The Clyde Hotel was a solid, sturdy building of dark red sandstone that at one time might have been the residence of the local laird. Built on the crest of a small hill, it had magnificent views to the north of Loch Tummel and the Forest of Atholl, and further to the west of the Grampians, grey peaks lightly dusted with snow. Cliff drove the old Renegade jeep up the curving driveway and halted on the gravel forecourt next to the main entrance. Too early for the hunting-shooting-fishing season, the hotel had a slumbering look about it, an impression reinforced by an ancient sit-up-and-beg bicycle with a straw pannier at the front, propped against the steps. Climbing out, Dillon has a quick look at the tripometer which they’d set that morning on leaving London. 451. Bloody well felt like it too; his arse was as numb as a witch’s frozen tit. Groaning and stretching, Jimmy and Steve jumped down from the back seat they’d had to share with the bags, personal effects and other assorted paraphernalia that Dillon reckoned they needed for the job. More gear than they’d had disembarking at Port San Carlos, Jimmy thought sourly. What were they going to do, invade Perthshire? ‘What time do you call this?’ Harry Travers clattered down the steps in
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camouflage pants and army boots, big beefy grin on his chops. He’d put on a few pounds since last Dillon had seen him, but on top of a barrel-chested eighteen stone it hardly mattered, and he looked in fighting trim. Harry stuck out his hand. ‘How ya doin’, Jimmy? Frank. This is Don Walker from One Para…’ A younger bloke, late twenties, with longish dark hair kept in place by a bandanna, nodded to them from the top of the steps. Harry’s grin changed to a scowl as he noticed Steve Harris in the background. ‘Hey, what’s with Harris? You never said you were bringin’ him.’ Still grumbling, Harry led Dillon and Jimmy up the steps, Steve trailing after, head down. ‘I got a bone to pick with him — he borrowed me mate’s Honda Prelude and that was the last we saw of it. He’s a prat!’ Left behind with a bag in each hand, Cliff contemplated the loaded jeep and shouted after them as they all disappeared inside, ‘Oh thanks lads, thanks a bundle!’ Hamish MacFarland, the hotel’s owner, was already well into double figures with the Glenlivet, by Dillon’s estimation, as they came into the bar. He was balanced precariously on a bar-stool, glass in one hand, his other arm draped around a stag’s head that for some mysterious reason was plonked on the counter next to the beer pumps. Harry did the introductions, and MacFarland invited them all to have a drink with him, ‘a wee dram’ before dinner. He had another wee dram himself to keep them company. The mention of dinner got Dillon’s gastric juices flowing: motorway coffee and sandwiches had sustained them on the trip, but he realised he was starving. But he forgot about his stomach for a minute when MacFarland’s daughter came through to take their orders. And a hush fell amongst the others too, the banter dying away to silence. Dark hair, shoulder length and naturally curled, a wide mouth that smiled easily, Sissy MacFarland had a creamy complexion that didn’t need make-up, lightly sprinkled with freckles, and a figure that most women could only dream of having and every man couldn’t help drooling over. She treated their admiring looks and silent whistles with good-natured amusement, not offended, not affected or preening either. ‘Can I take orders for dinner?’ she asked, looking around, licking the tip of her chewed pencil, using an old notepad to take their orders. She was flushed from cooking, her simple cotton dress had sweat marks under the arm pits and her apron ribbons were undone. She was a mother figure whose curves and heavy breasts encouraged a man to trust her and to want her to cradle him in her lovely strong arms. And when they felt her softness, the desire for those breasts to break free, to be cupped and kissed, made Sissy, sweet Sissy the object of every man’s desire. ‘Salmon, Jugged hare, roast venison?’ She could have said, ‘I am free, I am obtainable, I am here for each one of you, I am the woman you dream of!’ The menu received a spontaneous round of applause that set every man laughing, as if knowing each other’s minds. ‘I’ll have that!’ Jimmy laughed louder than the others, giving Sissy a wink. ‘Eh! Is the rest of him on the menu Gov?’ Jimmy pointed to the massive stag’s head, still being embraced by MacFarland. ‘If it is, I’ll have the jugged hare!’ MacFarland didn’t seem to get the joke, or the fact that the entire menu was obviously poached. He was getting into a drunken state over his prized stag. ‘I brought him down with one shot,’ he slurred, misty-eyed with nostalgia bordering on the maudlin. ‘They got a big ‘un up at the Estate, three grand on his head for anyone lucky enough to get him…
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, he’s not a patch on my boy. I had him mounted in Edinburgh, nineteen fifty-five Sissy came round taking their orders, getting a lot of smiles and compliments, then she crossed to Steve sitting on the fringe of the group. Steve hadn’t taken his eyes off her since the moment she had entered. ‘What would you like?’ Sissy asked pleasantly and all the lads gave a cheer, knowing full well what Steve would like. Steve gulped air, trying to speak, but nothing came out. The lads were already encouraging Macfarland for another round of his special malt, only Dillon watched Steve. He saw Sissy repeat her question, saw the deep flush come over Steve’s face. Sissy thought Steve was just drunk, she said, ‘You want the jugged hare?’ and he nodded. Sissy went out, back to the kitchens. Busy in her roles as cook, waitress and receptionist she never gave Steve a second thought, but Dillon had seen his helplessness, his deep humiliation at being unable to reply to a simple query. In the old days there could have been competition, Steve would have been in like Flynn. Then he had it down to a fine art, the shy look from his wide beautiful eyes accompanied by a slow, sexy smile, and the toss of his thick black hair, had the women within seconds. The female species couldn’t resist him. Now, dirty lank hair hanging over his flushed crimson face, and drunk, befuddled eyes gave no indication of what he had once been capable of as ‘The Puller’; all he could do now was stare helplessly into his whisky glass. It was empty. Dillon placed a fresh glass in front of Steve, rubbed his head, and returned to the lads at the bar. He turned back. Steve was looking at him and it was to Dillon that he gave one of his smiles, as he mouthed, ‘Thanks Mate.’
