The Purple Contract (27 page)

The
Hamnavoe
was home.

The steel ramp rattled under the Range Rover's wheels, and then he was on the short concrete causeway. Already the ferry loading area was full of vehicles lined up for the return trip. Hollis paused at the end of the causeway while a small tractor unit hauling an improbably large semi-trailer passed. With the road clear, he followed the other ex-ferry traffic out of the town, emerging into green countryside at the top of the hill.

Shortly the placid waters of Stenness Loch, followed immediately by Harray Loch, appeared––with wonderfully open countryside beyond. Hollis knew the shallow waters of Harray Loch, Orkney's largest, were ideal for both boat-fishing and wading. 'Won't be any time for that stuff, Mike,' he scolded himself.

About four kilometres further on he checked his sketch map, seeing the signpost
Finstown
at the side of the road. The third largest township in Orkney, Finstown nestles in a sheltered position at the head of the Bay of Firth. As he approached this body of water, Hollis left the main Kirkwall road and swung the car north onto the A966.

The houses rapidly thinned and were again replaced by empty countryside. Agricultural land again on both sides, the crops waving intricate patterns in the wind.

Hollis watched for the trees.

Living as he did in the West Highlands, where flora and fauna abound in chaotic profusion, it seemed odd to be watching for trees as a landmark. But driving through the Orkney countryside, Hollis could see the point of the directions he had been given: there was hardly a tree to be seen. Those that did exist in sheltered spots, were short, almost stunted examples of their genus. Witness to the winter gales that scoured the landscape of anything breakable or movable. Those strong enough to survive the buffeting winds had still to contend with salt-laden air all the year round.

Trees.

Hollis smiled to himself. The trees in question formed a tiny canopy across the width of the road amid a small group of houses. The ludicrously oversized road signs bordering this diminutive hamlet grated on his sense of proportion: no doubt another triumph for some local government official anxious to justify his existence.

Slowing, Hollis looked again at his list of directions.
Two miles past the trees/road left marked Trystling.
Passing farm after farm, Hollis admired the peaceful countryside. Spectacular, it wasn’t, not that sort of landscape at all, but it had
something
. The were low hills to his left and as he slowed, looking for the turn-off, he spotted a small cottage perched half-way up the slope. A tiny track led to it, no more than a scratch on the hillside.

Seeing the sign, Hollis turned onto what was little more than an improved farm track. Half a mile brought him to Trystling, a modern timber building in the Scandinavian style. Hollis stopped beside a red Peugeot and walked along a gravel path to the front door. The house was clearly newly-built, the garden still bare earth and churned up weeds. Sounds of hammering came from the rear, still work in progress, it seemed.

A tall, slim woman wearing a bright floral dress opened the door as Hollis approached. 'Mr Sperring?'

'Yes, hello.'

'I'm Trisha Hitchell. Did you have a good crossing?' She appeared to be in her forties, a pleasant-looking woman with a kindly face half hidden by over-large spectacles.

Hollis grinned at her, he remembered the voice from the telephone. 'Yes, it was fine.' He got the impression it was a standard question for new arrivals. Bad weather in the Pentland Firth would surely give some holidaymakers an unfortunate start to their vacation. But not today. 'I enjoyed it.'

'That's good,' she said. 'The weather forecast wasn't very good this morning, but they seem to have got it wrong again! Come in.' She led the way inside the house. 'Have you been in Orkney before?'

The lilting accent was most attractive, Hollis thought. 'No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t.'

In the kitchen, Trisha lifted a key from the tabletop. ‘Here you are. This is the front door key. The back door hasn’t locked for years, but don’t worry about it, this is Orkney!’

Hollis understood what she meant, there was little serious crime in these islands.

'You’ll find everything you need in the usual places, just root around until you find them!’ she smiled. ‘The cooker runs on bottled gas, there are two red cylinders round the back and there should be plenty for any cooking you need to do.’

Hollis nodded.

