he’s responsible—’ She broke off, squeezing her eyes briefly shut. When she opened them again, they were moist with tears. ‘Now he’s responsible for killing both my brothers.’

‘Do you know who he is?’

‘No. And I doubt I’m going to get the chance to find out. I doubt any of us is.’

‘Where are they taking us?’

‘I’m not sure. But…’

‘Haskurlay?’

‘That’s my guess.’

‘What are they planning?’

‘Our deaths,’ said Chipchase, still struggling with the tightly knotted rope. ‘That’s what they’re planning.’

‘Yes,’ said Ailsa. ‘I fear they are.’

The southerly turn the launch took after they had headed east for long enough to clear the Vatersay coast made Haskurlay an ever likelier destination. The ride became rougher as they entered the open sea, forcing Howlett to slow slightly. Ailsa reckoned it would take an hour or so to reach the island. For that hour, at least, they were probably safe.

There was time enough, then, for them to discuss what had brought them to such a desperate plight. Ailsa sat hunched on the bench, massaging her chafed wrists, as Harry told her of the Operation Clean Sheet reunion; of the crop of mysterious deaths it had sparked off; of the house fires in Cardiff and Swindon; of the attempts he and Chipchase had made to discover the truth; and of their ill-fated journey to Vatersay.

Much of this Ailsa already knew. ‘I moved to Glasgow long ago, thinking I could put the mystery of Father and Andrew’s disappearance behind me. But I never quite succeeded. The ache of not knowing ruined Mother’s life. Murdo’s too, I think. When Lester Maynard, a total stranger, left me a house in Henley and a good bit of money besides, I tried to tell myself it had nothing to do with what had happened to Father and Andrew. But I knew in my heart it had to be connected. Then Dougie McLeish told Murdo that Maynard had been to Barra a few years before, enquiring about the drowning of a man called Nixon. And Murdo told me. There was no doubt in my mind at that point. The rumours of some sort of military exercise on Haskurlay were true. But still I couldn’t be sure Father and Andrew had fallen foul of it. Not till four years ago, too late for Mother sadly, when their bodies were found at last, buried on the island. And even then certainty wasn’t proof. The authorities did as little as they could get away with doing. The case was filed and forgotten. It’s what I tried to do with it myself. It’s certainly what my husband wanted me to do with it.

‘Then, two weeks ago, Peter Askew contacted me. He said he was an old friend of Lester Maynard’s and was in possession of information he felt he ought to pass on to me. He wondered if I’d agree to meet him. Naturally, I did. He came to London the following day. This would have been a couple of days before he turned up on your doorstep in Swindon. We met at a cafe near South Kensington Tube station. He was nervous, hesitant, unsure, it seemed to me, of what he should or shouldn’t tell me, how much of the truth he could afford to reveal. The upshot was this. The discovery of the bodies on Haskurlay had confirmed the accuracy of a statement Maynard had arranged to be sent to him after his death. They’d been very close at one point, he said. I didn’t pry into exactly what that meant. I had the impression that if I put any pressure on him he might clam up completely. He knew who was responsible for the deaths of my father and brother. He wanted to give that person a chance to come to terms with his responsibility, which, bafflingly, he said he might well be unaware of. An RAF reunion they were both to attend the following weekend would give him the opportunity to broach the subject. Then he’d feel free to show me the statement and explain everything.

‘He was never able to do that, of course. It wasn’t me or Karen Snow he met on his way up to Scotland later that week. I believe it must have been the man who killed Father and Andrew. But he didn’t react as Askew had hoped. He decided to suppress the evidence of his guilt by eliminating Askew and anyone else he had reason to believe might know what he’d done.’

‘Lloyd was beginning to remember things,’ Harry observed. ‘That made him a target. And our man probably suspected Dangerfield had an ulterior motive for arranging the reunion in the first place. But three killings were never going to be written off as accidents or suicides. Someone had to take the rap.’

