CHAPTER 1

The big man in the shabby brown suit and equally shabby soft cap pushed through the swing doors of the Police Station, strode up to the counter and brought his massive fist down on it with a force that would have driven rivets. "Shop!"

The two occupants, the Desk Sergeant and a young policewoman, started visibly at the crash and their heads jerked up in unison. The girl's open, friendly countenance momentarily froze as she took in the massive figure standing at the other side of the Station counter. Six feet four if an inch, and built like the proverbial outside facility of brick construction. His shoulders and chest were in proportion to his height - maybe even more than in proportion - with arms that seemed impossibly long and hands like Number 10 shovels. The suit was old and scuffed and of such an outrageous size that it might have been a tarpaulin tied around a larger-than-life statue. And the head supported the image of a statue, a statue hewn from solid granite by a team of Easter Island masons. The face caught and held her attention. Brown and lined, forbidding and expressionless, it had the hard look of a granite crag. She shivered involuntarily; it was the sort of face that Zombie moviemakers scoured the world for - not the sort to have loom over you on a dark night.

She watched apprehensively as the Desk Sergeant rose from his chair and advanced slowly towards the counter. He laid his hands well apart on the surface and scrutinised the visitor expressionlessly for a long moment before he spoke. "Well, well, well, would you just look who's here? Let me see now, I know the face and the name's on the very tip of my tongue." Sergeant Macleod shifted his stance to lean one elbow on the counter and hold the other hand up in a gesture normally reserved for stopping oncoming traffic. "No, don't tell me, it will come to me. Let me see, now, it was quite a while ago, I'm sure of that. Oh it must have been 'way back in ...."

He stepped back smartly to avoid an arm that came towards him with the lazy power of a Kodiak Grizzly. Sergeant Macleod winked at the puzzled policewoman who was still wondering how she was supposed to behave if the Sergeant tried to make an arrest. "Och, I remember it now. Isn't it funny how it sometimes needs a person to make a familiar gesture before you recognize him? This, my dear, is our friend and colleague Sergeant Murdo Murdoch, just back from a long, long holiday at some unpronounceable place on the West Coast. I'll just give you one wee bit of advice about him - don't ever let him hug you unless you are within very easy crawling distance of the infirmary."

She continued to stare wordlessly until the giant suddenly gave a deep rumble of a laugh and his face rearranged itself as if a mountain landside had sloughed off a Satanic cliff and revealed a sunlit glen. The hard cragginess softened, the deep-set eyes twinkled and his voice had the softness of the North West coast of Scotland. "Don't you be believing a word he's telling you, lassie. It's chust that he's an Edinburgh man himself and a wee bit jealous that he hasn't had the benefit of the glorious cultural heritage that we Highland folk enjoy." He turned back to his old friend, a thin-as-a-rake six-foot-two stick-insect of a man. "I come back here after a wee holiday in God's country, reluctantly but with my batteries of missionary zeal recharged, to bring some much-needed culture and discipline to you poor displaced Sassenachs, and what do I find? A long telegraph pole with lugs like insulator supports, defaming my character in front of a bonnie young lassie." He shook his massive head lugubriously as if in sorrow at finding that a wayward child who should have known better had done a bit of back-sliding.

Bob Macleod chuckled and turned to the policewoman. "Come on over here, Jean, and meet one of the pillars of the Force, Murdo Murdoch. Murdo this is Jean Campbell - from down Ullapool way."

The young woman had arrived from Police College only a week before and was finding the move from the disciplined College to the friendly and easy-going Inverness Police Station a bit difficult to adjust to. She held out a slim hand. "Pleased to meet you, Sergeant."

He pulled off his cap to reveal a high-domed bald head whose lighter shade of brown attested to the fact that the bunnet was seldom off when he was out of doors "Och, lassie, unless some bigwig is about you just call me Murdo like everybody else around here does." His huge paw enveloped her hand and she tensed involuntarily, then relaxed when he shook her hand as if it was delicate porcelain. "Anyway, we folk from the West Coast must stick together in case we get contaminated by all them Sassenachs."

Despite herself, the young woman found herself warming to this middle-aged, balding giant, and gave a quick chuckle of kindred spirit. "Och yes, I'm thinking that these city folks are so backward that they'll still be believing that culture is something found in theatres and museums. They won't be understanding that culture can be two folk meeting by chance in the hills, or a dozen having a ceilidh in a wee crofting hoosie with an earthen floor."

Murdo's shook his head regretfully. "Isn't that chust the honest truth, though? Ignorant, they are, chust plain ignorant." He gave a theatrical sigh. "Och but they're lucky to have the likes of us to eddicate them, though to be sure they're a puir lot of craiturs to be teaching."

The Desk Sergeant chuckled at the old game. "G'way with you, you pair of teuchters. If it wasn't for us cultivated folk from the Capital City you lot would still be living in three foot high houses with divot roofs."

Murdo and the girl looked at each other in feigned surprise. "Och, there you go, lassie, chust as you were saying, he's confusing culture with enchineering now."

"Cut it out, Murdo, you'll be having her at it next." He looked at his old friend's mahogany coloured face, trying to decide whether it was more sunburned than it was before he left. "You look well enough so I suppose you had a good holiday."

"Och grand, chust grand." He held up a huge right hand, palm outwards. "See them calluses? Frae my auld salmon rod. It's fishing nearly every day I've been doing. I've had the kind of holiday you puir craiturs have to die and go to Heaven to experience. I caught three salmon and saw two shinty matches - we won both of them! What more could a man ask for than to come home from a grand match and sit down to a meal of salmon he's caught himself? Och, it makes me feel quite guilty to see you poor envious folks before me." He looked expansively from one to the other. "But what about yourselves? Did anything exciting happen in my absence?" His tone and grin said quite clearly, 'Come my children, tell me what little triumphs and pleasures have come your disadvantaged ways during my absence'.

They were all suddenly silent and grim, and his eyes darted quickly from one to the other. "Oh oh! From those black looks I'd be saying that our new Superintendent has arrived and is making a nuisance of himself." He sighed theatrically. "Go on then, tell me the worst of it."

Bob Maclean shook his head sorrowfully. "It's worse than that, Murdo - it's Superintendent West-Samuel from Glasgow."

"Oh no! Not greetin' faced George West-Samuel. Hell and damnation, what have I ever done to deserve that weasel faced wee booger making my life a misery until I retire?" The big man groaned and shook his head in despair. "Has he arrived yet or have we chust been notified that the most humourless bastard since William the Conqueror is to descend on us?"

"He started a week last Monday, two weeks ago - but it seems a lot longer."

"Aye, well, it will doing that, right enough." He banged his great hands together, as if some movement and sound would get them past the moment. "Och, och, into each life a little rain must fall - and we must just bear up even though it's going to be a permanent monsoon from now on." He gave a grin that lacked some of its earlier exuberance. "At least that must be the worst news you've got for me." Again they were silent, lost in their depression at being saddled with a Superintendent that nobody deserved. "Och well, if there's nothing else I suppose I'd better get to work and leave you to your misery." He raised the counter flap, squeezed his bulk through the gap and ambled through another door and into the CID office.

"Morning, Murdo, good holiday?" The smartly dressed young Sergeant looked up from the desk whose polished surface was marred by just the one large folder. Simon Markum had only recently transferred from Uniform to CID and was determined to make the right impression. He was one of the new breed of Policemen, a Degree in Law and a career plan that saw his time as Constable and Sergeant as nothing more than a short apprenticeship to prepare him for higher office. Nonetheless, he was a willing, cheerful young fellow whose youthful enthusiasm had so far insulated him from the bitterness that was usually the lot of men who fought the twin devils of ambition and impatience.

"I had that, young Simon. And not a crook did I see all month." He threw his cap and coat on top of the coat rack without making any attempt to get them on the pegs, and by way of explanation, he added. "You'll be understanding, of course, that the criminal practices haven't spread yet to the folk of the West Coast."

"Get on with you, Murdo." The young man grinned. "I've read last year's statistics. There's just as much crime out there per capita as there is here."

"Isn't that chust the truth, though! Them tourists are chust the very devils for committing the crimes among the honest country folk."

"Tourists, my foot! You Highlanders are poachers and illicit whisky distillers to a man."

"Och, young Simon, I'm speaking about crime. What harm does a wee bit of poaching or distilling do as long as you keep it in moderation? It's only the folks from the South that's needing the laws, them being so greedy that they want tae make businesses out of chentlemen's sports."

The young man laughed. "Oh well, maybe you're right there, Murdo," adding with slight reproof in his voice, "but a Policeman's job is to enforce the Law, not judge it."

"Och, isn't that chust the very truth of it, young Simon - Hitler's Nazis said chust the same thing when they were charged with war crimes." The big Sergeant's voice was gently chiding but his expression was serious. He had a deep seated belief that a Policeman's job carried more responsibility than the mere sweeping up of society's labelled detritus, and tried to instil a sense of humanitarian judgement into the young police men and women.

"You know very well I didn't mean that, Murdo. I just meant that for a law to be respected it has to be a universal one; it can't just be made up by the individual policeman on the spur of the moment. Besides, it was you yourself who tracked down and arrested that bloke last year for running an illicit distillery."

"Och well, a simple highland laddie like myself can't be arguing with an educated man like yourself - besides that stuff he was making was chust the very devil, not worthy to be called whisky at all, at all. Now, chust you be going and getting the kettle on so that I can have a wee drappie tea - and a puir thing it is compared with even the kind of Usquebaugh we've just been talking about."

"It's already on and boiled," the young man grinned as he nodded towards the kettle sitting on the windowsill. "Never let it be said that I don't know how to look after my elders and betters." He got up and dropped the folder on Murdo's desk. "Last month's case file. I draw your attention to the intriguing case of the Naughty Knickers and how I solved it in an awesome demonstration of my legal and police training."

Murdo dropped a teabag into his mug, poured in some hot water, deftly extracted the bag by a protruding corner and dropped it into the wastepaper bucket. Then he laid the mug on his battered desk, carefully leaned his old wooden armchair back against the radiator and lifted his huge feet onto the desk. "Naughty Knickers, is it? That will have been Colin McWhir at the bottle again, I'm thinking. The puir man will have fallen off that wagon he's been on this last couple of years."

The young man's face fell. "Dash it, Murdo, it took me a week to track him down, and you do it without even looking at the report."

"Experience, lad, chust experience. Old Colin has fondled more frilly knickers in shops and on clothes lines than you've had hot dinners." He shook his head sorrowfully. "It's a waste of time charging him, lad, he's not quite right in the head and all that happens is that it costs the ratepayer a fortune in psychiatric investigations - and then all they do is come to the conclusion that he's not quite right in the head. Chust give him a good dressing down and make him take the knickers back and apologise." He grinned cheerfully. "I know, I know, it's not what Law School tells you to do. But funnily enough you'll find that nine times out of ten the wifies don't want him charged, I suppose they see he's no danger to them and that he's not some vandal trying to scare them. Besides, lad, if you charge him you'll be called the knicker nicker nicker!"

The young man's suddenly red face told him he'd hit the nail on the head, and he laughed uproariously. "Don't let it worry you, we've all been doing it at some time or another. The lads will even have been taking the bets on you doing it - the boogers did in my day, I can be telling you that from my ferry own experience."

"Ah, that explains why all the uniformed lads gave me a cheer when I came back from charging him." He laughed ruefully in enlightenment. "Oh well, I've got to go now and investigate the theft of a car roof rack, complete with luggage." He paused at the door. "Nearly forgot, Murdo, Inspector Charles wants to see you."

"Any idea what for?"

"No, but I hear some pairs of longjohns have been stolen from the hospital laundry. It will need a BIG man to arrest someone who steals longjohns." The young sergeant left laughing.

Murdo pulled the folder onto his lap and quickly scanned through it. There was nothing of much interest so he skated it back onto Simon's immaculate desk, drained his cup and lumbered to his feet. Along the corridor, he knocked on the Inspector's room door and pushed it open. "You wanted to see me, Sir?"

Inspector Nigel Charles, known to all and sundry as Charlie, gestured towards a chair without looking up. "Ah yes, take a seat whilst I finish this." He continued to read through a letter the typist had just brought him, signed his name and put the page in the out-tray. Then he raised his head with the air of a man who has finished one important task and turned his attention to another. "Right, Murdo, have a good holiday?"

"Yes thank you, Sir." In a politely noncommittal tone.

"Good. Well, I've got a job for you that's right up your street. I want you to go up to Inkrock and look into a mysterious death. A young man of nineteen was found dead in a pub car park a week last Saturday. He and another youth had had a minor punch-up a couple of hours earlier and the story is that just one blow was struck - a punch to the jaw of the deceased man. The post mortem report says that the blow probably knocked him out but didn't do any serious damage. Nonetheless, he died a couple of minutes later for no discernable reason. The conclusion is that the blow triggered off some sort of weakness and his heart just stopped beating."

