Midnight Runner

‘Electronic. That’s an improvement from the old days.’

The front door opened and a man with a hard, raw-boned face appeared. He wore a hunting jacket and carried a sawn-off shotgun under his left arm.

‘Good afternoon,’ Hannah said.

He had a hard Scots voice. ‘What do you want?’ He sounded decidedly unfriendly.

‘Now then,’ Dillon told him. ‘This is a lady you’re dealing with, so watch your tone. And who might you be, son?’

The man stiffened, as if sensing trouble. ‘My name’s Brown. I’m the factor here, so what do you want?’

‘Mr Dillon and I were here some years ago for the shooting,’ Hannah told him. ‘We rented Ardmurchan Lodge.’

‘We know you’re running adventure courses for young people at the castle these days,’ Dillon said, ‘but we wondered if Ardmurchan Lodge might not still be available. My boss – General Ferguson – would love to rent it for the shooting again.’

‘Well, it isn’t, and the shooting season’s over.’

‘Not the kind I’m interested in,’ Dillon told him amicably.

Brown took the shotgun from under his arm. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

‘I’d be careful with that – I’m a police officer,’ Hannah said.

‘Police officer, my arse. Get out of here.’ He cocked the shotgun.

Dillon raised a hand. ‘We don’t want any problems. Obviously, the lodge isn’t available. Come on, Hannah.’

They went back to the car. ‘Drive on just out of sight of the gate,’ Dillon told Fogarty.

‘What happened back there is an intelligence matter, Sergeant, you understand?’ Hannah said.

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Good, then pull in,’ Dillon told him. ‘I’m going over the wall and you can give me a push.’

They stopped and got out, Fogarty joined his hands together, and Dillon put his left foot in them. The big sergeant lifted, and Dillon pulled himself over the wall, dropped into the trees on the other side and moved towards the lodge.

Brown was in the kitchen, the gun on the table, and dialling a number on the wall phone, when he heard a slight creak and felt a draught of air. Brown dropped the phone and reached for the shotgun and then became aware of the Walther in Dillon’s right hand.

‘Naughty, that,’ Dillon said. ‘I might have shot you straight away instead of just thinking about it.’

‘What do you want?’ Brown said hoarsely.

‘You were phoning the Countess of Loch Dhu in London, am I right?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Dillon slashed him across the face with the Walther. ‘Am I right?’ he asked again.

Brown staggered back, blood on his face. ‘Yes, damn you. What do you want?’

‘Information. Act of Class Warfare. School parties, right? Kids having a nice week in the country, climbing, canoeing on the loch, trekking. That’s what you offer?’

‘That’s right.’ Brown got a handkerchief out and mopped blood from his face.

‘And what about the other courses for the older ones?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘The guys and girls who like to hide their faces with balaclavas and take part in riots. Let me guess. You teach them interesting things like how to make petrol bombs and handle policemen on horseback.’

‘You’re crazy.’

Dillon slashed him again.

‘I can’t help you,’ Brown said wildly, his face crumbling. ‘It’s as much as my life’s worth.’

‘Really?’ Dillon grabbed him by the throat, pushed him across the table, and rammed the muzzle of the Walther against the side of his right knee. ‘And what’s a knee worth? You’ve got ten seconds to decide.’

‘No, no. All right. I’ll tell you. It’s true. They run training courses, just as you say. They come from all over the country, sometimes even abroad. But I just take care of the house and grounds – that’s all I know, I swear it!’

‘Oh, I doubt that very much. But that’s all right. All I needed was your confirmation. That wasn’t too bad, was it? Now if you’ll just open the gates, I’ll be on my way.’ He picked up the shotgun and tossed it through the open door into some bushes. ‘Then I suggest you make that phone call to the good Countess. I’m sure she’ll be most interested.’

Brown shuffled to the front door, pressed a button in a black box, and opened the door. Outside, the main gates began to part. Dillon stopped and turned.

‘Don’t forget now. Dillon was here, and give her my love.’

He walked out into the road and half-ran to the car. He got in beside Hannah and said to Fogarty, ‘Back to the plane.’

They drove away. Hannah said, ‘You didn’t leave anyone dead back there?’

‘Now, would I do a thing like that? It turns out he was a very reasonable man, our factor. I’ll tell you about it on the plane.’

Brown, between a rock and a hard place, took Dillon’s advice, of course, and phoned Kate Rashid at her house in London but found that she was out, which made him feel worse. Desperate, his face hurting like hell now, he tried the mobile number he’d been given for emergencies. Kate and Rupert were eating at the Ivy. She listened as Brown poured it all out.

She said calmly, ‘How badly are you hurt?’

‘I’m going to need stitches. The bastard slashed my face with his Walther.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Tell me again what he said.’

‘Something like, say Dillon was here and give her my love.’

‘That’s my Dillon. Get yourself a doctor, Brown. I’ll talk to you later.’ She put her mobile on the table.

The waiter had stood back respectfully. When Rupert nodded, he now poured Cristal champagne in both glasses and withdrew.

‘To your bright eyes, cousin,’ he toasted her. ‘Why is it I smell trouble from the little I’ve heard?’