'One is in use and the other is a spare, there's a valve that automatically changes over when one runs out, so you shouldn't have any trouble with them. If you do, just come and say.'

'I'm sure I won't.'

'I got some things for you this morning,’ Trisha said, ‘in case you didn't want to go running into town on your first day.' She smiled her engaging smile at him again, men never seemed to remember about such things. 'There's fresh milk in the fridge, along with butter, jam and so on. And a loaf of bread and some bannocks as well.’

'That's great, thank you.'

They walked back to the front door. ‘There’s no TV, I’m afraid, that’s on the list for next year.’

'I'm not worried about that,' Hollis assured her. 'Where I live in the west highlands, I only have satellite TV––nothing else is available at all.'

Trisha looked surprised. 'Some parts of Orkney have problems like that.' She turned to wave a hand towards the back of the house. 'Further along the road, towards Birsay, there are places where television reception is very bad. High ground blocks the signal or something.'

'I hope they get a rebate on the licence fee!' Hollis commented. Not that he himself owned such a thing.

She laughed. 'I think it
has
been tried!'

'Quite right, too.'

'You'll find there is an electric blanket on each of the beds. Even in summer, it can get a bit chilly.'

'Especially in old houses. I have the same problem.'

'Oh?'

'Yes, it's an old croft house. It was empty and in quite bad disrepair when I bought it some years ago.' He didn't tell her that he had hunted high and low for just such a property, in a suitably isolated location. 'I've been working on it ever since. Keeps me busy.'

'I'm sure it does. My parents lived near here from the day they got married until the day they died. It was a croft of course in the early days and they had to work hard just to survive.’

'I suppose a lot of older houses here get a new lease of life in the tourist industry,’ said Hollis.

Trisha nodded. 'It seems that way.’ She waved a hand at the house behind her. ‘Nowadays, we all want new, modern houses with conservatories and central heating. Even peat-cutting is dying out in Orkney.' She shrugged. 'For thousands of years everybody burned peat for both heating and cooking. But nowadays it's practically unknown.'

'That's a shame,' said Hollis, and meant it. As an American, he had difficulty relating to people who could speak casually of thousands of years on ancestry. He knew from his guide book that the world-famous archaeological site of Skara Brae had already been occupied in 3000
BC
. And nobody actually knew just how long ago the first explorers and settlers had come to these islands. It was a sobering thought sure enough.

Trisha pointed along the farm track. ‘It’s just a bit farther along the road, you can’t miss it!’

‘I saw it from the main road. Thanks a lot.’

'The electricity meter takes 50p pieces, it's under the stairs. You can use whichever of the three bedrooms you like. The attic ones have the best views, but it's up to yourself.'

'I'll be fine. The house will be great, just what I was looking for.'

Trisha looked pleased. 'If the toaster or something conks out, just come and tell me.’

‘Thanks again, said Hollis, and walked back to the car.

Sanctuary.

 
 
 
 
15

 
Monday 19 August, 2013

It was shaping up to be a fairly typical Monday morning.

The train shuddered to a halt for the fourth time, again without any explanation being given.
Why did they bother installing intercom systems in these bloody things?
Puzzled and irritated commuters peered uncertainly out of the steamed-up windows, but what little was visible gave no clue as to the reason for yet another delay. The gray morning outside was adequately reflected in the gloomy atmosphere within the crowded carriage as the occupants dismally considered the prospect of yet another week at the grindstone.

Frank Wedderman gave up his analysis of railway PR procedures and rested his head on the seat-back. He closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the lurid conversation being pursued between two girls in the seat behind him. He had yet to come to a positive conclusion on whether the young lady in question was protesting or boasting about what her boyfriend had been doing to her during the course of the weekend.

It hardly mattered.

At least the silly bitch was in not in imminent danger of being shot simply because she had managed to offend somebody who possessed large amounts of money and a distinct shortage of morals.

The train eased into motion again, rumbling its unhurried way through the dreary suburbs of the capitol.

