On Dangerous Ground (17 page)

Rory stared at him, frowning, and then a slow smile appeared. “And perhaps that time will come,” he said, turned, and walked back into the trees.

Dillon drank tea by the fire at Ardmurchan Lodge while he detailed the events of the morning to Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein.

“So the plot thickens,” Ferguson said.

“Lucky for you that Morgan turned up when he did,” Hannah said. “You might have been a hospital case by now.”

“Yes, a useful coincidence,” Ferguson said.

“And you know how much I believe in those,” Dillon told him.

Hannah frowned. “You think Morgan was behind the whole thing?”

“I’m not sure about that, but I believe he expected it. That’s why he turned up.”

“Very possibly.” Ferguson nodded. “Which raises the question of how he knew you were going to go fishing this morning.”

“I know, life’s just one big mystery,” Dillon said. “What happens now?”

“Lunch, dear boy, I thought we might venture into Ardmurchan Village and sample the delights of the local pub. They must offer food of some sort.”

“Pub grub, Brigadier, you?” Hannah Bernstein said.

“And you, Chief Inspector, although I hardly expect it will be kosher.”

“I’ll find out,” she said. “I think that chap Angus is working in the garden.” She opened the French windows and went out, returning a few moments later. “He says the Campbell Arms does do food. Shepherd’s pie, things like that.”

“Real food,” Ferguson said. “How wonderful. Let’s get going then.”

Morgan was standing on the terrace at the top of the steps with Asta when Murdoch joined them. “I’ve just had a phone call from Angus. Our friends are going to the Campbell Arms for lunch.”

“Really?” Morgan said.

“It could lead to an interesting situation. The day after tomorrow is the local fair and Highland Games. There are tinkers around, horse traders, and so on. The Munros will probably be there.”

“Is that so?” Morgan smiled and turned to Asta. “We couldn’t possibly miss that, could we?” He raised his voice and called, “Marco!” Russo appeared in the open windows. “Bring the estate car round, we’re going to the village for a drink and you drive. I’ve a feeling we might need you.”

The Campbell Arms was very old, built of gray granite, but the sign that hung above the door was freshly painted. Dillon parked across the street and he and Hannah and Ferguson got out and crossed, pausing as a young gypsy rode by bareback on a pony leading three others behind. There was a poster on the wall advertising the Ardmurchan Fair and Games.

“That looks like fun,” Ferguson said and opened the door and led the way in.

There was an old-fashioned snug bar, the type that in the old days was for women only. This was empty, but a further door gave access to a large saloon, beams in the ceiling. There was a long bar with a marble top, scores of bottles behind ranged against a great mirror. There was a peat fire on an open hearth, tables, chairs, booths with high-backed wooden settles. It was not exactly shoulder-to-shoulder, but perhaps a crowd of thirty or more, some obviously gypsies to do with the fair, others more local, old men wearing cloth caps and leggings, or in some cases Highland bonnets and plaids like Hector Munro, who stood at one end of the bar with Rory and Fergus.

There was a buzz of conversation that stopped abruptly as Ferguson stepped in, the others at his shoulder. The woman behind the bar came round wiping her hands on a cloth. She wore an old hand-knitted jumper and slacks. “You are welcome in this place, Brigadier,” she said in a Highland accent and took his hand. “My name is Molly.”

“Good to be here, my dear,” he said. “I hear your food is excellent.”

“Over here.” She led them to one of the booths by the fire and turned to the room. “Get on with your drinking while I handle the damned English,” she told them in Gaelic.

Sean Dillon said in Irish, “A bad mistake you make in my case, woman of the house, but I’ll forgive you if you can find me a Bushmills whiskey.”

She turned, her mouth open in surprise, then put a hand to his face. “Irish is it? Good lad yourself and I might surprise you.” They settled down and she added in English, “Fish pie is what there is today if you have a mind to eat. Fresh cod, onions, and potatoes.”

“Which sounds incredible to me,” Ferguson told her. “I’ll have a Guinness, lager beer for the lady, and whatever you and my friend here have decided.”

“A man after my own heart and a good Scots name to you.”

She went off and as the conversation flowed again Dillon lit a cigarette. “The old man with the granite face and the bonnet at the end of the bar is Hector Munro, the damaged one is Fergus, and the bit of rough with the good shoulders that’s looking at you so admiringly, Hannah, my love, is Rory.”

She flushed. “Not my type.”