"And is the foul play being suspected, Sir?"

"Not according to the Inkrock report, they have it down as death by misadventure."

"So what would be needing investigating, Sir?"

"Superintendent West-Samuel is starting a general tighten-up throughout the Region and wants to make sure that the yokels up there haven't missed something."

Murdo ran a massive hand around the back of his bull-like neck. "Och well, Sir, if it's looking into police procedures that's needed rather than investigating a crime, it's Sergeant Markum that's the verry man to send. He's a grand expert on law and procedures."

The Inspector laughed and asked with what might have been a trace of malice in his voice, "What's up, Murdo? Usually a solo investigation in some back-of-beyond place is just right up your street. Why are you trying to get out of this one?"

"Oh well, from what you've said about the case, it seems more of an administrative thing than a criminal investigation. That would be good experience for Markum." He shrugged. "But I would rather be staying around home this week. We've been away a month and the garden is chust a terrible jungle."

"Sorry, but that's the way it is. If it's any consolation, I agree with you. I'd have chosen Markum myself but the Superintendent particularly named you. He said you'd understand the thinking of the locals better than a city man would."

Murdo knew when he was beaten so he sighed theatrically to show his opinion without actual insubordination. "I see, I see. And when will you be wanting me to go, and how long would you be thinking it will take, Sir?"

"Right away, the sooner the better. I don't suppose it will need you to stay more than one night but, knowing you," He gave a short bark of supercilious laughter, "I suppose you'll find something to keep you away from the office for weeks."

Murdo ignored the innuendo that he always made cases far more complicated than they ever had any right to be. "Ah hem, and does Inkrock know I'm coming?"

"No - and don't you be forewarning them. It's up to you whether you start off by calling at the Station first or by doing some preliminary investigations."

"Humph, I don't have much choice, half the force up there know me so I can't very well go snooping around on their patch without telling them first." He brightened slightly. "Now if you was to send Sergeant Markum I doubt that anybody would know him."

"Sorry, my orders are that it's you who is going." Charlie didn't sound all that sorry as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a thin folder. "Here, this is all we've got on the case."

Murdo returned to his office and automatically switched on the kettle before sitting down to read through the meagre reports. Half way through, the kettle clicked off and he got up to make himself a cup of tea. Then he finished reading, drained his cup and reached for the telephone to call home. He always kept a small suitcase packed and ready in the car for occasions like this but he had to warn Mary that he might be away for a few days. She was a District Nurse and unlikely to be at home, but years ago they had installed a telephone answering machine for just such occasions. Having left a brief message telling her where he was going and promising to telephone during the evening, he walked through to the main office and called to the Duty Sergeant. "Bob, I'm chust away up the road to Inkrock. I don't know when I'll be back but you can reach me either at the Station or the Plough Inn."

"Okay, Murdo." He glanced at the young policewoman." Okay for some, isn't it? Just back off holiday and he's away for another jaunt. Why did I never transfer to CID?"

Murdo grinned. "You know chust as well as I do that you could never be a CID man, you chust haven't got the dress sense to be able to pick your own clothes!"

"My God, coming from you, that's a ..." The words faded away as the door swung shut.

Murdo threw his coat on the passenger seat but kept on the cap as he crammed himself into the aging Ford Granada, one of the few cars available that could accept his gigantic frame, and headed over the old bridge and onto the Dingwall road. The new road over the Kessock Bridge would have been much quicker but he was in no great hurry and felt the need for a quiet drive away from the traffic.

As he left the town and settled down to driving, the bitterness he'd felt in the Inspector's office came flooding back to him. He'd thought it had disappeared during the holiday among friends and relatives who knew and understood him, but the mere mention of Inspector Charles' name had brought it all back. Dammit, it wasn't that he was a particularly ambitious man but the thought of being passed over for Inspector in favour of Charlie Charles was a bitter pill.

Their careers had been quite similar; Murdo had started in Glasgow before transferring to Inverness fifteen years ago. Charles was an Edinburgh man who had started his career in Edinburgh before transferring North two years after Murdo. Both had then spent a couple of years in Uniform before transferring to the CID and had worked in the same close-knit department ever since.

Although they'd worked in parallel for years and had always got on well enough together, they were too different in personality to ever be friends. Charlie was a 'public' man, knowing everybody who was anybody and being on innumerable small-time committees. He was a social animal who made a point of mixing with his superiors both on and off duty. The result had been that he'd been the natural choice for handling the class of crime where local in-town knowledge was valuable. His record in this usually petty and naive class of crime was outstandingly good.

Murdo was just the opposite, a friendly but intensely private man who preferred the off-duty company of his family and close friends to that of useful acquaintances. He'd been brought up as the fifth of eight children on a small West-highland croft and had inherited the highlander’s conviction that all men are equal. His people had never known the slavery of serfdom, clans being extended families and the Chief being looked on as the head of that family, not as a master. He'd always been big for his age and his mother, a small, kindly woman, had instilled in him the belief that the duty of the strong was to protect the weak. He'd grown up believing that it was wrong and cowardly to fight smaller boys, though his father had taken the more pragmatic view that it was alright if he finished fights so long as he didn't start them. Gradually he'd come to realise that it was as cowardly for the weak to use their weakness as an excuse, as it was for the strong to use their strength for their own ends. Slowly his interest in the practical application of justice had grown and had led him into the police force.

His parents' views had followed him all his life, and had grown to include many aspects of conduct beyond the merely physical. He treated the public with gentle courtesy, knowing that the average law-abiding citizen felt helpless and awed when confronted by the majestic power of the Police. His subordinates, too, he treated gently, believing that they should be led from the front rather than driven from behind. If one of them made a mistake or failed in some way, he took much of the guilt on his own broad shoulders, feeling that he had lacked foresight in developing the young man or woman in their career. He patiently corrected them and trained them until he was proud of them and they were proud of themselves.

With his superiors he was less forgiving. His view was that rank was an honour that brought harsh responsibilities in its train. He utterly despised those who won advancement by telling their superiors what they wanted to hear, especially since in doing so they denied these same superiors the information they needed to fight crime more effectively.

When Inspector Graham had retired a couple of months ago they'd all known that the succession lay between Murdo and Charlie. Had known, too, that Charlie's sycophantic and social efforts over the years had brought him to the attention of all the senior policemen in the region, to the members of the Police Committee, and to influential civilians. Past experience had told Murdo that these things would count heavily in Charlie's favour when it came to deciding who would get the promotion. Yet he couldn't quite bring himself to believe that the senior members of the Force would succumb to such self-seeking activities. To be sure, Charlie had solved many more crimes than he had himself, but they had all been the sorts of small-time affairs that could be solved by the simple application of standard police procedures. The cases that came Murdo's way were invariably the obscure ones that needed real detective work. He'd built up a reputation as a plodder who would painstakingly reason his way through complex cases with a kind of 'Miss Marples' country logic - but coupled with the West Highland view that manana was synonymous with frantic haste and that patience was the greatest of all virtues.

He brooded on as he passed through Dingwall and headed towards Evanton. He knew, as did everybody else who knew the details of the work, that although Charlie had solved more cases, and a greater proportion of cases, than he had himself, there was no comparison in their abilities. Had their positions been reversed, Murdo would have solved at least as many cases as Charlie had - and probably been bored to tears in the process - whilst Charlie would have been totally lost. For the thousandth time since the decision had been announced the words of Robbie Burns' poem 'To a Louse' ran through his mind. 'Oh wad some Power the giftie gie us to see oursel's as ithers see us'. He tried to see the situation through the eyes of a the then-Superintendent, but he just couldn't believe that anyone with the good of the Force at heart could ever choose a boot-licking blether like Charlie over himself.

He sighed heavily. Well, they had done it, and he'd just have to learn to live with it - or move to some other Force, or leave the Police altogether. The only thing that mattered now was whether this trip to Inkrock was a genuine job or just a ploy of Charlie's to keep him in a backwater until the dust of the new Superintendent’s arrival had settled. And where did Superintendent West-Samuel fit into the scheme of things? He'd known George West-Samuel when they were both constables in Glasgow, and knew him to be an intelligent and committed policeman. He didn't like him - he'd never met anyone who did - but he respected him. Had West-Samuel really picked him for this job, or had Charlie wanted to keep Murdo and his old colleague as far apart as possible? Well, he'd make it his business to find out what was going on although, he sighed again at the thought, he knew very well that the devious politics of both Charlie and George were well beyond his understanding. However, he also knew that if Charlie had been taking the Superintendent's name in vain and was found out he'd find out just how hard a man Westie was! It was oft said by those who knew him that Westie was an evil bastard - but an exceedingly competent evil bastard!

A substantial lunch in a small hotel delayed him for an hour and a half but he still pulled into the car park behind the Plough Inn at Inkrock by four o'clock. He thought he might as well stay where the crime, if indeed it was a crime, had been committed. He'd never been to the Plough before so he had as good a chance of going unrecognised there as anywhere else.

By the time he'd booked in and had a wash it was half past four and he decided to give the Police Station a miss until morning. He didn't like getting involved in any clandestine checking-up but he salved his conscience with the thought that he'd be just a nuisance if he turned up at this time of night. They wouldn't be able to tell him much before the shift changed so he might as well wait until the morning. Besides, he thought virtuously, if he met any old friends they'd feel obliged to invite him home with them, and it was short notice for that. Having made up his mind, he went downstairs to try to get a dram or two to fortify himself until dinner time.

The owner was a garrulous man who took Murdo through to the bar without complaint. At first Murdo had difficulty catching what he was saying, but once the bar door was shut he started speaking normally and Murdo realised that he'd been trying to avoid attracting the attention of his wife. He poured two drams and pushed one towards Murdo. "Have the first one on the house." He raised his own glass, said a quick 'Slainte Mhath' and tossed it back. Murdo nodded, "Slainte Mhor" and tossed back his as well and ordered another couple. Whilst he was waiting, he looked around and observed, "A fine place you have here. Is it your own or the Brewery's?"

"Aye, our own, me and the wife, like."

Murdo picked up his refilled glass and looked around him. "A credit to you both. I'd say by your accent that you were an Aberdonian or thereabout."

"Aye, came up here to manage this place about fifteen years ago. When the owner died we bought it off his missus and have been here ever since. Used to be a good going business too, but with the drinking and driving laws getting tighter, and the non-alcoholic lagers and the like catching on, it's getting to be a bit of a deid loss." He shrugged fatalistically. "Not so much trouble with drunks now but it's afa' deid like - mair like a social club than a pub. An afa' lot of the drinking is done at hame noo, or in fancy lounge bars with plastic beams and poofs for barmen."

"Och, isn't that chust the truth of it. The Scottish pub has gone downhill right enough. Do you have the ceilidhs and things like that, now?"

"Och aye, we have something of that kind every Saturday night, we have to bring in the crowds." He frowned darkly. "I'm not so sure they're such a good thing either."

"Oh, why would you be saying that?"

"Well, we had one a week last Saturday week and a local laddie was found dead in the car park out the back. Him and his mate had a bit of a fight - nothing much but he had some kind of weakness and it kil't him. Nothing tae do wi' us but you'd be surprised how the word has got around tae the tourists and they avoid this place as if it was a death trap frequented by villains," he gave a dry chuckle, "or maybe they've just seen my wife!"

Murdo pushed forward his glass. "Will you be joining me in another." He waited whilst the man slopped a good measure into each glass and took the money. "I'd have thought they'd have been rushing here in droves to see where the murder took place."

"'Twisna' murder! Young Jamie didn't mean to kill his mate. He didna ken that Sammy had a weak heart." His accent was getting stronger as the whisky softened his tongue. "Puir bugger. He was a guid lad was Sammy. I've kent his mither an father for years. Jockie often used tae come in here for a dram of an evening. Havna' seen him since the accident. I'm telt they niver leave the hoose noo unless they havta."

"Och, och, it's a bad business when the young ones are taken before they've seen a bit of life." Murdo shook his head with genuine sadness; he'd seen too many young corpses in car and motorbike accidents for his liking.

The publican stood leaning against the bar, shaking his head, for a long time before answering. "A bad business right enough. Dammit, I saw the lads gang oot an' thocht naething aboot it. Ye dinna see much o' that kind a' thing nooadays - the fecht roon the back o' the pub, I mean - but it used tae be sae common I thocht naething aboot it." He shook his head again, his eyes sightlessly on his empty glass. "I should have stopped them, or at least gone oot tae see what was happenin'."

"Och, och, you mustn’t blame yourself. A publican can't be the keeper of his customers."

"Aye, I ken that, but I wish I'd seen what really went on oot there."

Murdo's instincts caught a whiff of something that was more than just an 'If only ...' of life, and he asked casually. "Is there any doubt, then, that it was chust a damnable accident?"

Another shrug and a shake of the head. "Damned if I know, but have you ever heard of a healthy young lad o' nineteen deeing frae wan punch on the jaw frae a wee laddie that could hardly ca' the skin aff his porridge?" Then he added darkly. "Ony sort o' mischief could go on in that bit o' the car park an' naebody wad see."

