Dreams to Die For (28 page)

Jack Donaldson returned from his customary weekend five mile run, hardly having raised a sweat. He took pride in keeping his body fit and in good condition, and the early morning exercise on Saturday's and Sunday's supplemented his weekday workouts at the London gym. Usually he took great interest in the ever-changing flora and fauna as he ran into the woodland and along footpaths, but today his mind was preoccupied with Cindy and her unknown friend in the Volvo. As his feet pounded the uneven surface of the country trails, his speculation of what Cindy and her friend had spent the night doing grew in intensity, the rising anger making him run faster and faster. Had he bothered to set his stopwatch, he would have recorded his quickest ever time. After a quick shower and light breakfast, he drove to Grimley, arriving close to Cindy Crossland's cottage at just before 9am. He had only just switched off the car engine when the garage door opened.

Cindy and Gordon were dressed very casually in country clothes despite the warmness of the weather, and were busy putting boots and waterproof jackets into the cargo area of the estate. Two minutes later the couple drove out of the garage, closing it by remote control as they left. As the door latch locked into position, several loud bleeps from the setting house alarm disturbed the otherwise peaceful cul-de-sac, the security system being mentally noted by Donaldson. He was reasonably certain where she and her lover were going and he decided not to follow close behind, nor even keep them in sight. Sunday morning in summer was favoured by Cindy to meet up with her gun dog friends at the disused canal and Donaldson assumed that her male friend must be someone from the group. The canal was little more than five miles away so Donaldson drove slowly, arriving a few minutes after Cindy. He could see the Volvo parked alongside others on the scrubland verge and drove past, pulling into a vacant area. He got out of the car and briskly walked back. His military training quickly identified an area where he was able to remain unobserved behind a cluster of very large and dense gorse bushes, but which afforded him a good view of Cindy and the dogs. He was taken by surprise when he witnessed Cindy's companion shaking hands with everyone, and he could quite distinctly hear the stranger saying how pleased he was to meet the small crowd of handlers. The man looked a little familiar to Donaldson but he couldn't place him. Puzzled, Donaldson lying prone on his stomach, inched himself forward to a nearer bush, straining to get a better view of the mystery boyfriend.

The dog training had already started and a small group was standing reasonably near to where Donaldson was hidden, with a second group some distance away. Despite his wealth and large circle of contacts –- obligatory for successful executives in the business world – Gordon had never found it easy to make friends. Usually his perceived status had been a barrier to familiarity with people outside of his work, as all too often the persons he met were either intimidated and stayed almost silent, or would keep making silly references to his wealth and success making Gordon embarrassed and quickly bored. Last night, he had talked to Cindy of his apprehension of going to the gun dog meeting the following day, but she had assured him no one would be the slightest bit interested in who or what he was, provided he liked dogs.

“Anyway, you had a springer once didn't you – isn't that why you named the teaching area Ruraich?”

“Yes,” said Gordon, “that was some time ago. A liver and white English springer bitch but she was only a pet, not a fully trained working dog, but a lovely temperament. I became so attached to her that when she died of old age I couldn't quite bring myself to have another one, although I've promised myself that someday I'll get another.”

Having effected the introductions at the first group, Cindy started leading Gordon over to the others. Her clear voice carried across the still air to Donaldson.

“Don, this is Gordon. Gordon, let me introduce you to Don our leader and trainer.” The two shook hands.

“We're very pleased to meet you Gordon and welcome. Join in whenever you want or just watch, but we usually could do with a hand throwing the dummies or some such. Cindy will help you out.”

As Don walked away almost immediately, Cindy turned to Gordon, “See, told you they wouldn't make a comment. Gun dog people are only interested in the dogs, not the social standing of their owners.”

The startling revelation as to the identity of Cindy's new lover struck Donaldson like a bullet between the eyes. “Gordon? Bloody hell! She actually
has
pulled fuckin' Truscott, the fuckin' tycoon. That's who it is. How the fuck's she's managed that?” he said excitably to himself. “Christ, no wonder she doesn't want that poor sod Crossland.”

His objective of seeking precise information about Cindy had been achieved beyond his wildest imagination, but it was a very irate Donaldson that went home. There he looked up all he could about Gordon Truscott, and his Scottish home, Mealag Lodge. He was not able to find an exact address but he had the general area, Knoydart, so sometime he would obtain a detailed map and find it on that. His thoughts turned again to Cindy and the recent images he had of her and Truscott. He had always felt slightly uncertain as to why she had decided to move out of Red Gables and to the cottage at Grimley, but it was now clear to him that it was solely as a well-planned subterfuge to deceive her husband until her divorce came through.

She certainly wouldn't want him to know she was shagging a multi-millionaire. That might reduce her husband's pay-out to her,
he thought. He expected that Cindy would leave the cottage and move in with Truscott as soon as she could, leaving Donaldson's own deluded hopes and prospects of making out with Cindy in tatters. He thumped the table again and again.

