The Purple Contract (31 page)

Davis inspected the photograph. 'What's he done, then?'

'God knows. The fax originated in London, and it certainly wasn't aimed at us specifically; that's all I can tell you.' Weeks went back to his paperwork. It would be a rare old day when some big-city hooligan from The Smoke turned up in Kirkwall. The Costa del Crime it wasn't! Chuckling at his wit, he went back to work.

Davis stood for a moment peering at the tousle-topped features in the black and white image. The quality was reasonable: he had seen worse. At least the man was recognisable, which was an improvement over some of the things the lads at the sharp end were given to work with.

 
 
 
 
18

 
Thursday 22 August, 2013

Thursday morning dawned bright and clear. The white Astra was sixth in the line of vehicles waiting behind the
Westray
sign on the pier. Alongside them, other cars and vans were waiting for different ferries to different islands. Fed up with sitting in the car, Ken had taken the video camera and gone walkabout.

The harbour was normally a lively place, certainly at this time of the day, so there was no shortage of vessels to be inspected. Through the viewfinder he centred the lens on a couple of local workboats bouncing their fenders against each other in the slow swell. A good clip. Atmospheric!

Behind him, a horn beeped twice. Time to go…

Back at the car, Ken handed the camera to his wife and drove down the ramp into yet another car ferry. It seemed you could hardly go six paces here without tripping over a boat of some sort. Island life for you.
He can't be serious, I'll never get through there!
Ken swallowed nervously and aimed at the narrow gap between two other cars.
Jesus, they don't half pack them in on these things!

They all squeezed out the half-open doors and wandered into the passenger accommodation. Ten minutes later the
Varagen
backed away from the ro-ro ramp, the visor swinging down almost noiselessly over the bow. Using the side-thrusters, the captain swung the ship round in her own length and the vessel gathered speed away from Kirkwall, bound for the North Isles.

He had made two previous circuits and this time he was lucky, finding a space at the end of one row where someone had just pulled out. It was a tight squeeze for the Range Rover but Hollis was fed up looking for a place to park. It seemed that every vehicle-owner in Orkney had chosen that day to come into town. He walked briskly back through the car park onto Junction Road, crossing to the chandelry shop on the corner.

Hollis held the door open while a girl emerged carrying what appeared to be several wet suits in both arms.

'Thanks!' she smiled in passing.

Hollis closed the door behind her and eyed the skinny young man behind the counter. He was wearing a black tee shirt with the logo
Runrig
across the front and fashionably faded jeans. He chewed incessantly while watching Hollis impassively.

'I'm looking for Willie Harcus. Is he around?' asked Hollis.

This was the last hope.

'Naw, he's up at the slip,' the boy answered in a broad Glasgow accent. He sounded at least as bored as he looked.

Hollis was getting seriously concerned. The two boat-hire leads he had obtained at the Tourist Office had come to nothing. Both craft were already on virtually permanent hire to fishermen or divers. So much for his naive view of how easy it would be to hire a boat in an island community. It hadn't occurred to him that there would be a great many other calls on those that were available, at least during the summer months. It wasn't terribly encouraging, and time pressure was mounting.

'At the what?' Hollis asked.

'The slip, up at Hatston.' He looked Hollis over, chewing. 'That's Hatston, over there,' he pointed out the side window.

Hollis squinted through the plate glass. Another industrial estate.

'Along the road there, first right, past the Ortak factory, you'll see a compound on the right with some boats and a shed in it.' The boy waved a hand erratically as he spoke. 'Big lad, with a check shirt and green wellies!'

Hollis decided against moving the car: he would never get another space. He left the shop and walked uphill, away from the harbour, turning right into the sprawling estate, built on the site of a wartime naval air base It was a fine day for a walk, one of those beautiful, impeccable days when the blue sky and even bluer sea seem to go on forever. The second of his abortive phone calls had produced Willie Harcus' name as a possible source of boat hire. Although the man on the other end of the line had been less that optimistic.