The problem, Wedderman thought, was his total inability to understand the personality that drove the kind of person who would willingly kill another human being for money. Try as he might, he simply couldn't get inside the head of this man Hollis––or whatever his real name might be. He might as well have tried to empathize with the slobbering alien lifeform he had been grimacing at on TV last night. He smiled to himself at the mental picture generated by this interesting comparison.

Finally setting foot on the crowded streets of London, he briefly considered taking a taxi in an attempt to make up some lost time. But one glance at the traffic chaos on display persuaded him that walking would surely be the quicker option. He arrived in his office thirty five minutes late, perspiring and grumbling.

A trip to the washroom and two cups of coffee later he rapped a knuckle on the door of Chief Inspector Durrant's office. 'Can I have a few minutes, sir?'

'Of course, Frank, come in and pull up a chair. How's the inquiry going?'

'Well, sir, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.' Wedderman sat and gathered his thoughts. 'When we started this thing––God it seems a lifetime ago––we identified several possible targets. People whom we judged were potentially at risk from a professional killer due to their personal, commercial or political circumstances.

'In the absence of a definite lead, it was the best we could do. Both Special Branch and the uniformed services have spent a lot of time on the subsequent investigations, not to mention a significant presence at suspect events, appearances etc.'

Durrant nodded in silence. He too had been experiencing a certain measure of frustration with the course of this inquiry. He had said little to express his uncertainty, because to knew his junior officers, indeed everyone concerned, was putting in one hundred percent effort––and had been doing so from day one. Berating them for lack of success would achieve nothing. Would, he was sure, produce a high degree of resentment and very little else.

Durrant had total contempt for those who indulged in that style of bullying management.

'The problem is that over the weeks each of our prospects has made his public appearance, or attended his meeting, or whatever––without any sign of anything untoward. Our investigations have turned up nothing to show that any of them was ever really at risk.' Wedderman heaved a sigh, sitting back in his chair and pulling at his chin with one hand. Sooner or later he would be required to justify the manpower used to cover these events. The overtime costs alone were staggering.

'Do you think we might have scared him off?' suggested Durrant.

'I'd like to believe that, but it doesn't really ring true. The truth is we haven't done anything that's going to worry someone like this Hollis character.'

Durrant waited for what he knew was coming. He had followed the same train of thought himself more than once. He didn't expect to like it any better for it being put into words.

Wedderman took a deep breath. 'That just leaves two suspect events outstanding: Blair in Aberdeen; and Prince Charles in the Orkney Islands.'

The Orkney Islands were experiencing a typical summer day: with broken clouds scudding across the sky, driven by a brisk south westerly wind. The waters of the Harray Loch were chill-looking, but obviously no deterrent to the various fishermen dotted here and there. Ken Basker had never been interested in fishing, indeed he had never been a man to indulge in hobbies of any sort in the past.

The advent of the highly-portable camcorder, and in particular his ownership of one, had changed all that. He had uncovered in himself, to his surprise, a totally unexpected fascination with film-making. Previously, he had looked on "home-movies" in some disdain, having sat through too many flickering, badly-focused and downright embarrassing “Super-8” efforts in his time.

Modern video equipment provided the sort of facilities which any professional film cameraman of the sixties, seventies or eighties would have given the proverbial arm and leg for. And all of it miniaturised into a package hardly bigger than a traditional SLR. With the addition of computer-aided editing and titling, the now-humble camcorder enabled even Ken Basker to produce home movies to be proud of.

Ken stood in the centre of the great stone circle of Brodgar and rotated slowly in place, recording the procession of stone menhirs. It was an incredible sight: the ring of standing stones was over 100 paces across. He counted twenty seven stones still standing and according to the information board at the entrance, there had originally been 60 of them.

Lowering the camera again, he walked back through the heather to where his family waited by the gate. Like many others before him, Ken wondered what had driven a primitive society in the third millennium BC to complete, let alone contemplate, such an awesome construction. And like many of those before him, he wondered in vain.