“No better than a fucking whore,” he angrily shouted, but no one heard his foul-mouthed outburst. His house had been empty of other occupants since Ludmilla had departed with her foreign friends. His anger did not abate and he flew into an uncontrollable rage – the sort he felt before he attacked the girls in Iraq, but this time there was no early release and the resentment against Cindy burned within him.

The weather in Lochaber, Highland Region, on Tuesday 1st August, was terrible. Driven by a storm force Atlantic weather system, rain was lashing down onto the hundreds of tourists in Fort William who had flocked into the town and were scurrying in and out of the shops along the pedestrian-only high street. Stooping low against the ferocious wind, and struggling to stay upright, most were quite unsuitably dressed in the flimsy, lightweight showerproof jackets that were adequate for an English summer, but not a Highland one. The sky was an unremitting dark grey, below which a seemingly endless procession of billowing thick clouds were being propelled just above the town's rooftops. The gloom was more akin to late dusk than mid-morning and the dipped headlights of the cars travelling along the shoreline of Loch Linnhe shone brightly onto the wet, glossy, road. Standing at his second-floor office window, and looking down onto the scene below, was Chief Inspector Keith Maythorp, the Central Region Area Commander of the Scottish Police Northern Constabulary. He was chairing the formal monthly progress meeting with his two immediate subordinates, Area Inspector John Curry (like Maythorp based at Fort William) and Colin MacRae based at Portree, Isle of Skye. Whilst a formal meeting, the three men had known, worked and been friends with each other for over twenty years and none had any aspirations of moving home to take a promotion. The trio recognised the abilities of each other and held a shared belief that living and working in the Highlands was far too precious to be put at risk by petty jealousies and office politics. It made for a comfortable working relationship.

Maythorp's command covered a huge geographical area, but had a very sparse population. Crime was generally low, and the main activity for the law enforcers revolved around speeding traffic offences and vehicle accidents in the summer – mostly caused by frustrated motorists unsuccessfully attempting to overtake caravans – or climbers getting into difficulty on the high peaks in winter. There was the odd burglary or vandalism, usually to fund an increasing number of locals who had a drug habit, which broke the monotony, and the odd spot of poaching, but generally there was little trouble. He had a total officer force of only one hundred and two, and that included nearly twenty special constables. Averaged out, he had one officer for every fifty square miles. The monthly review was normally routine and so it was surprising that today there had just been a quite heated discussion over one agenda item, and Maythorp was taking time out to let tempers cool. Northern HQ was based in Inverness, only about seventy-five miles northeast of Fort William, but a world away from Maythorp's patch in policing priorities and requirements. Inverness suffered in proportionate terms from the same problems as any city in the United Kingdom and Maythorp was frequently under pressure to justify his low detection and prosecution figures, particularly those in relation to drink or drug-related motoring offences. When Maythorp had told his two lieutenants of the contents of a memo he had received from the chief constable at HQ, virtually implying that the three of them had taken their eye off the ball, Curry and MacRae had exploded.

“What does he want us to do, put a sniffer dog up the exhaust pipe of every lorry going through the Great Glen? Or perhaps Colin here should get the tourists to turn out their pockets before they go across the Skye bridge?” Curry's normal Highland accent became even more accentuated when excited, and the sarcastic tone of his response had led him to emphasise almost every vowel. Colin MacRae himself was not pleased either.

“The tourist board are always on at us not to be too hard on motorists, lest it impacts on the number of returning visitors, yet HQ say hammer them because of stupid bloody targets. This job isn't about policing anymore, it's about politics and saving the arse of some prick in London or Edinburgh. I haven't spent my entire career serving this community just to end it by ticking boxes. Bollocks to them, I say. Ignore it Keith.” MacRae never lost an opportunity to remind his boss that after thirty-five years in the force he would be retiring at the end of the year, the proximity of which gave him the confidence to pretty much say what he liked without regard to his future job performance assessment.

The discussion had raged for about ten minutes when Maythorp called a halt to it, rose from his chair and absentmindedly looked out of the window whilst he thought about what to decide. It was also giving time for everyone to calm down.

“HQ's memo doesn't actually demand a reply, so I will not be sending one,” he said before turning to his secretary.

“Record in the minutes that we had a lengthy discussion and that Inspectors MacRae and Curry will review the appropriateness of our enforcement strategies in the light of the quarterly results at the end of next month.” Curry and MacRae smiled. They could have a considerably worse boss than Keith Maythorp and for that reason were extremely loyal to him. Maythorp then sat down and picked up the agenda.

“Finally, gentlemen, under A.O.B there is only one item to discuss. HQ has forwarded to me an advisory note they had received from the Foreign Office in London.” He started to read it through quickly again whilst summarising for his audience.