"And are you thinking that maybe something did go on?"

"No, no, of coorse not - but it's a damn funny business a' the same." His melancholy garrulousness had worn off and he was apparently finding that his publican's blethering had taken him further than he'd intended. "Will you be wanting another? If no I'd better be getting on."

There was clearly nothing more to be learned from the publican so Murdo declined another drink, ordered a meal for six o'clock and went back to his room to shower and change. Later, he ate alone, the only occupant of the small dining room. Then he took a stroll along the sea front, 'phoned Mary, and turned in for an early night. It had been a funny sort of day and he was wondering whether it was just misadventure as the report had said. He smiled to himself, his spirits lifting at the thought. A proper investigation would be a better way to fill in a day or two than playing the spy on other policemen - and it would annoy Inspector Charles into the bargain.

Next morning he walked the short distance to the Inkrock police station, timing his arrival for just after eight o'clock. He'd been there half a dozen times before, and had met members of the Inkrock force on many other occasions. As a matter of courtesy, he entered by the front door and approached the civilian receptionist at the counter. "Hullo. I'm Sergeant Murdoch from Inverness. I'd like to see the Duty Inspector, please." He proffered his identification card.

"Right, I'll just check that he's free." She went into a small, glass-fronted office and picked up the telephone. A moment later she came back to the counter and pointed to a door leading off the foyer. "If you go through that door you'll find Inspector Pollock in the Duty Inspector's office. It's the third door on the left." She pressed a button under the counter and the door lock clicked audibly.

Murdo nodded his thanks and did as he was bid. As he approached the office door it was opened and a rotund, grey haired man came out smiling broadly and thrusting out a hand. "Well, Murdo, man. Long time no see. Come in, come in. How about a drink? Tea or coffee?" He ushered Murdo into a chair then returned to the door and bawled down the corridor, "Doreen! Two teas, please."

Sitting down at his desk, he looked Murdo over. "You're looking well, man. Now, what brings you to our humble dominion? Some more excitement like last time, I hope."

Murdo chuckled. "Och, that was a good bit of co-operation, that was. To this day, my wife still classes hangovers according to that farewell do! Man, it took me a week to get the holes in my face to line up with my eyes!"

"Aye, I remember. It took everybody who could still stand up to get you from the Black Maria to your bed. Still, it was well deserved, it's not every day that Inkrock sees a bunch of crooked stockbrokers arrested." He shook his head in wonder. "Silly buggers. Why do city folk always think you can hide in the countryside? Stood out like sore thumbs, they did." He shrugged off his bafflement. "Anyway, Murdo, what brings you up here without warning?"

"Well, Neil, this is the way of it. I arrived back from holiday yesterday morning and was sent up here to inquire about the mysterious death you had here a week last Saturday." He put slight emphasis on 'mysterious' and raised his shaggy eyebrows.

The Inspector rubbed his chin thoughtfully before answering. "Aye, we did have a youth die behind the Plough, but why is Inverness interested?"

"Why are they poking their nose in, you mean. That I can't tell you, for I don't know myself. My Inspector just said that our new Super had decided that I should come up and make sure that you country yokels had done things properly." He grinned and held up a hand. "His words, not mine. If it makes you feel any better, I was sent because a teuchter like me would better understand the yokel's mind."

The Inspector's indignation died. "Silly buggers." But he said it without rancour. Like all countrymen he knew that there were advantages to letting city dwellers believe that country folk were all a bit simple. "Och well, a second opinion wouldn't come amiss for it's a right puzzle. You'll have read the report?"

"I have, I have, but it doesn't say much."

The Inspector cleared his throat. "Well, Murdo, as far as we can make out, the lad, a Sammy Murchison, got involved in a fight at the Saturday night dance at the Plough and was found dead in the car park an hour or so later when the dance broke up." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "We're not exactly sure what happened but he and his mate Jamie Jamison fell out and Jamie took him out to the car park for a punch up. Sammy wouldn't fight so Jamie flattened him with a punch to the jaw and went back to the dance. Sammy was found lying where he'd fallen by a couple leaving the dance an hour or so later. The post-mortem said the only damage on him was a bruised jaw and that his heart had stopped a few minutes later. The report doesn't say why -but privately the Doctor says there must have been a weakness there."

"And are you believing it?"

"Well, I've no reason to disbelieve it - it's just that I've known Sammy's folks for years and I'd have said that Sammy was as tough a young bloke as you'd find anywhere. Still, if the post-mortem can't find anything I suppose it must be true enough." But his tone bespoke his doubt.

"You say he died within a few minutes of being hit but that his body wasn't found for another hour. How would that be happening?"

"Ah well, only the two lads went out to the car park, and Jamison went straight back into the pub after the punch-up. He and his mates just thought that Sammy had pushed off home." He reached for the telephone and spoke briefly to the receptionist, then returned his attention to Murdo. "I've sent for a policewoman who was at the dance before the fight and took part in the questioning afterwards. You might as well get it from the horse's mouth." With that, the door opened but it was just the receptionist carrying two large mugs. As they waited for the policewoman to arrive, they drank their tea and chatted about old times.

Outside, the Duty Sergeant was trying to find WPC Murray who should have arrived for duty by this time. Three other policemen had arrived for the shift and they started joking about Murray, a well-known disorganised, harum-scarum young woman not noted for her punctuality.

Their banter was interrupted by the door banging open against the wall and a well-built young woman in her mid twenties coming crashing in like a miniature tornado. "Morning, everybody." She waved a pair of greasy hands in front of them. "That bloody old heap of a car of mine is going to get the bullet one of these days. It boiled coming up Brumley Brae this morning and I had to let it run back to the bottom to cadge some water from the Manse to fill it up. I don't think I was the flavour of the month when I knocked the Minister up at such an ungodly hour." Her ill-humour was evaporating and her freckled face split into a wide grin. "I suppose the old hypocrite thinks that every day but Sunday is for a long lie."

One of the men grinned back. "It's time you were pensioning off that auld bucket you mis-name as a car, it must be older than you are yourself - and, God knows, you're hardly a scone of yesterday's baking."

She stuck out her tongue at him, he was always telling her it was time she was trying to catch a man and get married before it was too late. "Sure it is - but so are you and I keep taking you out for a wee run as well."

"Well, you'd better get a move on, the Inspector wants you, and he's got a visitor with him."

"Oh damn and blast! This would happen when I'm late and in a mess." She held up her filthy hands in despair before dashing off to the washroom to clean up. Five minutes later she was knocking on the Inspector's door, and at the same time trying to tuck a dirty cuff out of sight up her jacket sleeve. The Inspector's voice bawled to 'come in' and she dashed in in her typical harum-scarum way. "Sorry I'm late, Sir, my car broke down."

"Okay, come in and sit down. This is Detective Sergeant Murdoch from Inverness, he has some questions for you about Sammy Murchison's death."

Murdo smiled sympathetically at her flushed face and dishevelled appearance. "I believe you were at the scene of death from well before the actual incident?"

She nodded. "That's right, Sergeant."

"Well, could you just tell me, in your own words, what happened that night."

She was silent for a moment, obviously marshalling her thoughts. "Well, it was the normal Saturday night dance at the Plough. I arrived a wee bit late, it would have been about eight fifteen, I had a job getting the car to start, and Sammy and Jamie - Sammy Murchison was the deceased and Jamie Jamison was the one who punched him - and all their pals were already there. I had a drink in the lounge bar before going into the dance. Sammy and Jamie were both dancing when I went in. I had a dance with Sammy at about ten o'clock but he was spending most of his time with a girl called Sally Duncan, and Jamie seemed to be with a Betty Winters. Later - it must have been coming on for eleven - I went through to the bar with someone I knew. When we went back to the dance ten or fifteen minutes later Sammy was nowhere in sight but Jamie was dancing with Betty, and Sally was dancing with somebody I'd never seen before. It was only after Sammy was found in the car park an hour later that I realised that something had happened."

"Uh uh, do we know exactly what took place in the car park?"

"Well, yes and no. We've got a lot of corroborated statements about what happened inside, but Jamie and Sammy were the only ones to go outside so we only have Jamie's story about that. When the duty car arrived I joined them to help with the questioning. It seems that Sammy and Jamie had been to the bar a couple of times and were in high spirits - not drunk or anything like that, just a bit merry, uninhibited like. Anyway, Sammy was standing with some of his mates when Jamie danced past with Betty, and Sammy caught the back of Jamie's shirt and pulled out the tail -they were all in shirt sleeves by that time. I don't suppose that would have sparked off anything if it hadn't been that the shirt tail had a noticeable brown stain on it. According to Jamie's statement, he'd gone to the toilet in the Plough and it was only after he'd finished that he noticed there was no paper in that cubicle, so he had to dress and nip into the next cubicle to finish off. That was how he got the stain."

The Sergeant nodded ponderously. "Aye, very understandable."

"Yes, well, Jamie was black affronted and flew right off the handle. Of course Sammy hadn't known about Jamie's difficulty and was sorry, but Jamie would have nothing for it but that the pair of them go outside. Sammy tried to talk him out of it but when he realised that Jamie was getting more and more embarrassed - and mad in proportion -he went out with him. Sammy talked the other lads out of going with them, he said they were just going to have a chat."

"Uh huh, and nobody else saw what happened out there?"

She shook her head. "Not as far as we were able to discover. According to Jamie they went out to the back bit of the car park, out of sight of the pub and away from the lights. Jamie was all for them having a fight but Sammy refused and said that if Jamie was dead set on hitting him he could just go ahead and do it, and he stuck his chin out. Jamie says he was so mad he took one good swing at it and Sammy went back against a car and slid to the ground. Jamie said something like 'That'll teach you a lesson, old pal' then went straight back inside. When Sammy didn't reappear he just thought he'd pushed off home on his own." She glanced from one man to the other. "I saw Jamie after he came back in and I must say he didn't look as if he'd just killed someone, accidentally or otherwise."

Murdo nodded understandingly. "I see, and are you believing all this?"

She shrugged. "Yes, I think so. Jamie stuck to his story back at the Station and nothing that anybody else said contradicted him in any way. It was just a terrible shame that Sammy had some sort of a weakness and it killed him."

"What did the autopsy say about that?"

"Not much really. The blow would have been enough to knock him out for a few minutes at most, but that's all. The bruising was consistent with Sammy having lived for just minutes after the blow was struck. There was no other sign of trauma - he didn't strike his head as he fell or anything like that. There was no asphyxiation either, the heart just stopped beating. There was no sign of any damage to the brain - no bruising or ruptured blood vessels - but the suggested cause of death was that some sort of malfunction of the brain had caused the heart to stop."

"Umph. Nothing else at all?"

She shook her head. "No - except for a swollen ankle and a small scratch under one arm. The swollen ankle was a result of him going over it during a game of football a couple of evenings before."

"And the scratch?"

"The Doctor didn't know. He suggested it might have been caused by leaning against a barbed wire fence."

"Umm." Murdoch pushed that around in his mind. "Umm, possible I suppose. But what would he have been doing leaning on a fence inside a field? Does he work on the land?"

"No, he works at the Atomic Plant." Then, out of curiosity, "Why would he have had to be inside?"

"You would only lean against a barbie fence at the post - in between the posts the wire would give enough to make you overbalance and really scratch yourself. But the wire is stapled to the inside of the posts so he would have had to be leaning against the inside - or maybe against a strainer post where the wire is wrapped round." He shrugged impatiently as if annoyed at himself for jumping to conclusions. "Did the Doctor say how long ago the scratch had been made?"

"No, I don't think so."

"What about strangers? Were there any outsiders at the dance or the pub that evening?"

She shook her head. "No, not really. It wasn't the sort of do where everybody knew everybody, but they were all part of the community for maybe ten miles around Inkrock so everybody was known by lots of other people."

There didn't seem to be much else to be learned from the young woman so Murdo raised a questioning eyebrow to the Inspector who took the hint and dismissed her to her duties.

When the door had closed behind her, Murdo asked, "What are you calling it? Misadventure or manslaughter?"

"As far as we can see it was just a tragic accident. Even if we had any inkling of suspicious circumstances - and we don't - the post-mortem doesn't leave us anything to go on. I think that everybody, including the Fiscal, will go for misadventure."

Murdo ran a hand around the back of his neck in mild embarrassment. "Och, but it does seem a wee bit unlikely, doesn't it? A fit young lad like that, playing football in the evenings and working in a place where they'd be getting regular medicals. I've never heard the like of it myself."

"No...oo, I must admit I haven't either. But what do you suggest?"

"Och, I'm thinking maybe you have the right of it, but my Superintendent will be wanting a report when I go back so I'd like to have a wee bit look around. If you wouldn't be offended, like."