Wearing her best outfit, fresh lipstick and Boots’ pale peach eyeshadow, Susie Dillon stood at the waist-high counter of Marway MiniCabs, nervously clutching a Sainsbury’s carrier-bag of groceries. She hadn’t realised till now (Marway hadn’t struck her as a foreign name, when she’d noticed the ad in the evening paper) that Mr Marway was Indian, or Sikh, or something — anyway he wore a turban, and had a small pointed beard. Not that it mattered. A job was a job. Sitting at the control panel, looking a bit out of place in a well-cut dark suit and immaculate collar and tie, Marway spoke into the microphone on its silver stalk. He flicked a couple of switches, checked off the fares on a clipboard, and then gave his attention back to Susie and her somewhat strained smile. ‘Day shift is from nine until three, night shift from four until three, and you’ll be driven home.’ Marway’s voice was a dead fit with his appearance, anyway: tasteful, evenly modulated, an educated man, no question. ‘I have two boys at school, so that would be fine,’ Susie said, anxious to reassure him. ‘My husband is working in Scotland … I’d need someone to show me how the — er —’ She made a little nervous gesture towards the control panel. ‘Of course.’ Marway got up, smiling, lifted the flap in the counter and extended the palm of his hand, bidding her enter. ‘What about right now?’ ‘You mean start straight away?’ Susie said, taken aback. ‘If it’s convenient, and the pay is acceptable.’ Susie’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes! Yes!’ She smiled delightedly, absolutely thrilled. ‘I’ve got the job then? Oh, that’s marvellous,’ she said, taking his hand and shaking it. ‘Thank you!’ It was that simple. Literally walking off the street and into a job. She could hardly believe it. Wait till she told Frank! But that thought didn’t exactly fill her with unbounded joy, knowing his old-fashioned views on women going out to work when they had a couple of young kids to look after. Anyway, Susie thought defiantly, that’s why she was doing this, for the kids, for the family. They needed money, so why not go out and earn it? Simpler getting a job than actually doing it, Susie soon discovered. Marway wrote out a sheet of instructions, gave her an
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, and left her to get on with it. In-between taking calls and relaying instructions to the drivers, she managed to sneak in a call to her mother, asking her to pick up the boys from school. Bit of a white lie, that, telling Marway the job fitted round the school routine. Helen moaned at first, but then agreed, as Susie knew she would. Less than an hour later, Helen rang back. Didn’t want to panic unduly, but Kenny was complaining of a sore throat and his temperature was up. The panel started buzzing and flashing, calls piling up. In a rush, Susie told her to put him to bed, take up his favourite meal if he could face it, fish fingers and beans, chocolate-chip ice cream. She’d be home soon. ‘Has Frank called?’ she asked before ringing off, and instantly regretted the question even before Helen’s reply came through the headphones, tart as vinegar. ‘No, he’s not called. But then you know him!’ Susie cut her off and went back to work. ‘Marway MiniCabs … is it cash or account? … Be about half an hour, okay… Right, your name…?’ Susie was getting the hang of it now, it hadn’t taken too long, and as soon as she had got over her initial fear of fouling up the switchboard, she grew less and less flustered. She was actually beginning to enjoy working and the newfound confidence it gave her. If Frank hadn’t called, it was nothing new, she’d spent half their married life waiting for him to call or write — at least in Scotland there was no fear of the call or the telegram to say he was dead.
