On Dangerous Ground (22 page)

“Shouldn’t we have more important things to do, sir?” Hannah asked.

“Nonsense, Chief Inspector, everyone needs a break now and then.”

Molly brought the Guinness and the three pasties, which were enormous. “If that isn’t enough for you there’s the refreshment tent,” she said as Ferguson paid her. “Up at the fair.”

“We’ll bear it in mind, my dear.”

Ferguson sampled his drink and then tried the pasty. “My goodness, this is good.”

Hannah said, “All right, sir, but what happens now?”

“What would you like to happen?” Dillon asked her.

“I don’t know. In fact, all I do know is that Morgan took care of Fergus rather permanently and then tried to kill the lot of us last night. I’d say that amounts to open warfare.”

“Yes, but now we’ve got Asta on our side,” Ferguson told her, and at that moment Asta came in followed by Morgan and Marco.

She saw them at once and came straight over. She was wearing the bonnet she had worn when deer stalking and the plaid skirt, and there wasn’t a man in the room who didn’t look her way.

She smiled. “There you are.”

Dillon stood up to let her sit. “You’re looking particularly fragrant this morning.”

“Well that’s how I feel. Fighting fit, Dillon. It seems to me that’s the way I need to be.”

Behind her Morgan spoke to Marco, who went to the bar, and Morgan crossed to join them. “How are you? Asta was describing what happened last night. That’s terrible.”

“Exciting to say the least,” Ferguson told him, “but the boy here kept his head and drove like Stirling Moss in his prime.” He smiled. “A long time ago, but still the only British racing driver worth his salt, as far as I’m concerned.”

Marco brought two lagers, gave one to Morgan and the other to Asta, and retired to the door. Asta said, “All the fun of the fair. I’m looking forward to it.”

The door opened again and Hector Munro entered with Rory. On seeing them by the fire he paused and put a finger to his forehead. “Ladies,” he said courteously and started to the bar.

“No sign of that son of yours, I suppose,” Morgan said.

“Ah, well Fergus is away to see relatives, Mr. Morgan,” Hector told him. “I doubt he’ll be back for a while.”

He moved off to the bar and Ferguson finished his drink. “Right, let’s get moving.” He stood up. “See you later, Morgan,” and he led the way out.

There was a refreshment tent, two or three roundabouts for children, and a primitive boxing ring, which for the moment was empty. The main event taking place when they arrived was the horse sale and they stood on the edge of the crowd and watched the gypsy boys running up and down, clutching the horses’ bridles as they showed their paces. Dillon noticed Hector Munro and Rory at one point, inspecting a couple of ponies.

He strolled over, lighting a cigarette, and said in Irish, “Dog meat only, those two.”

“Do I need telling?” Hector replied in Gaelic.

Rory grinned. “Expert are you?”

“I spent enough time on my uncle’s farm in County Down as a boy to know rubbish when I see it.”

Dillon smiled amiably and returned to the others. “Games just starting,” Ferguson said. “Come on.”

There were fifty-yard dashes and sack races for the younger children, but the adult sports were more interesting. Large men tossed the caber, an object resembling a telegraph pole. There was hammer throwing and the long jump, even Scottish reels danced to the skirl of the bagpipes.

Morgan and Asta, Marco behind them, appeared on the other side of the crowd. She saw Dillon and waved. He waved back and then turned to watch as the wrestling began. Brawny men in kilts with thighs like tree trunks grappled with the power and striking force of sumo wrestlers, the crowd urging them on.

“Rather jolly all this.” Ferguson produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the top and took a swallow. “Just like Samson. Didn’t he smite the Philistines hip and thigh, Chief Inspector?”

“I believe he did, sir, but frankly, it isn’t my cup of tea.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would be.”

And then the crowd moved away toward the boxing ring, carrying them with it. Dillon said, “Now this looks more like it.”

“What is it?” Hannah demanded.

“Old style prize fighting, I’d say. Let’s see what happens.”

A middle-aged man in boxing boots and shorts slipped under the ropes into the ring. He had the flattened nose of the professional fighter, scar tissue around his eyes. On the back of his old nylon robe was the legend “Tiger Grant.”

“By God, he’s seen a few fights,” Ferguson said.

“A hard one,” Dillon nodded in agreement.