The Inspector was obviously in two minds about the whole thing. He didn't like mysteries so if there was anything to be found out he wanted it done. However, he had an instinctive dislike of outsiders poking their noses into local affairs - and, if truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure that all the procedures had been carried out in accordance with the book. His reply was consequently lacking in enthusiasm. "No, no, we've nothing to hide. I take it that you want to look into all our procedures relating to the case?"

Murdo grimaced in horror at the thought. "I do not! If the Superintendent wants somebody to look at procedures he will chust have to be sending somebody else to do it. No, no, I'll be wanting to look around and get the feel of the case itself. I'm not for a minute thinking I'll be finding anything new but I'll be able to go back and tell the Super that I agree that it was chust an accident."

"Oh, yes, well, fine. Yes, feel free, and if you want anything from us you only have to ask." The Inspector's face lightened noticeably. A CID man turning up new evidence was one thing - after all, that was his job - but a CID man looking at procedures was altogether more sinister. "Where would you like to start?"

"Well, if you could chust be giving me a list of names and addresses of witnesses I'll have a wander round and have a look about. If I could pick up a copy of their statements later in the day it would be chust grand."

"No problem in that." He lifted his phone and spoke briefly into it. "It will just take a few minutes." Business over, he turned to pleasantries. "Came up last night, did you? Where are you staying?"

"The Plough. I thought I might as well be near the scene, and it seems comfortable enough."

"Aye, it is that, but they don't do much bed and breakfast nowadays. Harry says they don't really have enough rooms to make it worthwhile but I suspect that Big Bertha, his wife, has enough to do keeping Harry from drinking the profits without having to look after a lot of guests as well." He grinned. "Met Bertha yet, have you?"

Murdo shook his head. "No, but I noticed that mine host keeps his head well down when he's having a wee bit dram."

"Aye, and well he might. Big Bertha would make two of him, and she's a real hard nut. Comes of Aberdeen fisher folk and is the real brains behind the business. Formidable character but when you get to know her she's got a heart of gold - but don't you be telling her I said that!"

Murdo grinned and shook his head, an inspired gossip himself when it suited him, he appreciated this as a congenial way to absorb background colour. They chatted for a few more minutes before the receptionist came in with a large envelope. Murdo took it, stood up, shook hands with the Inspector and left. His first stop was the newsagents where he bought a street map and an Ordinance Survey map of the area. Then he strolled down a winding street to the harbour and sought out a small cafe he remembered from a previous visit. The place was fairly busy with holidaymakers but he took his cup of tea to a table where he could sit with his back to the wall and look at the list in reasonable privacy. When he opened the envelope he found that it contained a list of the names and addresses of witnesses as requested, but that it also contained statements from the principal witnesses. He glanced quickly through them and then put them back in the envelope, drained his cup and left.

It was nearly eleven o'clock and the sun was shining from a clear blue sky. Too fine a day to be cooped up in an office or questioning witnesses in their homes. He strolled along the harbour wall, down the steps onto the beach, along the beach and then onto the path at the far end. It was hot work climbing the path to the top of the cliffs and he was grateful to come to a set of steps leading down to a seat set on a flat rock a little way down the cliff. It was surrounded by a safety barrier and was obviously popular, being sheltered from both sun and wind. It was deserted, the holidaymakers presumably heading for an early lunch, so he sat down and spent a peaceful hour reading through the statements. They didn't tell him much that was new but he felt the old familiar satisfaction of getting into a case.

He returned to the Plough for lunch and then went to his room to jot down some notes. Never a very organised worker, he tended to spend long, apparently aimless, periods mulling things over in his mind, and then doing something outwardly constructive to tie up a loose end that was beginning to disturb the pattern of his thoughts. His note keeping was invariably nothing more than a personal diary to remind himself of what he'd done and thought day by day. Sometimes it was useful in pinning down exact times when the case came to court, but more often it merely served to stop him from going over old ground, or as a trigger to rekindle a useful train of thought. Today he had nothing to write but a few bare facts.

The window in his room was small and deeply recessed in the thick walls so the sunshine streaming through was like a silver lance in the dark room. He looked longingly at the bed, sighed deeply, tucked his notebook in his inside jacket pocket and went downstairs and out through the back door to the car park. There was a handful of cars clustered close around the door but none in the back car park where the fight had taken place and the body had been found. The pub stood in the middle of the frontage of what had been a large, almost square, garden. Part of it at the back had been sold off many years before, leaving a large rectangle with its long side along the narrow road and a small square big enough to hold six cars tagged on at one rear corner. It was all tarred over and almost completely surrounded by a seven-foot wall with full-grown sycamore trees leaning over it. It was in the small, secluded square that the fight and death had occurred.

Murdo strolled casually around and confirmed that even a man of his height couldn't see even a window from where the body had been found. He stood for a long time, head bent and deep in thought. Any foul play by Jamison, or when Jamison was outside, would have been very risky. If Jamison was involved he would have needed at least one other person to keep a lookout and guard against being surprised by someone nosey about the fight or by an arriving motorist. After Jamison had gone back into the pub the situation would have been easier. At eleven pm it would have been quite dark, and the high walls would have ensured that the solitary light at the back door of the pub would have favoured any miscreant by leaving the square in black shadow whilst illuminating all approaches. And the parked cars would have provided ample cover for the miscreant to melt away if anyone else did arrive. He must remember to check how full the car park had been.

None of the people questioned had been in the car park, or had observed anyone there, for at least fifteen minutes either side of the time of death. He rubbed his hand around the back of his neck and made a mental note to check how definitively the time of death was known. The main point was that foul play would appear to have been possible so, despite the negative medical evidence pointing vaguely towards an accident, he would have to do some more checking. He stood sucking his cheek and mentally wrestling with the first stirrings of interest in the case and the need to get back home to sort out his garden. The warm sun and blue sky decided him, "Och, och, a day or two won't hurt, and anyway it will be so dry that the weeds will near be stopped growing."

He strolled back to the Police Station and went in to see whether they had the rest of the statements ready yet. They had, so he took the bulky envelope, murmured his thanks and left. Gradually he became aware that he had left the town centre behind him and was walking along a quiet, leafy street towards the cottage hospital. Och well, the town Medical Centre was there so he might as well call in to see whether the doctor who had carried out the post mortem was available for a chat.

At first the receptionist was unimpressed by his police identity card but when he said, "Och, that's alright, I'll chust be having a seat here until he can see me," and deposited his ample frame on a chair immediately across the corridor from her window, she decided that it would be better to palm him off onto the doctor than to have him sitting there watching her read a book. She closed the sliding glass panel and turned her back on him before picking up the telephone and talking into it briefly. Then she knocked sharply on the glass, beckoned him over and slid the partition open slightly. "Dr Winn will see you now. His office is along there and his name is on the door." Without waiting for a reply she shut the glass and turned away.

Dr Winn proved to be a rather harassed looking old man with a shiny bald head fringed with a horseshoe of pure white hair. He stood up behind his desk and reached over to shake hands. "Good afternoon, I'm Winn. Do sit down."

"Afternoon, Sir. I'm Detective Sergeant Murdoch of the Inverness CID and I'd like to talk to you about the death of Samuel Murchison."

"Ah yes, a tragic case. He was one of the first children I delivered into the world after I arrived here nearly twenty years ago and I've known him all his life. Not well, of course, they're a healthy family the Murchisons, but as far as I know I'm the only doctor he's ever seen - except that is, for the medical examinations he got at work."

"Your report said you could find no reason for his death. I'd be grateful if you could explain that in layman's terms."

Winn eyed the Sergeant impassively for a long moment before speaking. "I'll start at the beginning, at least it was the beginning as far as I was concerned. I was called to the Plough by the police shortly after eleven pm on the night of the tragedy. They said they had received a message to the effect that a youth had been found dead in the car park there. I went there immediately, arriving just as the police were starting to clear onlookers from around the body. I ascertained that he was indeed dead, and then waited about half an hour until the body could be removed. I followed the ambulance back here and had the body taken straight to the mortuary and started the post-mortem. On examining the outside of the body I found bruising on the left side of the jaw, consistent with his having been hit by what could best be described as a right cross." He made a fist with his right hand and threw a slow-motion punch. "I then found that his left ankle was swollen and that he had a small scratch under his right armpit." He raised his right arm and indicated with his left hand where the scratch had been, about a hand-span down from the armpit.

"Those were the only external marks I could find, so I examined them more carefully. The bruised jaw was consistent with having been caused by a fairly hard punch by a bare fist, and the development of the bruising was such as to pinpoint accurately that his heart had ceased operating within two minutes of the blow being struck."

Murdo butted in. "Excuse me, Sir, but how accurate? Can you tell me the minimum and maximum time that could have elapsed between the blow and death?"

"Pretty accurate. A bruise develops very rapidly at first as the blood diffuses through the damaged tissue. The time between the blow and death couldn't have been less than one and a half minutes, and it couldn't have been more than three minutes. There's no doubt about that, these limits would encompass variables like age, general health, temperature and so on."

"What about if he'd gone into a coma or something when the blow was struck, would that have made a difference?"

The old doctor shook his head. "Not enough to make the times fall outside those I've quoted. In fact, I did wonder about that and looked it up. Even one and a half minutes is a very long time to stay unconscious after a blow to the jaw like that, and there were absolutely no signs that he'd ever regained consciousness, so I wondered why he had stayed out for so long. However, times do vary and a situation like this where someone sticks his jaw out and invites someone else to hit it can result in very large accelerations of the cranium. You know, of course, Sergeant, that the knockout effect in a case like this is that the heavy brain lags behind when the skull is struck so that the skull crashes into it."

Murdo nodded. "Chust in very general terms, Sir. Did you find anything later to support the idea that he'd been struck sufficiently hard to cause unconsciousness for more than a minute?"

"Well, perhaps, but only very marginally. I examined the brain most carefully and found nothing but very local bruising, certainly nothing like a haemorrhage or anything like that."

Murdo sighed. "Och well, Sir, there's not much point in me questioning you about the detail, I wouldn't understand it anyway. What I would be grateful for is if you could tell me what you think went on between the blow being struck and the young man being dead."

"Ah yes, that's the question, isn't it? Of course I don't know, I can only guess. It's extremely unusual, people are really very robust creatures and normally a blow to the head hard enough to cause death would leave the outside a very gory mess indeed. The only exception to that occurs in the boxing ring where a heavy blow from a padded glove can cause internal damage without much to show for it on the outside. But in that case there is no doubting the cause of death when the brain is examined." He shrugged. "I'm sorry to seem so evasive, Sergeant, but I simply can't suggest anything other than that the slight damage to the brain caused some sort of chain reaction that led to it shutting down completely. The brain is a very complex organ that we know little about so all things are possible, but ..." His voice trailed off.

"Sir, if I could maybe put it another way. Is there anything that could have caused the death even if the blow hadn't been struck?" He waved a massive hand helplessly. "Fear, shock, poison ... I don't know."

Winn clicked his dentures for a moment before answering. "Nothing that I was able to find - but that's not to say that it's impossible, there are some very funny chemicals about these days." He clearly didn't like this turn of conversation.

"Sir, I'm trying to decide whether foul play could have been involved, so let me be blunt. Given a man, newly knocked unconscious from a blow, is there anything you can think of that could kill him without leaving any more sign than you've found?" The Sergeant's normal soft West Highland tones had given way to the harder jargon of the Police College. No longer did he speak individual words in his natural accent and grammar, but instead uttered complete accent-less phrases in the way that an actor or singer will regurgitate pieces of ready-forged text.

"Dammitall, Man, how would I know? If this was a spy drama I'd be willing to believe that the KGB or CIA could do something like that, but this is a young man who got punched on the jaw behind a pub in a small town in the north of Scotland. I don't know what killed him but I don't see any reason to suspect foul play. These things do sometimes happen, not often but they do happen." His face had grown quite red. "Dammit, Sergeant, can't you realise that for these things to get in the text books somebody has to die from some observed effect, and then a thorough post-mortem has to be carried out and find nothing!"

"Yes, I see that, Sir." Murdo's voice was softly conciliatory as he changed tack. "You said there was a swollen ankle and a scratch. Can you tell me anything about them?"

"The ankle was slightly sprained a couple of days before when he was playing football. The state of the swelling is consistent with that. As for the scratch, I'd say it was done the day he died but it's difficult to be more precise because the sweat and the rubbing of the shirt at the dance would have left it looking raw. Maybe he did it whilst scratching an itch. Maybe one of his dancing partners did it. Maybe he leant against a barbed wire fence." He shook his head wearily. "I don't know, it was just a tiny scratch."

"Ahem, could it have been used to administer a drug, Sir?"

"For God's sake, Sergeant, I don't know. I carried out all the normal tests and found no sign of any toxins. Alright?"

Murdo stood up. "Och, Sir, I'm sorry to be persisting like this but I have to be asking these questions before I can discount foul play."

"And have you, Sergeant? Discounted foul play, I mean." His tone was acerbic.