‘And by going to ground I effectively volunteered for the role,’ grumbled Chipchase. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘With me lined up as your accomplice,’ said Harry. ‘Askew must have seen or heard something on the train that alarmed him. He must have realized our man was planning to move against him. So, he tried to ensure the truth would come out whatever happened to him by posting the disk containing Maynard’s statement to me during the stopover in Edinburgh. But why send it to me?’

‘He must have trusted you to bring the truth out in the open,’ said Ailsa. ‘Perhaps you were never on Haskurlay and therefore had no reason to conceal what happened there. Perhaps neither of you were. If so, our man may be punishing you for having no share in his guilt.’

‘It has to be Tancred,’ said Chipchase. ‘He could easily have met Askew in London on the q.t.’

‘So could Judd,’ Harry pointed out.

‘But he’s in Fuerte-bloody-ventura.’

‘That proves nothing. He—’

‘For the moment, it doesn’t matter who it is,’ Ailsa cut in. ‘What matters is what he’s arranged for us.’

‘A nasty end,’ muttered Chipchase. ‘That’s what.’

‘These men he’s hired are utterly ruthless. They kill without hesitation. I came up here when I heard of Askew’s death and the two deaths that followed it because I thought I’d be safe so far away from everything. I dare say I would have been but for our man’s uncertainty over whether Askew might have sent me a copy of the disk. But all I actually achieved by taking refuge with Murdo was to put him in the line of fire.’ Ailsa’s voice faltered. She blinked away some tears. ‘It was all so sudden. I thought the gunshots were backfires from the engine of the truck. Then that man… Frank… burst into the house and clapped a gun to my head. I thought he meant to kill me there and then. In some ways, I wish he had.’

‘He needed us on the scene,’ said Harry. ‘He’s putting together a set of circumstances and a sequence of events that will persuade the police we killed your father and brother fifty years ago, then Askew, Lloyd and Dangerfield last week, then Murdo and…’

‘Me.’

‘Yes. Hence the old RAF pistol he’s using. Hence the statement left on display. He said he had the doctored disk, but he’s more likely to have hidden it in the house, where the police will eventually find it. They’ll conclude you were in possession of it all along and we came up here to destroy it and… to eliminate you and Murdo.’

‘Why take us to Haskurlay?’ asked Chipchase.

‘I’m not sure. But they don’t intend any of us to come back. That’s clear. This case has to be closed down. Because of the security angle, the police will be happy to do that. If there’s no-one around to be charged or tried. So, what’s the story they’re setting up? We’re losing it. We’re no longer in control. We steal this boat, kill Murdo, kidnap Ailsa, take her to Haskurlay. And then… your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Or as bad. For our long-term, medium-term or even bloody short-term health.’

‘Yes. They mean to end this on Haskurlay.’

‘To end us.’

“Fraid so.’

‘How do we stop them, Harry? Tell me you have an idea.’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Great. Just great.’

‘But maybe… in however long we have left…’

‘We can come up with one?’

‘Yes. Maybe.’

‘Or maybe not.’

Harry nodded in reluctant agreement. ‘Exactly.’

A despairing silence settled over them. There was no more to be said. The launch surged on towards Haskurlay, its bow bucking through the waves. Chipchase smoked a cigarette, the vibration of the hull masking the tremor in his hand, while Harry’s thoughts turned to Donna, waiting for news of him in Swindon, and to Daisy, asleep in her bedroom in Vancouver, unaware that her silly old daddy had been sillier than usual today — and was shortly to pay for it with his life.

They would be landed on the island where this whole tragic, tangled tale had begun and executed one by one. Harry no longer hoped for any other outcome. There was no point. That was how it was going to be. He was sure of it.

How were Frank and Mark going to make it look? He turned the matter over in his mind, almost as if it were a mental exercise unrelated to his own imminent demise. What exactly were the police intended to suppose? That he and Chipchase had taken Ailsa to Haskurlay and killed her, obviously. What then? A falling out among murderers, perhaps. The killing of one, followed by the suicide of the other? That would fit neatly into the fiction. Yes. That was probably—

‘Hold on,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ asked Ailsa, looking at him with sudden animation.