At that moment Asta joined them, Marco forcing a way through for her and Morgan. The Sicilian looked up at Tiger Grant, his expression enigmatic.

Dillon said, “From the look of his face, Marco here has done a bit himself.”

“Light heavyweight champion of Sicily in his day,” Morgan said. “Twenty-two fights.”

“How many did he win?”

“All of them. Three decisions on points, twelve knockouts, seven where the referee stopped the fight.”

“Is that a fact?” Dillon said. “I must remember to avoid him on a dark night.”

Marco turned to look at him, something in his eyes, but at that moment a small man in tweed suit and cap climbed through the ropes clutching a pair of boxing gloves and turned, waving for silence.

“Now there must be a few sporting gentlemen here, so I’ll give you a chance of some real money.” He took a wad of bank notes from his inside pocket. “Fifty pounds, my friends, to any man who can last three rounds with Tiger Grant. Fifty pounds.”

He didn’t have to wait long. Dillon saw two burly young men on the other side of the ring talking to the Munros. One took off his jacket and gave it to Rory and slipped between the ropes.

“I’m on,” he said and the crowd cheered.

The small man helped him into the boxing gloves while Tiger Grant tossed his robe to someone acting as his second in the corner, The small man got out of the ring, took a stopwatch from one pocket and a handbell from the other.

“Each round three minutes, let battle commence.”

The young man moved in on Grant aggressively, the crowd cheering and Asta clutching Dillon’s arm. “This is exciting.”

“Butchery would be a better description,” Hannah Bernstein observed.

And she was right, for Grant, easily evading the wild punches, moved in fast and gave his opponent a short and powerful punch in the stomach that put him down, writhing in agony. The crowd roared as the second and the small man helped the unfortunate youth from the ring.

The small man returned. “Any more takers?” But already the other one who had been standing with the Munros was climbing into the ring. “I’ll have you, that was my brother.”

Grant remained imperturbable and when the bell went and the youth rushed him, stepped from side-to-side, blocking wild punches, eventually putting him down as he had the brother.

The crowd groaned and Hannah said, “This is terrible.”

“It could be worse,” Dillon said. “Grant could have made mincemeat of those two and didn’t. He’s all right.”

He was suddenly aware of Morgan saying something to Marco. He couldn’t hear what it was because of the noise of the crowd, but the Sicilian stripped off his jacket and was under the ropes and into the ring, beating Rory Munro by a second.

“Another sportsman,” the small man called although his smile slipped a little as he tied Marco’s boxing gloves on.

“Oh, dear, he’s not so sure now,” Ferguson observed.

“Care to have a side bet, Brigadier?” Morgan asked. “Let’s say a hundred pounds.”

“You’ll lose your money,” Dillon said to Ferguson.

“I don’t need you to tell me that, dear boy. Sorry, Morgan.”

The bell jangled, Marco stood, arms at his side, and for some reason the crowd went silent. Grant crouched, feinted, then moved in fast. Marco swayed with amazing speed to one side, pivoted and punched him in the ribs twice, the sound echoing over the crowd. Grant’s head went up in agony and Marco punched him on the jaw, the blow traveling hardly any distance at all. Grant went down like a sack of coal and lay there and there was a gasp of astonishment from the crowd.

The small man was on one knee trying to revive him helped by the second, and Marco paced about like a nervous animal. “My money, where’s my money?” he demanded and pulled off his right glove and lifted the small man up. He, in his turn, looked terrified, took the notes from his pocket, and passed them over.

Marco moved round each side of the ring, waving the money over his head. “Anyone else?” he called.

There were boos and catcalls as the small man and the second got Grant out of the ring and then a voice called, “I’m for you, you bastard,” and Rory Munro climbed into the ring.

Marco kicked the spare gloves over to him and Dillon said, “A good lad in a pub brawl, but this could be the death of him.”

Rory went in hard and actually took Marco’s first punch, slipping one in himself that landed high on the Sicilian’s right cheek. Marco feinted, then punched him again in the side, but again, Rory rode the punch and hit him again on the right cheek, splitting the skin. Marco stepped back, touched his glove to his cheek, and saw the blood. There was rage in his eyes now as he came on, head down, and punched Rory in the ribs, once, twice, and then a third time.

“He’ll break bones before he’s through,” Dillon said.

Ferguson nodded. “And that young fool won’t lie down.”