"Och well, I've a wee bitty more to do yet before I'll be knowing one way or another. As to that, Sir, I hope you won't take it amiss if I ask for the body to be taken to Glasgow for further tests."

The doctor waved his hand resignedly. "No, of course not, you go ahead and do that. The best thing, in fact. If you're looking for science fiction drugs you'll be better off with their science fiction machines down there." He was suddenly just a frail old man. "Oh I'm sorry, Sergeant, I've no right to take out my bad temper on you. It's just that I brought that boy into the world, gave him all his inoculations, treated his occasional complaints and watched him grow up. And now I've had to cut his young body up to try to find out how he came to die without a mark on him. Even for someone who's been a doctor for as long as I have, that's not a pleasant thing to contemplate."

"I know, Sir. It's always worse when it's the young ones." He said his goodbyes and nodded in reply to the doctor's dispirited wave. He ambled back towards the town centre, mulling over the doctors words as he went. Nothing much gained really, but at least he now knew that the doctor was frustrated at having failed to discover the cause of death. He had reacted strongly against the suggestion of foul play, but had been able to offer neither proof nor conviction to the contrary. A cup of coffee and a sticky bun at the cafe by the harbour brought no dazzling insight so he crossed the footbridge over the river and strolled along the path, past the ruined castle and out along the low cliff tops.

The warm sun and the still air made him weary so when he came on an old man sitting on a slab of rock with his legs dangling over the edge he stopped and looked out on the shining water. "Och, isn't this chust a grand day to be out?"

"Aye, it is that. Ower warm for walking aboot with a suit on, anyroads." He looked Murdo up and down with lively curiosity. "Holidaying?"

"Och, chust for a day or two, and I couldn't have picked a better time, it seems."

"Been grand since the middle of May. Sometimes not very hot, breezy like, but it's been a dryer summer than any I can remember." He chuckled. "You folk frae the south always think it rains all the time up here."

"Och, and not without reason! I've been up here a few times and the weather has always been chust the very devil." Murdo grinned in reply.

"Well, well, you can't expect it to be fine all the time."

"All the time is it? I remember spending three weeks here a couple of years ago and it rained every day. Mind you, it might have been the same rain all the time for all I know because it was always going horizontally in the wind! When I complained about it, a bloke who'd lived here for about thirty years said, 'Och, it's not always bad, I remember the summer of fifty eight, what a grand day that was' and I think that's about the truth of it!"

The old man chuckled mightily. "That's a good one, and I'll grant that the weather here is a bit variable, but we do get more than one fine day a summer, it's just that we don't often get more than one good one at the time. Anyway, we don't want the word about our good weather to get around too much - it's all that keeps us from getting trampled underfoot by armies of tourists."

Murdo lowered his massive frame onto the rock beside the old man. "I'd have thought that the tourism would have been your main industry here."

"Naw. Ach, there's a fair bit of bed and breakfast, like, but it's the Atomics that bring the money in."

"The Atomics? Oh, you'll be meaning the folk that work at the atomic plant out the road."

"Aye, biggest employer in the area."

Murdo looked at him with interest. "Are you in favour of it, then?" The old man gave a cackle of a laugh. "I am and I'm not. I worked there for twenty years before I retired so I'm all in favour of it as an industry." He scowled suddenly. "What I'm not so keen on is the way it's changed the area. Och, there was a lot of poverty and emigration before but now the incomers have all the best jobs and are the new ruling class. Worse still, their wives have half the teaching jobs in the area so our kids are losing the local culture and language. Even when the folk that come in are from just a wee bitty south of here they use English. I suppose with the wireless and telly and papers it's the only common language we've got."

"Aye, it's the same down the West Coast, hardly anything owned by the folk born and bred tae the area. It's all English, Dutch and Chermans that own the Estates, retired folk frae the cities have the good houses, and hippies have got the wee crofties."

The old man warmed to the discussion. "That's exactly it! They sell a wee semi-detached house in one of the cities and can buy a farm up here and live like gentry on the proceeds. They don't farm the land - most of them couldn't get a dockan tae grow in the climate up here - they just stroll about on it and chase off the local folk that have wandered on it all their lives." He spat down onto the sands below and gestured towards the cliffs away out to their right. "See that big house up there on the cliff? Murie House. A good example of what we've been saying. It was the Laird o' Murie's house for God knows how many generations, but that was all a long time ago. The Murie Estate was broken up and sold shortly after the First World War - the Laird and both his sons were killed on the Somme. The family kept it as their country house until the late fifties, then it was sold to a businessman from London, and then in the sixties it was sold again and became a small hotel. But it wasn't really big enough for that so it's changed hands a few times since, as a restaurant or bed-and-breakfast place mostly. Then, just about eighteen months ago, the present owner, Christopher Bloody Roberts, bought it and has lived there with his wife and son ever since. He's a self-made man and as bigoted a bastard as you're ever likely to meet. He's tried to revive the auld title of Laird." He sneered. "But nobody in the area, even the well-off ones from the South, will have anything to do with him. Owns damn near all that headland, and tries tae stop folk from going onto it." His face had a dark, hooded look. "Tries all the Nazi tricks tae scare folk off but we'll last the bastard oot. Just you see, he'll be another of thae thousand day wonders, three winters and he'll be away back to the city."

"Is he English?"

"Naw, from Edinburgh." It obviously annoyed him to have to admit that a fellow Scot could do such things. "At least, he came here from Edinburgh but he's probably originally from further south." His mood changed again and he suddenly grinned. "Ach well, it's too grand a day tae be worrying about bastards like that. If we do we'll just be letting them steal oor sunshine as well, eh?"

Murdo weighed up the little man and grinned as he said, "Och, you've got the right of it - but if you didn't have folk like that to take your interest you'd die of boredom up here."

"G'wa wi' ye! There may be a lot more on of a night in a city but you can only go tae one thing at a time, so you might as well be here where there often is only the one thing on at a time. Besides, we have our moments, you know."

"Oh, such as?"

"Och, you name it and there's a club for it somewhere in the area. Folk make a lot of their own entertainment, or have clubs that bring in outsiders to entertain us. Any sort of music - pop singers, international Country and Western singers, Shetland fiddlers, classical music - we get them all. And there's clubs for every damn't thing from scuba diving to country dancing. It's the Atomics that's behind most of it, of course. I suppose they miss the city things they were used to before they came up here, but most of the local folk take advantage of it."

"A lot of country places make their own entertainment and bring in bands and things like that, but surely excitement is a thing that happens seldom here."

"Now that's just where you're wrong. Only a week last Saturday we had a mysterious death in the car park behind the Plough Inn. A young lad o' nineteen was found dead after a Saturday night dance. Got in a fight with his mate and was found dead later in the night."

"An accident, was it?"

"Naw! That's what they're saying but I dinna believe a word o' it. Sammy Murchison was a normal, fit young lad. It would have taken a gie bit more than a punch on the jaw from a wee lad like Jamie Jamison tae kill him. Naw! There's bliddy crime everywhere these days, he was murdered, just you mark my words."

"Was he robbed or anything like that?"

"Naw. He wouldn't have had anything tae rob. He was in his shirt sleeves."

"So why would anybody want tae murder him? Was there some ill-feeling?"

The old man continued to stare out to sea. "Nothing I've heard of, Sammy was a grand lad, everybody liked him. Well brought-up, I've known his folk all my life. None better. Naw, Sammy wasn't at odds with anybody, but some bastard killed him for all that. The same sort of mindless bliddy hound that rapes and murders wee bairns for nae other reason than that they're twisted and ken that the law nowadays just pats them on the head and sympathises with them for having had a deprived childhood." He shook his head angrily. "Ach well, maybe the lad is well oot o' this vale o' tears."

There seemed to be nothing more to be learned from the old man so Murdo just murmured, "Ah well, maybe you're right at that, but there's a lot of enjoyment as well as tears in life, especially for a nineteen year old" then lapsed into silence. After a few minutes he heaved himself to his feet, "Well, it's been fine talking to you but I'd better be getting on if I'm to see the high cliffs along there."

The old man raised a hand in salute. "The path goes for about thirty miles along the coast but you'll find it blocked off when you reach Murie land. Never heed it though, you've every right tae be there."

Murdo walked head-down and deep in thought until, just after passing the small village of Sandbay, he came to a huge heap of builders rubble covering the path and filling the narrow space between the cliff edge and a high barbed wire fence. He had obviously reached Murie land, so he turned and started to retrace his steps. With an effort he pushed the case out of his mind, all he could do was talk to some of the principal characters and then go home. That diverted his thoughts to his own garden and what it would need doing to it to repair the ravages of the Summer's neglect. It was with something of a surprise that he found that his long, countryman's legs had brought him back to Inkrock at just after five o'clock so he went to the Plough for a shower and change to see to the needs of his outside, and then to the bar for a pint of shandy to deal with his insides.

Mine Host joined him in a drink, but favoured a large whiskey instead of a shandy. "Been out sightseeing, then?"

"Aye. Walked out past the castle to the headland."

"Hah! No wonder you're dry enough to drink that stuff. You must have walked a good ten miles." He tossed off his drink and turned to refill his glass. "Better you than me."

"Och, it was a fine day and I enjoyed the walk. It's put a bit of an edge on my appetite, though. Any chance of eating a bit earlier tonight?"

"Well, we don't start serving meals properly until seven but if a salad and a cold sweet would do you can have it in less than half an hour." He caught Murdo's doubtful look and grinned. "Dinna worry, I can see that you need a good plateful, you won't rise hungry."

Murdo smiled ruefully. "Well, I'm not much of a salad man as a rule, though my wife keeps trying to convert me, but right now a salad at six o'clock beats a steak at seven."

The meal he sat down to at six hardly qualified for the name of salad since the small amount of vegetables was swamped by a mountain of cold meats. A generous plateful of fresh fruit salad and ice cream, followed by a pot of coffee and a cheese board satisfied even the Sergeant's massive frame.

It was nearly seven when he left the Plough to drive the five or six miles to the Murchison's small house set a mile or so inland of the village of Sandbay. He was met at the door by a sad-faced couple and introduced himself. "Hullo, are you Mr and Mrs Murchison?" When they nodded dumbly he continued, "I'm Detective Sergeant Murdoch of the Inverness CID. If it's not inconvenient I'd like to ask you a few questions about the death of your son."

The little man nodded "You'd better come in then." He stood aside to let his wife lead Murdo into the living room. The bereaved couple had received visits and support from relatives, friends and neighbours and had grown almost used to talking about their loss but they still had about them an air of bewildered devastation. Murdo sat in the proffered armchair at one side of the empty fireplace and waited whilst Jockie Murchison sat down in the facing chair and Beth Murchison sat on the sofa, then he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to be troubling you at a time like this but we have to make enquiries to determine the cause and circumstances of death."

"That's all right, Sergeant. You just ask your questions and we'll do our best to answer them."

"Tell me what your son did on that last day, particularly anything that was unusual."

It was Beth who answered. "Well, it was all a bit unusual because he was working. He didn't normally work on Saturdays but there was something urgent on so a few of them were in at the Atomic Plant that day. He got up as usual for a working day at ten minutes to seven - Sammy was always a good riser and got up whenever his alarm clock went off. He had his usual breakfast of cereal and then toast and tea and left the house about ten past seven to walk the mile to the village to catch the bus to the Atomic Plant where he was an Instrument Mechanic. He finished work at five and arrived home just before six. Then we all had tea together and Sammy washed the dishes and Morag dried." Her eyes were swimming at the memory. "He was good like that, he'd often tell me to have a rest whilst he did the dishes." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "Then Sammy went for a shower and got changed. He was just ready when one of his friends arrived to give him a lift to the dance at about half past seven."

As he listened, the big Sergeant watched Morag, Sammy's thirteen-year-old sister, enter the room and sit quietly on the sofa by her mother. Saw her hand creep surreptitiously into her mother's, although whether to give or receive comfort he couldn't tell. "Who was it that called for him?"

"I don't know, he didn't get a chance to come in, Sammy heard the car and rushed out still tying his tie."

"Was that normal, somebody calling for your son but not coming in?"

She nodded. "Yes. Both the kitchen and living room windows look right down our road so we usually see visitors before they arrive. Rather than have them get out of the car to fetch him, Sammy would usually go out to meet them."

Mr Murchison chipped in. "If you're wondering whether Sammy ever brought his friends into the house, the answer is yes he did. His mates were always welcome here."

Murdo nodded before asking, "Um, did you notice anything at all different about Sammy that day, or at any time during the few days before? I mean, did he seem in his normal good health and spirits, or did he seem at all down?"

"He was just the same as usual, his health was fine, he was eating his meals and he was just ... normal." His mother answered. "Sammy was always a very even tempered lad and we'd have noticed if anything was different."

Murdo nodded. "Can you think of any reason, any reason at all, for Sammy to die like that? Was there anything at any time - even when he was a baby - to suggest that he might have had a health problem?"