Apart from the Tower of London, Dillon couldn’t recall ever seeing a real castle, complete with turrets and ramparts, before he laid eyes on McGregor Castle, the centrepiece of the vast McGregor Estate. Riding up in the jeep with Jimmy and Cliff, the castle suddenly presented itself at the head of the glen, grey, jutting, uncompromising, outlined against a clear blue sky with faint wisps of cirrus high above. At the wheel, Jimmy gave a low whistle of awe and admiration, and from the back seat Cliff muttered grudgingly, ‘Some have it all, don’t they? Bet it freezes the bollocks off ‘em in winter.’ The jeep juddered over a cattle grid, and the countryside became more cultivated, with sweeping lawns, groves of trees, and carefully tended flowerbeds. Harry Travers waved them down as they came up the drive and hopped on the running-board, directing them to take a side road leading to the stables and outhouses. ‘You know who’s in charge, do you, Frank?’ Harry looked down, broad florid face and ginger moustache, wide-set piercing blue eyes fixed on Dillon. ‘Old friend of yours. Malone.’ Malone. Dillon shot a venomous look at Harry, suspecting that the big man was winding him up. But Harry wasn’t smiling. ‘He’s been in civvies for four years now.’ It was five since Dillon had seen him last. The night Hennessey’s Bar went up, and the yellow bastard had run off, left the injured and dying behind, including his own comrades, in that hellish inferno. Jimmy stopped the jeep outside the stable block. Don Walker, bandanna around his head, was in the paddock, feeding an apple to a beautiful chestnut mare. Don nuzzled the horse’s soft nose, whispered to it and at the same time he clocked the lads’ arrival, but he made no effort to cross over or even welcome them. He found it difficult to interact with anyone, even his own kind, his shyness and his inability to form personal relationships made him a loner. It was only with the animals that he felt at peace, felt the anger inside fade. Dillon was about to stroll over when a tall black-haired figure, dressed in an old Denison smock, emerged from one of the outhouses into the sunlight. Malone started towards the jeep, and then halted mid-stride, took a pace back as he saw Dillon. The two men locked eyes, the mutual hatred passing between them like a electrical charge. ‘Well, well,’ Malone said, getting a sneer into his voice, ‘finding it tough in Civvy Street, are we, Frank?’ Face stiff, black eyes sweeping coldly from Dillon to take in the others. ‘Any aggro from any of you and you’re on your way, understand?’ ‘Malone? Can I have a word?’ The estate manager, John Griffiths, appeared at the office door and beckoned him over. A tall, slender, fair-haired man with a beaked nose and receding chin, he had public school written all over him, and sounded it too, a drawling, negligent tone as if all the world was at his beck and call, which of course it was. Jodhpurs tucked into green Wellington boots, thick polo-neck sweater, heavily darned, with leather patches on the sleeves, he was fashionably scruffy in the approved upper-class manner, and played the part to perfection. ‘You think they’ll be enough? Sure they can handle it?’ asked Griffiths, nodding to the group clustered round the jeep. ‘The dark-haired guy’s an ex-sergeant, explosives expert,’ Malone said, indicating Dillon. ‘We were in the same Regiment. The other four are good, steady soldiers.’ ‘Yes, well, this isn’t exactly a war, Malone,’ Griffiths retorted, a trifle testily. Malone grinned at him insolently, not bothering to hide his distaste. He turned his head to look at Dillon, muttering under his breath, ‘Wanna bet?’