“It seems as if next month some people – not named – are going to spend a few days up at Quoich, at the Truscott place. Yes, September. Arriving and departing by chopper. The FO is providing security and our services are unlikely to be required. That's really all it says.” He placed the communique on his desk and looked up before continuing.

“It looks as if HQ has been informed only as a courtesy seeing as the Foreign Office is sending some protection officers up there. Naturally, HQ has passed this onto us. Any comment?”

MacRae was the first to respond.

“Mmmm, must be a foreign rock band or celebrity going there on holiday. Can't be a politician, otherwise the Met and ATU would be swarming all over the place as well as the Geeks. I guess their people will all be armed?”

Maythorp picked up the note and read it quickly.

“Doesn't say, but it would be unusual if they weren't. Assume yes,” replied Maythorp, “but aren't we in danger of making a lot of assumptions here? I mean, why are we assuming this is just a couple of people or a pop group, and what about Truscott? Will he be there?

The room fell silent whilst all three considered what the Commander had said. It was Curry that spoke first.

“Good point. I suppose it's possible the place has been hired by the FO itself for an out of the way, private meeting of some sort away from any press, perhaps between ministers of different countries. Truscott wouldn't need to be there for that.”

“If that were the case, and it was going to be a pretty large gathering, surely we would need to have been told more, maybe even assist with resourcing. This must be small beer – strange we've been told anything at all. But if it's nothing very much, maybe something would go to HQ beforehand but I wouldn't have expected that to happen until the day of the meeting, or at least much nearer to it. My money would be it's a FO course” added MacRae. “Anyway, what are we expected to do?

“Yes. What about us? Are we asked to do anything?” enquired Curry. “It's a goddamn awful place to get to if anything goes belly up.”

Maythorp quickly scanned his eyes over the memo from HQ.

“No nothing else, which in itself is a bit odd. I should have thought we would be asked to increase patrols or something if it was really important but this note makes no mention of anything at all like that, although the phrase that our services are ‘unlikely to be required' is pretty vague.”

“Can't be much then. Probably some Hollywood film producer and a young actress or his secretary!” jested MacRae

“Not everyone's like you, Colin,” said Curry, referencing a very public affair that MacRae had many years back.

“OK lads. Let's get back to what, if anything, we should do.” Maythorp restored a little formality. “Who are our trained marksmen?”

“Johnstone and Greaves. We also have a number of certified firearm officers – I think six, but can check.” Curry responded.

“Find out if they are on duty between 12
^th
and 22
^nd
September, that's when this will be happening.” Maythorp again.

“Gosh, that long!” exclaimed MacRae, “Why did I think this was only something that was going to last a day or two?”

“I probably should have said earlier, sorry,” replied Maythorp.

“Well, I think that explains why HQ has sent us the advice, doesn't it?” said Curry. “That's quite a long time for FO people to be up there; its gotta be some hell of a meeting or a very long course. Do you want me to check on Johnstone and Greaves now, Keith?”

“Yes, do. We're not that pushed. Let's grab a coffee.”

Curry left the room and returned three minutes later.

“Johnstone will be on leave, abroad we think. Greaves is around. Convenient, as he is based at Fort Augustus. What have you got in mind, Keith?”

“Firstly, have a confidential word with Greaves. Tell him what we know; there's no reason to hide it from him but he should keep it to himself. I agree, this could just be that the FO itself is sending up some of their bright young things on a team building exercise, doesn't have to be anything more than that, but I don't want a lot of off-duty officers suddenly going up there at the weekend to see if they spot some celebrity or other. Then, agree with him not to take any leave over that period and ensure he remains contactable 24/7.” Maythorp was thinking as he spoke, and Curry and MacRae were busy taking down notes.

“How often do we routinely patrol along that Kinloch Hourn road, John? Any idea?”

Curry hesitated. “Not often that's for sure. Once a week would be tops.”

“Make it at least once a day for the duration, commencing the 13
^th
. No need to go on the 12
^th
or 22
^nd
, that leaves nine days. Make sure Greaves, with his weapon, and an armed officer are the only ones on board. Use a marked 4x4. I want it to look like normal patrols. I'll sign the necessary authorisations from here and give them to you before you leave the building. If they drive slowly, and take in the views they can be out on that road for several hours.”

“You're taking this very seriously aren't you Keith? It's only a routine notification.” MacRae could not disguise the surprise in his voice.

“Yes and no. Sure it is a routine notification. If we obviously overreact, bloody HQ will be sending me emails about it until Christmas, but if, just if, anything went tits up over there and we hadn't taken any action at all, everyone would look for a bloody scapegoat and that's not going to be any of us. HQ would say it was a gross dereliction of duty having notified us. All balls of course, but I'm not having mine squeezed.”

The two subordinates winced at the analogy but appreciated that Maythorp was covering everyone's back, not just his.