"No, never." Beth shook her head decisively and her knuckles gripping Morag’s hand were white.

"What about your families, did anyone in your backgrounds ever die or be taken ill in any way that might suggest a hereditary problem?"

Again Beth shook her head. "No, we've gone through all the relatives we can think of and have asked around among the older members of both families but we didn't come up with anything."

"I see." Murdo braced himself. "I have to ask this question - can you think of any reason why foul play might have been involved?"

They both looked at him for a long time, and he saw bewilderment slowly give way to horror. "You mean, murder?" Beth asked in a shocked whisper.

Murdo nodded. "I know it's very unlikely but we have to face the fact that when somebody dies for no apparent reason there might be a clever hand behind it."

"No! Jamie and Sammy were the best of friends, I won't believe that that nice boy had anything to do with Sammy's death! It was just bad luck." In defending Jamie, Beth showed the first true animation since he'd arrived, and her husband's expression showed that he agreed with her. "Sergeant, I'm sure you mean well but young Jamie has suffered enough as it is, don't you be suspecting him of murder now."

"I wasn't, but Jamie wasn't actually there when Sammy died. According to the report, Jamie punched Sammy and then returned to the pub leaving Sammy lying unconscious. The autopsy shows that Sammy lived for a few minutes after that - long enough for Jamie to return to the pub and somebody else to come along... ." He left the inference hanging in the air.

Jockie cleared his throat. "But why would anyone want to harm our Sammy? Everybody liked him."

"I don't know - but can you think of any reason why anyone might have wished your son ill? It might not have been intended as murder, just a bit of revenge, or a warning, something like that could have gone wrong."

"No I can't. I don't believe our Sammy had an enemy in the world, and that's the truth." Jockie was quite unequivocal, and his wife nodded her agreement.

Murdo stood up. "Well, I've taken up enough of your time. But if you think of anything at all please let us know."

When he arrived back at the Plough he bought a pint of beer in the public bar and carried it up to his room to write up his notes whilst they were still fresh in his mind. He looked again at the police report and saw that there was no mention of Sammy getting a lift to the dance. A bit sloppy, that.

The next morning he visited the Police Station and was greeted slightly warily by Inspector Neil Pollock. "Well, well, Murdo, and how's it all going?"

"Och, just plodding along, you know how it is. I had a word with Murchison's parents last night and they were saying that young Sammy got a lift to the dance with a mate, but the report makes no mention of that. Would you be knowing who it was?"

The Inspector's face darkened at an outsider finding such an omission. "No I don't offhand but I'll find out. Just wait here a minute and I'll get Sergeant Gill, he was in charge of the questioning team."

Murdo smiled ruefully as the Inspector left the room, understanding his chagrin at having such an omission exposed. He returned a few minutes later with WPC Murray in tow. "Humph, Gill's off ill, tripped and put his hand through a glass-topped bedside table. He's been signed off for a week. Humph, drunk likely," he added darkly. "Anyway, you've met WPC Murray, haven't you? She'll fill you in."

Murdo waited for the slightly flustered Policewoman to sit down, and then smiled benignly. "Hullo again. I visited the Murchisons yesterday evening and they said that their son had been picked up and taken to the dance by a friend. Do you know who that friend was?"

"Not for certain, Sergeant, but it's likely to have been Allan McAllan from Tornaquirt Mains. If you like, I can make a 'phone call and find out for sure."

"Tell me first why you think it was him."

"Him and Sammy and Jamie have always been great friends. They were very close at school but Allan works on his father's farm to the south east of Sandbay so he wasn't quite so close to the other two after they went to work at the Atomic Plant. They were still great friends though and since he's the only one of them with a car he usually picked up Sammy when they were coming into town to meet up with Jamie."

Murdo switched his attention to the Inspector. "I think I'll be having a wee run out to see the lad. I don't suppose you could lend me Miss Murray to show me the way, could you?"

Eager to make amends for the slip-up, the Inspector readily agreed. "Surely, Murdo, surely. In fact, you might find her useful if you want to talk to some of the other witnesses. We're a bit slack just now so you can call on her as you like for the rest of the week."

"Thank you, Neil." He turned to the woman. "That doesn't upset any of your plans, does it?"

"No, Sergeant, I have nothing in particular on at work, and I'm free in the evenings too."

"Watch her, Murdo, she has ambitions to be a detective so she'll be picking your brains," grinned the Inspector.

"Och, only Inspectors and above have brains, we Sergeants only have big feet." Murdo chuckled in return.

They walked to the Station car park together and WPC Murray unlocked the door of a police Ford Escort. "Do you want to drive, Sergeant, or shall I?"

"No, no, I don't think there'd be enough room for me to drive this thing." She unlocked the passenger door and pushed the seat fully back for him. Even then it was a tight fit. Once they were clear of the town he turned to get a good look at her. "What's your name?"

"Carol, Sergeant."

"Do you mind if I use it?" She shook her head. "Good, mine's Murdo. Now, Carol, what do you make of Sammy Murchison's death?"

She hesitated, wondering whether this was a trick to get her to commit herself so that he could demonstrate his superior knowledge. He looked a nice enough man and had behaved in a gentlemanly way in the office but she knew that a lot of men changed their spots when they got a girl alone. She answered carefully. "Well, Sergeant - Murdo - nothing in the evidence contradicts the official line that Sammy had some sort of weakness that caused his death and that the blow to the jaw was the more-or-less innocent trigger that initiated the chain of events." She hesitated again and he waited patiently. "On the other hand, there's nothing to corroborate the two critical bits of evidence. Nobody can confirm that the punch-up took place as Jamie said it did, and the post-mortem showed not one shred of evidence to prove what actually caused the death."

"So, what would you do?"

She shrugged. "I would have the body examined by a real forensic expert - old Doctor Winn is a good doctor and a very nice man but his interests really lie with the living, not the dead. And I would keep looking. In the absence of real forensic evidence about the cause of death I think we should treat it as a death in suspicious circumstances and try to winkle out the truth by being persistent." She shrugged again and smiled, "But I'm only a WPC on general duties so what would I know?"

He nodded and smiled, she spoke her mind and he liked that trait in a person, deviousness was just too much trouble. "Good enough, Lass. Well, I've already arranged for a further post-mortem to be done by Doctor Sommers at Glasgow, and they don't come better than him. And I agree that we should do a bit of digging. We'll start with this McAllan character so tell me what you know about him."

"Nothing of much interest, really. He's nineteen or twenty years old and a farmer's son, not a very big place, about a hundred and fifty acres arable and maybe another couple of hundred hill. He's got three sisters, all older than himself. Two of them are married and the other is engaged. Allan and Sophie live at home with their parents. Allan works on the farm - his father's not so fit anymore, he'd be just in his mid fifties I guess but he's got a bit of a history of heart trouble. Sophie is a secretary in a solicitor's office in Inkrock and is engaged to an Englishman who works at the Atomic Plant - a chemist, I think. Allan is a cheery sort of guy, always laughing and joking. He was the joker of the trio - Sammy was sort of mature and serious, and Jamie could be a bit sulky and snappy." She paused in her quick-fire delivery and glanced at him, "That's about it I guess, I don't really know him all that well."

"Did they all see much of each other?"

"Yes a fair bit I think. They'd be together at some hop or other most Saturday nights, and they played football most Wednesdays in the summer and squash at least once a week in the winter. They visited each other's houses a lot too, Allan would visit and have meals with Sammy and Jamie when he was in town, and Sammy and Jamie would often go out to help Allan on the farm."

"I see, and would you think that they might have been capable of getting up to any mischief?"

She glanced at him quickly and then returned her gaze to the road and shook her head. "No, not really. Jamie might on his own, he's desperate to buy a car and would do most things for money, but the other two would have kept him in hand." ???????????????

They turned onto the farm track at the barely decipherable sign that proclaimed just 'Tornaquirt'. Murdo's head banged rhythmically against the roof as Carol tried to negotiate the pot holes. "My God, Lassie, it's easily seen that you're a town squeak and learned to drive on tarred roads. If there's a bluidy pot hole in this road you haven't hit I'd be surprised."

She chuckled at the sight of the massive man crouching and hanging on like grim death. "It's your own fault, Sergeant, if you weren't so heavy this car might have some suspension travel left."

They parked in the muck of the farm yard and got out, Carol lithely and Murdo like a slow-motion Jack-in-the-Box. He stretched mightily and pulled his jacket straight. "Ah, that's better. It's high time there was a policy of buying Range Rovers for the full-grown men in this Force."

They walked to the back door of the house and knocked loudly. A large, grey haired woman answered the door, wiping her hands on the wrap-around apron. "Och it's yourself, Carol. I suppose it'll be Harry you're wanting, he's up on the hill having a look at the sheep but he'll soon be down for his breakfast so you might as well come in and wait."

"No, Mrs McAllan, it's Allan that we'd like to see." She stood aside. "This is Detective Sergeant Murdoch from the Inverness CID. He'd like to talk to Allan about the night that Sammy Murchison died."

They shook hands and she invited them into the kitchen. "Alan's over at Upperton seeing about getting the combine for next week but he should be back soon. Will you have a cup of tea and a scone whilst you're waiting?"

"If that's your scones I smell baking, I certainly will," chuckled Murdo.

"Well, sit you down and I'll get the kettle boiled." She used her apron to push the kettle onto the middle of the Rayburn hotplate, then turned to look at them. "Has a date been set for the release of the body yet?"

Carol shook her head. "No, and I think it might be a while yet."

"Och it's a terrible shame. Poor Beth and Jockie won't start getting over it until they have him decently buried."

Before they could reply, the outside door banged open and a thin, balding man came into the kitchen. "Well then, Lass, it's been a while since you were last out here."

Carol introduced Murdo to Harry McAllan and they all settled around the kitchen table for a cup of tea and some freshly made scones. Talk was typical country gossip. The Sergeant, who travelled around a large area, regaled the farming folk with snippets of news of acquaintances spread far and wide, and the farmer and his wife added their own tid-bits that in turn would be disseminated to others. In the old days this role had been filled by the travelling tinkers, then later by the provision vans that took the shops to the customers. Now, sadly, the new-found freedom of the telephone and the car was left to fill the gap left by the demise of the vans. And they did it but poorly, perhaps bringing closer the inner circle of friends but always hopelessly inadequate for dealing with the wider circle of acquaintances. Murdo knew all this and mourned the passing of the old ways, but he did what he could to substitute for the loss and often reflected wryly that the isolated folk's thirst for news led them to a symbiotic relationship with the police. It was rare to get a deliberate or unambiguous tip-off but it was surprising how often the background picture provided by the gossip served to highlight anomalies of interest to the police.

Half an hour and two more rounds of tea slipped past before the sound of a vehicle was heard. Murdo sighed regretfully and made to get up. "Well, Mrs Allan, that was just grand. I wish we could get you to do the catering back at the Station." She knew full well he probably said that to all the women - thereby ensuring that he was never far from a cup of tea - but she also knew that her baking was good and she blushed a little with pleasure. "No need to get up, Sergeant. We've plenty to do so if you want to see Allan alone I'll just pour his tea and we'll leave you to it."

The young man who entered was of strapping build and burned as brown as a berry from a summer of working outdoors. He beamed at Carol, "What's this then, do you think I'll confess and give myself up if they send my favourite policewoman to get me?" He sat down and his mother pushed a mug of tea in front of him, saying, "You mind your manners, Lad, this is Detective Sergeant Murdoch and he's here to question you."

Allan looked at the Sergeant and grinned. "Oh, oh, what have I been doing now?"

"I'm looking into the circumstances surrounding the death of Samuel Murchison and would like to ask you some questions. I believe that you gave the deceased a lift to the dance?"

"Yeah, sure, it was a standing arrangement on Saturday nights. Sammy didn't have a car so I used to call in for him on the way into town." There was no tension in the voice and his face was open and friendly.

"Was there anything at all unusual about that night?"

The young man shrugged. "No, I don't think so. Mind you, after Sammy dying like that I don't remember anything about the evening up to the point of the fight."

"Sammy was his usual self?"

"Yes, I think so. He certainly didn't seem worried or anything like that if that's what you mean."

"What about during the dance, did anything unusual happen?"

Again he shook his head. "No, but what is all this? Was Sammy's death not an accident?"

"We're just investigating all possibilities, Sir. Can you think of any reason why the death might not have been accidental? Had Sammy any enemies, or had he been involved in anything that might have got him in bad with somebody?"

"Christ no! Ask Carol, she'll tell you that Sammy was one of the nicest, decentest, most helpful, most even tempered guys you could wish to meet. Everybody liked Sammy, and that's the truth."

Murdo continued the questioning for another ten minutes and then they took their leave. Carol slipped behind the wheel and as Murdo went to get in Mr McAllan came out of the byre and walked towards the car. His voice was low so that only Murdo could hear. "That was an awful business with young Sammy Murchison, Sergeant. Was it an accident or is foul play suspected?"