Griffiths took Dillon and the others on a tour of the estate, pointing out the lie of the land, and where he felt they were most vulnerable to the poaching gangs. The scenery was breathtaking, but after seeing Malone Dillon wasn’t in the mood to have his breath taken. Had he known the score, he wouldn’t have accepted the job in the first place. He sat beside Griffiths in an open-topped Land Rover, the rest following on in the jeep, and tried to show polite interest, though his heart wasn’t in it. ‘Malone tells me you were in the same Regiment.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Dillon stared straight ahead. ‘Then he quit, went over to the RMPs.’ ‘Explosives expert I believe,’ Griffiths said, getting a nod and nothing more. ‘How long have you been out of the Army?’ ‘Couple of months, sir. Eighteen years’ service, sir.’ Griffiths pulled over suddenly and produced his field glasses, aiming them towards a rocky crag about five hundred yards away. ‘There he is, see him?’ Dillon took the field glasses and found himself gazing at the proud, uplifted head of a magnificent stag with a huge spread of antlers. The animal surveyed the glens and lochs below, his world, his kingdom. ‘He’s the one with the price on his head, sir?’ Dillon said, handing the glasses back. Griffiths pursed his lips. ‘Word certainly travels fast… some bloody taxidermist in Edinburgh,’ he muttered darkly. ‘He’s very rare, and with antlers that size, a fair trophy. But he’s worth a lot more than five thousand for stud.’ They drove on, Dillon glancing back. Five grand standing up there on the hill. He stroked his moustache, frowning thoughtfully. Next stop on the itinerary was the main event, and it was clear from the boyish enthusiasm in Griffiths’ voice that the salmon tanks were his pride and joy. Enclosed in a compound of chain-link fencing topped with razor-wire, the three huge steel tanks, lined with polythene sheeting, were teeming with full-grown salmon, silver bodies flashing and tumbling in their thousands. To Dillon and the others the sight was mesmerising, almost hypnotic. They stood on a wooden gangway while Griffiths gave them the low-down. ‘These are the big ‘uns, the ones the poachers go for. We lost the entire stock last year, more than fifty thousand pounds’ worth.’ Griffiths shook his head. ‘Can’t afford to lose out this year.’ ‘How did they do it?’ Dillon was curious to know. ‘Very simply — Hoover them up! They move fast, and with that machine it doesn’t take long…’ Cliff’s jaw dropped. ‘Did he say Hoover?’ ‘You have any guard dogs?’ Dillon asked, looking around. ‘They were shot with a .22 rifle in ‘89. Bastards used Cymas that year; they also took the stock from the other tanks, so we were wiped out… fish and financially,’ he added gloomily. Dillon jumped down and Griffiths followed him over to the edge of the compound, the two of them looking out at the banks of heather stretching away to the stony ridge. Casting his military eye over it, Dillon was less than happy. ‘You’re wide open,’ he said, rubbing his chin. Griffiths spread his hands. ‘To electrify the fences would be astronomical…’ Don Walker strolled up and offered an opinion. ‘The one plus — if you can call it a plus — is that these men are professionals and dealing in bulk, so they need big trucks, not only to take the fish away, but to freeze it.’ ‘I think Malone’s right,’ Griffiths said. ‘Best protection has to be manpower. That’s why I got you chaps up here.’ Spoken like an officer, Dillon thought, which was what Griffiths was, in effect, certainly of the officer class. The estate manager went off somewhere. Don had his field glasses out, checking the terrain. The other lads were messing about, joking and laughing, and Don waved them over, obviously excited about something. ‘There he is, see him?’ Don handed the glasses to Jimmy, pointing, chuffed as a schoolboy. ‘Just on that ridge!’ ‘Oh yesssss…’ The word hissed through Jimmy’s grinning mouth. ‘A fair set of coat hangers.’ Dillon said, ‘Where’s the nearest Para base to here, Jimmy?’ Jimmy turned to Dillon with a sly wink. ‘This taxidermist on the level, is he? We heard last night he’s got three grand on his head.’ Don grabbed the glasses off him. ‘You touch him and I’ll mount your fucking’ head,’ he promised, and stumped off. ‘Nature boy’s a bit touchy about the hatstand, isn’t he?’ Jimmy shrugged, raising an eyebrow. Dillon said, ‘Let’s get the security sorted first.’ He gave Jimmy a deadpan stare. ‘And it’s not three, it’s five grand.’ ‘Five?’ Jimmy looked towards the ridge and quickly back at Dillon. ‘Thousand? Five?’ They both turned to contemplate the ridge for a moment, and then each other. A low growl of laughter came up from Jimmy’s chest and he punched Dillon on the shoulder. Steve Harris was having one of his filter problems. Leaning against the jeep, face puce, coughing and spluttering, thumping himself. Dillon went over as he was getting his breath back. ‘All right, mate?’ Steve nodded, sweat glistening on his brow. Dillon fished out a list and gave it to him. ‘Okay, I want you to go into the village, get some stores.’ Dillon had intended to hand over the list to Griffiths, but seeing Steve in trouble he decided he would get him out of the way. ‘Get yourself rested up, check your filter, okay mate?… Steve?’ Steve nodded. At that moment Jimmy walked past, he gave Steve an icy stare. ‘Ruddy liability, I told you not to bring him!’ Dillon glared at Jimmy, then patted Steve’s shoulder. ‘Pay no attention.’ Steve stuffed the list into his top pocket, and climbed back into the jeep. His breath rattled, a hoarse sound in his chest and he couldn’t look at Dillon, knowing he was already making excuses for him. He hated it. He started the engine, released the handbrake. ‘Take your time, get back when you’re done…’ Steve nodded, the errand boy, the waster, the liability. He looked back at Dillon, but he was already walking away, so Steve headed into the village. The simple errand of getting the stores, the packs of beer, the food for the camp was an effort. He had to write everything down and pass the note to the shop owners, and, already feeling depressed, he became worse. He needed a drink, needed something, anything, to give him the confidence to face them.