The American was looking disaster in the face. He
had
to have some means of getting off Hoy. Some
independent
means. Hollis worked it over in his mind as he walked. Try as he might, he could see no alternative. He was beginning to understand that
this
was turning out to be the most crucial part of the plan. More so, surprisingly enough, than the problem of getting inside NorthTek tomorrow. Without seaborne transport he would end up stuck on a small island with a corpse of his own doing. Running around like a rat in a trap while the authorities flew in helicopter-loads of searchers with dogs, infra-red cameras and telescopic sights on the rifles.

No go.

The wire surrounding the compound was sagging and uneven. One of the angle-steel corner posts was split in half where it had rusted completely though. As a security measure it might just have kept out a drunken chicken. Inside was a random clutter of hull supports and mostly empty launching cradles and trailers. An untidy row of seven sailing dinghies lay on the chopped-up grass in one corner. To one side stood a small storage shed from which emitted heated voices.

By the time Hollis had found the open gate, the altercation had developed into a scuffle. Round the end of the shed a middle-aged man wearing a red check shirt was being held against the rough wooden wall by a lad in his twenties. Fists were flailing ineffectively on both sides. Hollis thought about waiting until they sorted themselves out. But the way his luck was going right now Willie Harcus would surely end up in the hospital. Not to mention the possibility of the police taking an interest in what was, after all, at the very least a breach of the peace.

And anyway, he didn't have time for this.

Hollis walked up to the pair and heaved them apart. 'Right lads, calm down!'

'What the
fuck
––?' The young man was so furious that spittle dotted the American's jacket as he shouted in Hollis' face. Without thought the lad’s fist came up from his side in one fluid movement.

Hollis moved rapidly back a pace, lifting his left arm almost vertically upwards in a block. The fist slid harmlessly along the outside of the extended arm at the same instant as four rigid fingers sank deep into the lad’s celiac plexus. The boy's breath caught in his throat and he doubled up, gasping for air. Hollis grabbed him and heaved him toward the gate, sending him sprawling across the opening into the loose mesh fence.

Willie Harcus looked at the young man sagging on he knees in the mud and nodded with approval.

‘He shouldn’t start things he can’t finish,’ Hollis observed.

'Serve the little bugger right!' grunted Harcus

'What was that all about?'

'He helps me here from time to time, when we need extra hands.' They both watched the lad stumble out the gate like a half-shut knife. 'Said he needs some money pretty badly, and wants me to give him some work. I told him we won't need any extra hands until the end of the season. Christ, he knows that well enough!' He waved a hand at a score of masts bobbing offshore. 'Most of those boats will be laid up in here over the winter. It's a busy time and we take on several lads on a casual basis for a few weeks to get things cleared away.' He shook his head, rubbing at a skinned elbow. 'He just blew up! Thanks for the help.'

'No charge.'

'You looking for me, are you?'

'If you're Willie Harcus, that's right.'

'Aye, that's me. That's me all right. I hope you're not looking for a job!'

'No.' Hollis shook his head, grinning. 'I'm trying to hire a small boat for some fishing. I'm told you might have something available?'

'Mmm,' Harcus picked up a flat cap from underneath a boat trailer and replaced it on his head. 'The only thing I can offer you is an old dory. Not very fancy, but she floats!'

It was like the chime of a bell that existed only in his mind. Hollis
felt
the tension release. 'Doesn't matter what it looks like, it'll do me fine.'

'Aye, well. It's down here, come and have a look.' Harcus led the way out the compound and down the slipway. 'Mind your feet here, that wet moss will have the feet from under you! He pointed to a small blue and white glassfibre boat moored to one side of the slipway. 'It's got the open-ended cabin top, so there's some shelter from the weather. You're not planning to go far offshore, are you?'

Not really. 'Oh, no. I thought I might wander about Scapa, do a bit of sightseeing and a bit of fishing. Maybe visit a couple of islands. Depends what the weather is like over the weekend.'

'That's right,' Harcus agreed. 'The weather governs everything up here, even in the summer,' he nodded to himself again. 'I can move her across to Scapa for you, no bother. Plenty of trailers here right now!'