"As far as we know it was misadventure but we must investigate the circumstances fully, just to make sure."

"Aye, well, I would look real careful if I was you. I've heard that these lads were keeping some funny company." He muttered darkly.

"Sammy? What sort of company?"

"Not Sammy so much, but young Jamie has been a bit friendly with Josh Jaffery, and through him with the Laird o' Murie's son." His voice was tinged with sarcasm and disapproval.

"Is that so, is that so?" The sergeant waited for more but Harry had said his piece and there would be nothing more to be learned from him today.

They drove back to town in near silence. Carol tried to make some light-hearted conversation but after a couple of grunted replies she shrugged and concentrated on her driving.

As they walked from the car to the Station, Carol asked, "Will you be needing me any more, Sergeant?"

"Well, if you could spare the time this evening I'd like you to have a word with the two lassies who were at the dance with Sammy and Jamie. If necessary I'll have a go at them myself later but," he looked at her, "I think they might speak more freely to you than to me. I wouldn't try any hard questioning, just get them to chat about anything that might have a bearing on the case. Don't concentrate too much on the dance itself, try to get the background of themselves, Sammy, Jamie, their friends, any enmities, anything like that."

Her eyes shone at the prospect of detective work. "Okay, but they'll probably be together, they live in the same street and are well nigh inseparable."

"Och, that's okay, Lass. Chust get them to talk and keep your ears open - that's what detecting is all about. Whilst you're doing that I'll have a word with young Jamison. If you want to fill me in on what you find I'll be at the Plough from about eight o'clock onwards. Otherwise, I'll see you at the Station first thing in the morning. Okay?"

"Yes, fine. I'll try to see you at the Plough, then."

After lunch Murdo again took advantage of the fine weather to do his thinking on the move. He walked along the coastal path to Sandbay, soaking in the sunshine and relishing the light on-shore breeze. On arriving at the village he turned inland and took the poorly-maintained, single-track road that curved inland and then back north-west towards Inkrock. The land rose only a few hundred feet but it gave him an eagle's eye view of the flat coastal strip, the sparkling blue sea and the scattering of tiny islands.

He saw the Murchison's house about a quarter of a mile to his left, and then a flash of yellow caught his eye and he saw that someone was running along by the hedge stretching from the house to the road he was on. He reached the end of the hedge just as the figure dashed breathlessly out onto the road. "Och, it's young Morag Murchison. And where are you running to on such a hot day?" He smiled as he looked down at her from his great height.

She started with surprise and seemed shy but she answered readily enough. "I'm going to see my Grandad."

"Oh, and where does Grandad live?" She pointed towards a small, whitewashed croft house set on the side of a low hill just inland of where the road they were on curved round to the west. "Up there. I go along this road to the burn and then go up the track."

"Och well, you're going the same way as I am so if you're not in a hurry you can walk along with me and tell me your news." When she was silent he added. "Do you go up and see your Grandad a lot?"

"Yes, I like it up there. I have to get some eggs anyway." She fell silent again and walked along beside him. Suddenly, without taking her eyes from the road ahead, she said, "It wasn't an accident. Our Sammy was murdered."

His first thought was that she had listened to his questions about the possibility of murder and was just trying to rationalise a bewildering situation. He knew that Sammy and Morag had been very close, the six or seven years between them being enough to make Morag look up to her big brother, and for Sammy to indulge his little sister. "What makes you think that, Morag?"

"He went to Grandad's house to try to speak to him on the evening before he was killed - about nine o'clock it was. I was up the hill", she gestured to the low hill to their left, "and saw him at the house. I came along here to meet him and told him that Grandad had got a lift into Inkrock with Jack Tait. He said that he had wanted to talk to him about something but that he'd see him on Sunday -Grandad always comes back with us after church and stays for lunch and tea."

"Did he now? And did he say what he wanted to talk to Grandad about?" He kept his voice calm despite his rising interest.

"I asked him but he wouldn't tell me." There was disappointment and disapproval in her tone.

"Tell me exactly what he said. Can you remember?"

"Of course I can. I told him where Grandad was and when he'd be back. He said that it would just have to wait then. So I asked him what he wanted to see him about, and he said it was a police matter. I said he should go to the police station, but he said he wanted to ask Grandad's advice first."

"I see. And you've no idea what it might have been about?"

She shook her head impatiently. "No, he wouldn't tell me - if you don't believe me, talk to the two men he talked to just after he left Grandad's house."

"What men, Morag? Who did he meet?"

She shrugged as if that was the sergeant's problem. "Dunno, they were too far away to see. I asked Sammy but he just said 'Never mind' and called me a Nosy Parker." Then as an afterthought she added, "I think they were carrying guns - I suppose they were shooting rabbits, I heard some shooting earlier on."

"I see, and why does this make you think Sammy was murdered?"

"Well, he seemed a bit worried, as if he didn't know what to do. And he always went to Grandad when he wasn't sure what to do. I bet he had discovered something and wasn't sure whether to tell the police." She lost interest in the subject and started talking about animals and birds. In this way she beguiled away the mile or so to the track end.

"Do you think your Grandad would let me have a drink of water? I'm awful dry from all this walking."

"'Course he would, he might even give you a bottle of stout, he likes stout." So they walked up the steep track together and found the old man sitting on a last-year’s straw bale and smoking a short, black pipe. The girl ran up to him. "Hullo, Grandad. This is Detective Sergeant Murdoch from the Inverness CID. He was out at our house last night and then I met him on my way up here today. He'd like a drink of water but I said you would give him a bottle of stout instead."

The old man chuckled and held out a hand without getting up. "Hullo, Sergeant, you'd think I was a right boozer the way she speaks. Sit you down here, man. Morag, away into the house and bring out a couple of bottles, and don't forget the opener." When she had gone, the humour slipped away from him and he asked, "Was it just the drink you were wanting or have you questions for me as well?"

"Ah well, maybe chust the one or two now I'm here." Murdo answered. "Morag was saying that Sammy came over here to ask your advice about something on the night before he died. Do you know what it was he wanted to see you about?"

"No, I didn't even know he'd been looking for me, nobody said anything. Och well, it hasn't been a time for remembering things like that. The last time I saw Sammy alive was the Sunday before he died. We chatted a while -he was a great favourite of mine and we got on very well together - but not about anything in particular." His brow furrowed. "I'm sure he didn't ask my advice about anything, and he certainly didn't seem worried. Sammy was a most even tempered lad, never up or down from one day to the next, and if anything happened to affect him it stood out a mile. No, I'm positive he had nothing on his mind then."

"Ah well, if Morag is right it must have been about something that happened between that previous Sunday and the following Friday night. Have you any idea what it could have been?"

The old man sucked a great hollow in his cheek through what must have been a gap in both sets of teeth. "No idea, but Morag's a bright wee thing and she doesn't make up tales so if she says he was worried, he was worried. I'll tell you this too, whatever happened to worry him must have happened on the Friday because he couldn't have hidden it if it had happened before then. Knowing Sammy he'd have been fidgety and would have come to see me as soon as possible. No, Sergeant, you're looking for something that happened on the Friday." He'd been looking out to sea but now he turned his sharp blue eyes on Murdo. "Did Beth or Jockie notice anything unusual about him?"

Murdo shook his head. "No, and I did ask them if they had."

Grandad shook his head. "Och, that's just like them. Jockie wouldn't notice anything, he'd be out in his garden all evening. He's a terrible keen gardener and beekeeper so he'd be out there on his own every minute in this weather. As for Beth, she'd notice as long as there wasn't one of them bluidy soaps on the telly. You check again and I'll bet you'll find she was telly goggling at tea time on the Friday evening. By the time Sammy had been over here looking for me and then walked home with Morag he'd have put it to the back of his mind intending to see me on the Sunday. He'd never stay down in the dumps for long, just until he'd made up his mind what to do next."

Morag came running out with two bottles and an opener. "Steady on, lassie, dinna shake them like that or they'll all be lost in fizz." He took the bottles from the girl and handed one to Murdo before turning back to the girl. "On you go and get a drink for yourself, you'll find some tins of Coca Cola and things like that in the cupboard." He watched her scamper off back to the house before asking, "Was there anything else?"

"The girl says that Sammy talked to two men as he was leaving here that Friday night. She thought they'd been shooting. Would you have any idea who they might have been?"

"No, lots of folk wander about over the hill there. There's a big moor with a few wee lochans in it so it's popular with the shooting and fishing lot. Most of them park their cars at the other side, and as a rule I only see them if they park their car at this side." He scowled. "I used to see a lot of them at this side but since Roberts bought Murie House they've mostly kept to the other side. He puts on his airs and graces, and as long as he isn't crossed he behaves decent enough, but he's too used to getting his own way, I'm thinking. He doesn't like folk on his land and can be right nasty to any he catches - and that son of his can be even worse. This bit is communal grazing land really but he tries to scare folk off it by being bloody unpleasant to them, so they stay out of sight over the hill."

"So do you not see any at all at this side now? Any of Roberts' friends, perhaps?"

"Damn few, just the odd few hard men who would tell Roberts where to go if he tried to order them off. They wouldn't be friends of Roberts - I've never heard of him having any from around here and there's been no word of him having had any guests up from the South. No, the only ones here by Roberts' permission would be that son of his, Nelson. He whiles has some hanger-on with him, usually a bloke called Jaffery from out the other side of the county."

Morag returned and sat down beside her Grandad to drink her Cola. Murdo turned to her and asked, "Did the two men you saw talking to Sammy have a car with them?"

She shook her head. "I didn't see one but they walked off that way," she pointed towards Inkrock, "so they might have had a car parked round the corner in the Anderson's road end."

"Had you ever seen them before, Lass?" The old man asked her.

"I don't know, Grandad. I was right over there on Birlie hill so they were too far away to recognize. I just saw two people come down past here as Sammy was leaving your door, and the three of them walked down to the road together and stood talking for a wee while before Sammy came home and they went the other way."

The old man narrowed his eyes and looked hard at the hill where Morag had been standing, trying to guess at how much more the girl's sharp young eyes might have seen than his own. "Could you see anything about them? What colour of clothes were they wearing, did they have on hats? That kind of thing."

"No, Grandad, the sun was in my eyes and I could just see it was two people."

"Ah well, you're a good lass to have noticed them at all." He handed her his empty bottle. "On you go and get us another bottle each." When she'd scampered away he turned back to Murdo. "Why are you asking all these questions? Are you thinking it maybe wasn't an accident?"

Murdo rasped a hand over his chin and his eyes held the old man's for a long moment before he answered. "Och, it's chust the standard enquires into the circumstances surrounding a death." Then he relented a little. "Well, the cause of death hasn't been positively determined yet so I've got an open mind on it. Do you know of any reason why Sammy might have been murdered?"

"Murdered! Good God, no! Are you just looking at all possibilities, man, or do you actually suspect foul play?"

Murdo found the old man to be disconcertingly difficult to lie to. "Well, I've nothing to go on so let's chust say I won't be satisfied until the cause of death is determined beyond reasonable doubt."

The girl had returned with the bottles and he held up a hand and smiled at her. "Not for me, thanks. It would never do for a Detective Sergeant to roll into Inkrock blind drunk." He stood up. "Well, I'd better be going. Thank you for the information, and the stout." He smiled at the girl. "And thank you too, young Morag. Now don't you be talking to anybody else about all this," he held a finger to his lips, "let it just be our secret, eh?"

He'd have to speak to Sammy's parents again, but right now he had to get back to Inkrock to get something to eat before interviewing Jamie Jamison in the evening.

 

WPC Murray didn't bother to go home after work, the thought of struggling with her old car any more often than was necessary held no attraction for her on such a fine day. She walked to a small restaurant down by the river and enjoyed a heaped plateful of fish and chips fried to perfection. Then she dallied over two cups of coffee before strolling along the river towards the back street where Sally Duncan and Betty Winters lived with their respective parents. She struck lucky first time. Both girls were in the kitchen of Sally's house, trying their hands at tinting each other's hair.

Sally's mother showed Carol into the kitchen and then left them to it. The younger girls knew and liked Carol but she was nearly ten years their senior, and a policewoman to boot so they didn't know her well. Now that she was in uniform and clearly had business with them, they didn't know quite how to treat her. Betty was sitting on a kitchen chair with an old towel wrapped around her shoulders. Sally was standing behind her reading aloud the instructions on a large plastic bottle. She quickly set it down and rushed to get another chair from behind the small table and bring it over for Carol.

Carol sat down facing them both. "I just wanted to have a chat with you about Sammy's death." She smiled. "Go ahead with what you're doing if you like."

Both girls shook their heads, and Sally answered. "It's okay, we were just going to try out this hair tint I got from the chemists today, It's new stuff that's just come in - it was advertised on telly." She was prattling on nervously.

Carol had her notebook and pencil in her hand but she made no attempt to use them. Instead she smiled and ran her free hand through her unruly mop. "Let me know if it works, I need something to give mine a bit of oomph."