Dillon turned and nodded to the Munros. “Oh, I don’t know, with a couple of drinks in you at the shank of the night, who knows?”

“You are a bastard, Dillon.”

“I know, it’s been said before.”

Hector Munro wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and came over, shouldering men aside. “Mr. Dillon, you did my son a service,” he said in English, “and for that I thank you. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”

“This is my uncle, Brigadier Ferguson,” Dillon said.

“I ken the name Ferguson,” Munro said. “There are a few not many miles from here Tomentoul way, they were on our left flank at Culloden fighting King George’s bloody Germans.”

“You do have a lengthy memory,” Ferguson said. “Almost two hundred and fifty years long. Yes, my ancestors did fight at Culloden for Prince Charles.”

“Good man yourself.” Munro pumped his hand and went back to the bar.

“My goodness, we are trapped in memory lane,” Ferguson said as Molly brought the drinks. She put them on the table and the door opened and Morgan and Asta walked in, Murdoch and Marco behind them.

There was another silence, Morgan surveying the room, and then he came forward with Asta. Behind him Marco stayed at the bar and Murdoch approached Molly. Morgan and Asta sat on the settle opposite Ferguson and his party.

“Brigadier, what a pleasure. I didn’t have a chance to introduce you to my daughter last night. Asta — Brigadier Ferguson.”

“A pleasure, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “You know my nephew. This charming lady, by the way, is my secretary, Miss Hannah Bernstein.”

Murdoch came from the bar with glasses and a bottle of white wine. “Not much choice, sir, it’s a Chablis.”

“As long as they didn’t make it in the back yard it will be fine,” Morgan said. “What about the food?”

“Fish and potato pie, old boy,” Ferguson said. “They only have one dish a day.”

“Then fish and potato pie it is,” Morgan told him. “We’re hardly having lunch at the Caprice.”

“Indeed not,” Ferguson said. “Very different waters.”

“Exactly.” Murdoch poured the wine and Morgan raised his glass. “What shall we drink to?”

“Confusion to our enemies,” Dillon said. “A good Irish toast.”

“How very apt.”

Asta drank a little wine and said, “How nice to meet you, Miss Bernstein. Strange, but in the time we were together, Dillon never mentioned you. Having met you, of course, I understand why.”

“Try and behave yourself, why don’t you,” Dillon told her.

Her eyes widened in outrage and Morgan frowned, and then Murdoch leaned over and whispered in his ear and Morgan turned and looked toward the bar. At that moment Fergus was sliding toward the door.

Morgan called in Italian, “Stop him, Marco, that’s the one I want.”

Marco put a hand to Fergus’s chest and pushed him back and Hector Munro and Rory took a step forward. “Leave my son be or you answer to me,” the old man said.

Morgan called, “Munro, I asked for your son earlier and you claimed no knowledge as to his whereabouts. As your employer, I expected better.”

“My son is my business. What touches him touches us all.”

“Please spare me that kind of peasant claptrap. He assaulted my daughter and for that he must pay.”

And Fergus was frightened now, his face white and desperate. He tried to dodge around Marco, who caught him with ease, grabbing him by the neck, turning him, sending him to his knees before Morgan.

The bar was totally silent. “Now then, you animal,” Morgan said.

Rory came in on the run. “Here’s for you,” he cried and swung a punch into the base of Marco’s spine. The Sicilian shrugged it off, turned, blocking Rory’s next punch, and gave him a right that landed high on the left cheek, sending Rory staggering back against the bar.

Fergus, cowering in fear on the floor, saw his chance, got up to make for the door. Marco, turning, was already moving to block him off when Hannah Bernstein stuck out a foot and tripped him. Marco went sprawling and Fergus was out of the door like a weasel.

“Dreadful, isn’t it,” Ferguson said to Morgan. “I can’t take her anywhere.”

As Marco got up, Rory moved in from the bar and Dillon jumped in between them. “This dog is mine,” he said in Irish to Rory. “Now drink your beer like a good lad and let be.”

Rory stared at him, rage in his eyes, then took a deep breath. “As you say, Irishman, but if he lays a hand on me again, he is my meat,” and he turned and went back to the bar.

“Strange,” Ferguson said to Morgan, “but since meeting you life’s taken on an entirely new meaning.”

“Hasn’t it?” Morgan said amiably, and at that moment Molly arrived with a huge tray containing plates of her fish and potato pie.

“My word that does smell good.” Ferguson beamed. “Let’s tuck in, I’m sure we’re going to need all our strength.”