Rory swayed, obviously in real pain, and Marco punched him in the face several times, holding his head with one gloved hand. The crowd roared their disapproval at such illegality and Marco, contemptuous of them, stepped back and measured Rory for a final punch as he stood there swaying and defenseless.

“Oh, God, no!” Hannah cried.

Dillon slipped through the ropes, stepped between Marco and Rory, and held his hand out palm first to the Sicilian. “He’s had enough.”

He turned, took Rory’s weight, and helped him to his corner, taking off his gloves and easing him down through the ropes to his father and willing hands. “If I was thirty years younger I’d do for that bastard myself,” Munro said in Gaelic.

“Well you’re not.”

Dillon turned and found Marco standing looking at him, gloved hands on hips. “You fancy some too, you Irish dog?” he said in Italian.

“That could be arranged,” Dillon replied in the same language.

“Then get your gloves on.”

“Who needs them.” Dillon kicked them out of the ring. “With gloves I can’t hurt you.”

It was deliberate baiting and Marco fell for it. “Delighted to oblige.”

“No, Dillon, no!” Asta called. “He’ll kill you.”

In motion be like water,
that’s what Yuan Tao had taught him. Total calm, complete control. This was no longer a boxing match and Marco had made a bad error.

The Sicilian came in fast and swung a punch, Dillon swayed to one side, stamping at the left kneecap, pivoted, and struck Marco in the side, screwing the punch as Yuan Tao had shown him. Marco cried out in agony and Dillon struck him again in the same manner and then turned his back, delivering a reverse elbow strike, smashing Marco’s mouth.

The crowd roared and Dillon walked away, and Marco, with amazing resilience, went after him like a wild man and as Dillon turned, punched him under the left cheek. Dillon was flung back by the assault, bounced off the ropes and fell over, and Marco kicked him in the ribs.

The crowd was going wild now and Dillon rolled away rapidly and got to his feet. “Jesus, son, this is getting to be a bore,” he said, and as Marco swung another punch, he grabbed the Sicilian’s right wrist, swung it round until the elbow locked, and ran him headfirst through the ropes and out of the ring to fall on his face in front of Ferguson, Morgan, and the two women.

As Marco rolled onto his back, Dillon vaulted the ropes and put a foot on his neck. “You lie still now, like a good dog, or I’ll break it.”

Morgan said in Italian, “Leave it, Marco, I order you.” He held out the man’s jacket and turned to Dillon. “You are a remarkable man, my friend.”

“A hero.” Asta clutched his arm.

“No he’s not, he’s a bloody fool,” Ferguson said. “Now let’s go to the refreshment tent, Dillon, I really think we’ve earned a drink after that little lot,” and he turned and led the way through the crowd of well-wishers, all eager to pat Dillon on the back.

It was reasonably quiet in the marquee, most people preferring to take advantage of the good weather. Ferguson went to the bar, which was laid out on a large trestle table. Dillon and Hannah sat at another of the tables and she took out her handkerchief and soaked it in the jug of water on the table. “Dillon, it’s split. I think you’re going to need stitches.”

“We’ll see. I can’t feel a thing at the moment.”

“Well, hold that handkerchief to it for a while.”

“Better to let it dry up.” He lit a cigarette.

“And you’re slowly killing yourself with those things.”

“A Fascist, that’s what you are. It’ll be booze you’re banning next, then sex.” He grinned. “Nothing left.”

“I always thought you had a death wish,” she told him, but she was smiling.

Ferguson came back with drinks on a tray. “Scotch for us, gin and tonic for you, Chief Inspector.”

“I’d rather have tea, sir, and it wouldn’t do Dillon any harm either,” and she got up and went to the refreshment bar.

“I knew it,” Ferguson said. “When that girl marries she’ll be one of those Jewish mothers you read about, the kind who rules her husband with a rod of iron and tells everybody what to do.”

“Jesus, Brigadier, but you must be getting old. I’ve news for you. There’s many a man would happily join the queue to be ruled with a rod of iron by Hannah Bernstein.”

At that moment, Asta appeared in the entrance, looked around, saw them, and came over. “There you are.”

She sat down and Dillon said, “Where’s Morgan?”

“Taking Marco down to the local hospital at Arisaig. He thinks you may have broken a rib. I said I’d make my own way back to the castle.”

“What perfectly splendid news,” Ferguson said.