‘You’ve had an idea, haven’t you?’ spluttered Chipchase, spilling ash on the table in his excitement. ‘You’ve bloody had an idea.’

‘Sort of.’

‘Well? What sort?’

‘It’s just…’

‘There isn’t another episode next week, Harry. You can spare us the suspense.’

‘What is it?’ pressed Ailsa.

‘This boat,’ said Harry, smiling at them in spite of himself.

‘What about it?’ snapped Chipchase.

‘Don’t you see? If we’re to be found — dead — on Haskurlay, there has to be a boat we got there in. Moored, or adrift. But there has to be one. And our friends on deck have to have one to make their getaway in.’

‘So?’

‘So, there must be a boat waiting for us at Haskurlay. Smaller than this, probably. One they can easily land us in. And they have to transfer us to it. Alive. Because ordering people around is much harder when they’re dead.’

‘Flawless bloody logic, Harry. Ten out of bleeding ten. Now, tell us what your bright idea is. I’m ready to be dazzled.’

‘The transfer is our chance. We outnumber them. And there’s only one gun.’

‘That you know of.’

‘The Browning has to account for everyone, Barry. Otherwise the police will smell a rat.’

‘So what this so-called chance amounts to is…’

‘Somewhere between leaving this cabin and boarding the other boat… we rush them.’

‘Rush them?’

‘Which one d’you want? Frank or Mark? Mark’s the safer choice. He’s unarmed.’

‘You’re crazy. Does Frank look like a pushover to you? He has a gun, Harry. And it isn’t loaded with blanks. Ask Murdo. He didn’t—’ Chipchase broke off, regretting the reference to Ailsa’s dead brother. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

‘Never mind,’ said Ailsa. ‘Harry’s right. It’s our only chance, however slim. We have to take it.’

‘Try to take it.’

‘Yes.’ She looked at them solemnly. ‘We have to try. And I do mean we. We only outnumber them if we all play a part. And that includes me.’

—«»—«»—«»—

The plan of action they devised in the next few minutes was riddled with optimistic assumptions. It relied on Ailsa’s ability to distract their captors by staging a collapse as she left the cabin; on Chipchase’s dexterity in removing the fire extinguisher from its bracket in the cockpit where he claimed to have noticed it earlier and deploying it as a weapon; on Harry’s momentum at the charge being sufficient to propel Frank overboard; above all, on fortune favouring the underdogs in this looming contest to an improbable degree.

The odds against them were even longer in Harry’s own, unspoken estimation. True, Frank’s use of a gun other than the Browning would taint the trail of evidence he was laying. But a knife posed no such problems and Mark could easily be carrying one. There was also the distinct possibility that a third man was waiting in the second boat, in which case their slim chances of success faded to zero.

But their chances of survival, if they allowed themselves to be shepherded meekly ashore, were also zero. He knew that. So did Ailsa. So did Chipchase. Harry could read the knowledge in their tight, anguished, determined expressions. And he could feel it, hard as iron, locked within himself. It truly was do or die.

—«»—«»—«»—

The launch slowed and veered to the right — the west, if Ailsa’s judgement of their direction was correct. She looked at her watch. ‘Long enough,’ she said quietly. ‘This is the turn for Haskurlay.’

‘Small change of plan, Harry old cock,’ said Chipchase, leaning across the table towards him. ‘You go for the extinguisher. It’s clipped above the doorway leading to the cockpit. You can’t miss it. Clobber Marky good and hard. I’ll deal with Frank.’

‘Why switch targets at this stage?’

‘Because you’re a husband and a father. And I’m neither. So, if anyone’s going to take a bullet…’

‘Don’t turn heroic on me, Barry. Please.’

‘Heroic? No bloody way. That pistol’s an antique. Overdue to jam, I’d say. Or blow up in the bastard’s physog.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I’d bet on it.’

‘But—’

‘Not another word, Harry, hey?’ Chipchase winked. ‘You know it makes sense.’