Afterwards, standing in the street outside, Morgan said, “I wondered about dinner tomorrow night perhaps. I thought it might be nice to invite Lady Katherine.”

“Excellent thought,” Ferguson said. “Delighted to accept.”

Asta said, “Do you ride, Dillon?”

“It’s been known.”

“Perhaps you could join us tomorrow morning. We could mount you with no trouble.”

“Ah, well there you have me,” he said. “My uncle promised to take me deer stalking tomorrow. Have you ever tried it?”

“Deer stalking? That sounds absolutely wonderful.” She turned. “Carl? I’d love to go.”

“Not my style and I’ve business to take care of tomorrow.”

Ferguson said amiably, “We’d be delighted to have you join us, my dear, that is if you have no objection, Morgan?”

“Why should I, an excellent idea.”

“We’ll pick you up,” Ferguson said. “Nine-thirty.” He raised his tweed hat. “Goodbye for now,” and turned and led the way back to the Range Rover.

“Right, let’s go,” Morgan said, and Asta led the way to the parked station wagon.

Murdoch murmured, “A word, sir, I’ve an idea where Fergus might have gone.”

“Is that so?” Morgan said. “All right, we’ll take Miss Asta home and then you can show me.”

At Ardmurchan Lodge Ferguson shrugged off his coat and went and stood with his back to the fire. “And what do you make of that?”

“The heavy blocking the door, sir, is his present minder, one Marco Russo,” Hannah Bernstein said. “I checked with Immigration. He came in with Morgan. Information from the Italian police indicates he’s a known Mafia enforcer and member of the Luca family.”

“A thoroughly nasty bit of work if you ask me,” Ferguson said and turned to Dillon. “What’s all this deer stalking nonsense then?”

“You’ve never stalked deer, Brigadier?” Dillon shook his head. “You’ve never lived, and you a member of the upper classes.”

“Of course I’ve stalked deer,” Ferguson told him. “And kindly keep your fatuous comments to yourself. What I want to know is why are we taking the girl tomorrow? You obviously wanted it, which is why I asked her.”

“I’m not sure,” Dillon said. “I’d like to get to know her a little better. It might lead somewhere.”

Hannah Bernstein said, “Dillon, get one thing straight, that is one tough, capable, and intelligent young lady. If you think she doesn’t know exactly how Morgan makes his money you’re fooling yourself. Observe them, use your eyes. They’re a very intimate couple. I’d give you odds she knows exactly what they’re doing up here.”

Dillon said, “Which is exactly why I want to cultivate her.”

“I agree,” Ferguson said. “So we go as planned in the morning. Kim can be a gun bearer, you’ll stay here and hold the fort, Chief Inspector.”

“As you say, sir.”

Ferguson turned to Dillon. “Anything else?”

“Yes, I’ve decided to pay a visit to the castle tonight. Check things out, see what’s going on. Any objections?”

“Not at all. Come to think of it, it’s rather a good idea.” Ferguson smiled. “Strange, but Morgan’s actually quite civilized when you meet him, don’t you agree?”

“Not really, sir,” Hannah Bernstein said. “As far as I’m concerned he’s just another gangster in a good suit.”

NINE

FERGUS SQUATTED ON A TRUCKLE BED IN THE OLD hunting bothy at the west end of Loch Dhu and drank from a bottle of whiskey. He was no longer afraid now, the events at the pub behind him, but he was angry, particularly when he thought of Asta.

“You bitch,” he said to himself. “All your fault.” He drank some more whiskey. “Just wait. If I ever get my hands on you again.”

There was a sudden creak, the door swung open, and Murdoch slipped in. “Here he is, sir,” he said, and Morgan moved through the door behind him, a riding crop in his hand, Marco at his side.

“Now then, you piece of dirt,” Morgan said.

Fergus was terrified. He got up, the bottle of whiskey in one hand. “Now look, there’s no need for this, it was a mistake, I didn’t know who she was.”

“Mistake?” Morgan said. “Oh, yes, your mistake, you little swine.” He turned. “Marco.”

Marco was pulling on a pair of leather gloves. Fergus suddenly smashed the whiskey bottle, spraying the bed with its contents, and held up the jagged glass threateningly. “I’ll do for you, I swear I will.”

As Marco advanced, Fergus swung the bottle. The Sicilian blocked his arm to one side and punched him with sickening force under the ribs. Fergus dropped the bottle and staggered back on the bed.