Hollis stepped down carefully into the dory and looked about him. The cabin was a tangle of ropes and fuel cans, but the large Mercury outboard on the stern looked to be in good shape. Indeed it was possibly worth more than the hull that supported it. A small steering wheel that bore an MG badge and had clearly once graced a motor car and a single throttle lever were the only controls. A jumbo-jet it wasn't.

But to Hollis it was worth its weight in gold.

'Just the weekend, did you say?'

Hollis nodded. 'That's right. How much to hire it till Monday?'

'Ah, well,' Harcus said self-consciously. He never liked talking about money. 'I'll have to charge you forty pound a day, or my partner will moan at me about it.' He shuffled his feet. 'He does the books, like. Proper businessman, with a degree and everything.' He looked up and grinned. 'But he could'na sail a boat to save his life!'

They both laughed.

Hollis pulled out his wallet and counted out eight twenty-pound notes. 'Friday to Monday, four days.' He added another three twenties. 'And you'll put the boat into Scapa for me, with a few cans of spare fuel?'

'Aye, no bother. It'll be sitting at the wee jetty over there whenever you're ready, you can't miss it.'

'That's great. Thanks.'

Willie Harcus watched his visitor walk back up the sloping surface back to the road. It occurred to him that he hadn't heard the man's name. He assumed he had missed it, in all the excitement. Not that it mattered all that much. He folded the notes and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. What his partner didn't know, he wouldn't grieve over...

Hollis walked back the way he had come. He felt no remorse. When he was finished with the boat he would abandon it somewhere along the mainland coast. Wherever was convenient at the time. It would find its way back to its owners all right, eventually. He made his way unhurriedly into town in search of the last few items he would need tomorrow.

Alison glanced anxiously at the sky as she shepherded the children along the side deck and into the passenger accommodation. The endless blue of the morning had long since given way to scudding gray. Shortly after lunchtime the wind had begun picking up from the south west. They settled in a corner alongside two teenagers who had a rucksack each and a pile of other bags stuffed under the bench seat.

Ken leaned on the rail with the stiffening wind making his eyes water. He had been hoping to video their departure from Westray but had already given that idea up. The world was looking very gray, indeed he could see rain falling under the low cloudbase not far off.

'Big change noo, eh'?' the cheery west highland voice cut into his thoughts.

Ken looked round at the elderly man wrapped up in the sort of strikingly multi-coloured garment you normally only saw in skiing programs on TV. He looked to be in his seventies. 'Yes, you could say that!' he nodded forward. 'There's rain coming too.'

The elderly man peered out at the overcast sky and grinned. 'Aye, we'll be having a lively crossing I think.' He zipped the coat up even tighter under his long chin. 'Better go and see to the wee wuman, she's no' a very good sailor!'

Ken watched him saunter off. The
Varagen
was just pulling away from the ramp and already he could feel the motion of the sea. He watched the village of Pierowall slide astern, then tucked the camera under one arm for protection and made his way below.

Alison moved over to make room for him on the bench. The ship was pretty crowded, much more so than the outward trip. Ken looked for a place to put the camera and finally decided it would be safest on the floor under the seat. He jammed it between a plastic carrier bag and a rucksack, it would be fine there––out of the way of passing feet.

Half an hour later both Ken and Alison were beginning to feel a little queasy. Absently they watched the group of children playing happily in the passageways, their own two among them. If any of them noticed the unsteady motion at all they gave no sign, totally absorbed in what they were doing. Ken was glad of the distraction: it kept his mind off other things.

It worked, for a while.

Ken was first to head outside, with an extremely preoccupied look on his face. His wife watched him go and knew that she wouldn't be far behind. This wasn't turning out to be a lot of fun. There must be at least an hour of the journey to go! That thought itself was enough to send her rapidly in Ken's wake.

By the time the
Varagen
reached the comparative shelter of Kirkwall Bay in the early evening, there were a number of greenish faces on board. Even some of the Westray folk, to whom the ferries were like a bus service, had decided they had picked the wrong day.