They chatted for a while about hair care and makeup, then Carol brought the conversation gently round to business. "Tell me about the evening of the dance, just start at the beginning and leave nothing out."

The girls were momentarily sobered but the ice had been broken and they chatted as if to a friend. Betty started. "Well, we've known Jamie and Sammy for years, we were at school together, although they were in the class ahead of us. When we left school we all got jobs out at the Plant, Jamie and Sammy as Instrument mechanics and us as typists. We've been sort of pals - nothing serious, like - ever since."

Sally broke in. "We usually have lunch together in the works canteen. It was there during the week before that we decided we'd go to the dance together."

"Did just the four of you lunch together?"

"Sometimes, but usually there was a couple of tables of us."

"Tell me about how going to the dance was arranged. Who did the asking?"

The two girls looked at each other and giggled. "We did, I suppose. They had both been doing a bit of overtime and were bragging about how much extra money they'd got that week. So we said they could spend a bit of it on us and take us to the dance. Sammy was keen but Jamie wasn't too enthusiastic, he's been saving hard to buy a car - doing overtime and homers, that kind of thing."

"Homers?"

"Yes, you know, odd bits of electrical things in cars, radios, televisions, that kind of thing. " Sally's hand flew up to her mouth. "Oops, maybe I shouldn't have told you that."

"Why ever not?"

"Well, I'm not sure they declare it for tax."

Carol laughed. "Forget it, let the tax man do his own dirty work." Nonetheless, she made a mental note to check up on Sammy's and Jamie's tax returns and bank accounts in case there were any funnies that would bear further investigation. "So, you all agreed to go to the dance. Did anybody else hear you making the arrangement?"

"Oh sure, everybody at the tables knew. They all debated whether to go or not. I think nearly all of them did." Betty finished thoughtfully.

"Was there any more talk about it between then and the night of the dance?"

"Yes, lots. It was only an ordinary Saturday night caliegh and dance but it somehow became a bit of a 'do' and got talked about a lot."

"Do you usually go to the Saturday night dances?"

"No, not really. We usually go to the disco in the Leisure Centre but I guess we're getting a bit old for that now so we've started going to the Plough if there's anything good on. They had a good group on that night so we particularly wanted to go."

"So what happened on the day of the dance?"

"Well, we had a long lie in, it being Saturday morning. Then I called for Sally at about two o'clock and we went into town to do some shopping, then went to the Harbour Cafe for a coffee. Most of the girls were there so we stayed chatting 'till just on five o'clock. Then we walked back home, had our tea and got ready for the dance."

Carol nodded but still made no move to write anything down. She had an excellent memory, and would have no trouble writing it up later. She had her notebook at the ready partly in case something complicated was said that she couldn't leave to memory alone. More important, however, was that the presence of the unused notebook was likely to lead the girls into general chatting in the belief that the interview hadn't properly started yet.

"I left home at," Betty looked at Sally for confirmation, "about half past seven, would you say?"

Sally nodded. "Yes about that. I was ready when she arrived and we left right away and walked to the Plough. I suppose we got there at about ten to eight. Sammy and Jamie and some of the other lads arrived from the opposite direction - Jamie's house is up there - and we saw them coming and waited for them before going in."

"And what did you do when you got there?"

"Went straight to the lounge bar. Sammy bought us all drinks, they had beer or lager or something and we had shandies. We drank up quickly and went through to the dance. We saw you come in a couple of dances later."

"Yes, I remember. So what happened during the rest of the dance?"

"Oh, just the usual. We danced a lot, me mostly with Sammy and Betty mostly with Jamie. During the singing we stayed in the hall and Sammy and Jamie took it in turn to get drinks in. We only had soft drinks - so did the lads, except for one time when they had a beer or something."

"And that's all that happened, up until the trouble started?"

"Yes, and the trouble started innocently at first. The lads started cracking jokes with some of their mates, I don't know what it was all about, something that happened at work, I think."

Betty took up the story. "I was dancing with Jamie and Sally with Norrie Waters, Sammy was standing with his mates. When we danced past, Jamie shouted something and all the lads laughed. From the way they acted it seemed to be some sort of in joke against Sammy, but he laughed too. Then the next time we came round he got his own back by grabbing the back of Jamie's shirt and whipping the tail out. Jamie must have known about it but he just kept on dancing and waggling his bum at his mates. They were all laughing, and then other people started to take notice as well. Jamie still didn't twig until we went past the lads again and one of them shouted to 'put that disgusting thing away'. It was only then that Jamie realised that his shirt tail was ... wasn't very clean." She stopped uncertainly, not sure whether to laugh or be serious.

"Then what?"

"Well, he went rigid and was white with rage. I thought he was going to hit Sammy there and then but all the lads were trying to calm him down and they all sort of edged towards the door. You know what the Plough's like, the slightest bit of trouble and you're out or they call the police, so the lads sort of kidded on that Sammy and Jamie were just leaving. The two of them went out alone - Sammy talked the others into leaving them to sort it out alone. Then Jamie came back in a little while later and stayed on, but his heart obviously wasn't in it. He said very little and seemed to be sorry for flying off the handle - anyway, he kept looking towards the door as if waiting for Sammy to come back in. Of course, he didn't and we all thought he'd gone home. It was only when the police arrived that we knew something was wrong."

The girls were now looking very subdued, and Carol nudged them gently. "Right, you were all questioned and then sent home. Now, there must have been a lot of gossip since, so what's been said?"

Sally shrugged listlessly. "Just the same old things. Jamie hit Sammy and knocked him out, and Sammy didn't recover. Some of the lads are keen on boxing and they say that the same sort of thing sometimes happens there. A guy gets knocked out, goes into a coma and never recovers." She looked at Carol with a sober, questioning look, and asked. "Was that what happened, Miss?"

"We're not sure yet. It could have been, but the forensic people want us to make absolutely sure that there was no foul play involved. Did you notice whether anybody left the hall at any time between Sammy going out and the police coming in? Anybody at all."

She lifted her notebook and pencil. "Well, people were going out and in through the inside door between the hall and the bars all the time." Sally's brow puckered. "I can't think of anybody in particular, though, and I've no idea whether any of them went outside."

Carol looked at Betty but she shook her head as well. "Okay, now I must ask you this. Can either of you think of anybody who might have wished to harm Sammy, or any reason why somebody might have wanted to harm him?"

Both girls shook their heads and replied almost in unison. "No, everybody liked Sammy."

Carol chatted a little while longer, gradually turning the conversation to more pleasant things before she got up and thanked them. As she walked back towards the Plough she turned over in her mind what had been said. When she arrived, she found that Murdo had gone out after dinner but hadn't returned so she strolled on down to the Station to write up her notes. Then she changed into civilian clothes that she kept in her locker for the days when she wanted to stay on in town after work.

 

After he'd eaten, Murdo crossed the river by the footbridge and made his way to the Council house occupied by Jamie Jamison, his parents and his nine year old brother. The police reports had given only the barest information about the Jamison family. The father was documented as being an unskilled labourer at the local concrete works, and the mother worked part-time in the small shop on the council estate where they lived. Other than that, it said only that they kept themselves to themselves, attended church every Sunday and were apparently loved and respected by their eldest son.

He knocked at the front door and waited until it was opened by Mrs Jamison. She was a small, stout woman with a ruddy complexion and the permanently jovial expression of one who knows that her eternal soul is safe. When he introduced himself she said, "Hullo ... eh, Sergeant. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to see Jamie if I may, Mrs Jamison."

"Ah yes, come in." She pressed back against the wall of the narrow passage for the big sergeant to squeeze past. "Go straight ahead to the living room."

Jamie was sitting on the sofa and looking at the television but it was obvious that his heart wasn't in it. His face had a drawn, hunted look and it was plain that he had heard his mother welcome the sergeant. His father sat beside him reading a newspaper.

Murdo cleared his throat apologetically. "Humph. Good evening, it's been a grand day."

Jamie only nodded but his father folded his paper and stood up and switched off the television. "Good evening, sergeant. Aye, a grand day. I suppose you'll have come to see Jamie?"

"Aye, I'd like a few words with him in private if I may."

"Of course. Come on, Mary, I'll give you a hand with the washing up." He took his wife's arm and guided her through the adjoining door to the kitchen and then shut the door behind them. Murdo selected a stout-looking wooden chair, placed it firmly between Jamie and the TV set and lowered his bulk onto it. Then he ponderously took out his notebook, opened it at a fresh page, and took a biro from his jacket pocket. "Well, Jamie, this must be a bad time for you and I'm sorry to have to bother you with it again. I'd just like to go over your statement with you." He sat with his pen poised.

Jamie looked as if he didn't know whether to be compliant or defiant. The stress he'd been under since that awful night pushed him towards truculent defiance. "Again? I've given it once at the dance, then twice at the Police Station. Each time it was written down, and I even signed a statement at the Station. Why do you want it again? Do you think I'm lying and that you'll catch me out if you keep at me?" His voice had risen to just below a shout.

"Och no, lad. It's chust the way we do things in the police. I'm from the CID in Inverness and have to go over it all again from scratch. If you'll chust be bearing with me I won't be keeping you for long."

"Oh, alright. What do you want?"

"Chust you tell me what happened, anything you can remember."

"It's as I told the police before. I went to the Plough with Sammy and Alan. We'd arranged to meet some girls there and take them to the dance. We met them outside the pub at about eight o'clock and went in together. Sammy and me had a half of lager and lime each, and the girls had shandies -it was a warm night and we were all thirsty. Then we went into the dance. We danced and had a bit of fun for a couple of hours, then Sammy started taking the mickey and messing me around." He flushed with embarrassment at the memory. "Anyway, I'd eventually had enough and lost my temper and took him outside."

Murdo watched the beads of perspiration start to form on Jamie's upper lip, and waited, pen poised, for him to continue. "We went out into the car-park and I told him to get his fists up. He just stuck his chin out and told me to go ahead and hit him. So I did, and he went back against a car and slid down onto the ground." He gave a great gulp of a sob. "I didn't mean to kill him! He was my best friend, for Christ's sake!" He buried his face in his hands and his next words were muffled. "And that's all there was to it. A couple found him ... dead ... as they left the pub."

"I see. How much had you both had to drink that evening?"

"The half of lager earlier on, then I had a pint of heavy and Sammy had a pint of lager. That was all, other than soft drinks with the girls. Neither of us were great drinkers."

"What was it that started the quarrel?"

"He pulled out my shirt tail and made all the others laugh at me."

"Och no, I mean what started what you called the 'messing about'?

Jamie shook his head. "Nothing at all - really. Well, we'd been doing overtime at work that day and there was hardly anybody else in - none of the bosses, like. When that sort of thing happens there's always a lot of kidding around, we get on with the work, like, but there's a lot of shouting and joke-cracking and ... fun. We all had dates for the dance at night so we were maybe a bitty more ... well, wound up, like. Anyway, the fun sort of carried over into the evening and everybody was jokin' an' funnin', like."

Murdo nodded. "But you lost your temper?"

"Not just like that! I'm keen on cars and have been saving up for one but they're awful dear and I'd been saying that I was going to try to buy a coming classic cheap and restore it."

"A coming classic? What's that?"

The young man shrugged impatiently. "Classic cars are old cars that have become collectors pieces and are valuable. A big thing nowadays is to spot which cars are going to become classics before their price takes off. That way you can buy a car at a junk price, do some work on it and it will appreciate in value." He clearly thought that someone of the Sergeant's vintage couldn't possibly understand such reasoning so he added, "It's like with houses. You buy an old house in a run-down area that you guess is going to become a bit more up-market. Then you do it up and, if you've guessed right, you'll be able to sell it at a good profit. That's what I wanted to do. Buy a car that's going to become a classic shortly, do it up a bit, then sell it at a profit and buy what I really want."

"Ah, and Sammy didn't agree?"

"He reckoned I'd just be throwing money away, that I'd never be able to spot a coming classic, and that even if I did I'd be an old man before I could sell it for enough to buy a bike - especially up here in the back of beyond!" His mouth turned down petulantly. "He wasn't interested in cars, couldn't even drive, so what did he know? We'd talked about it a few times before so he knew what I intended and had never said anything against it, then at the dance he started throwing it all back at me and making fun of it in front of the others."

"Uh huh, and did the others side with him?"

"A bit, Sammy could be very funny at things like that."

"But it was only Sammy you fought with."

"Yes, he was the ringleader - and it was him that pulled out my shirt."

"Did he know about your, ah, predicament in the toilet?"

"No, I didn't tell anybody - but he did know I'd gone to the bog."

"So he didn't pull out your shirt tail to make a fool of you, it was chust a bit of fun?"

"I...I suppose so."

"Had you ever fought before?"

"Well, yes, but only a long time ago. We'd been mates all our lives and had the usual squabbles when we were little but nothing like that since we were about, oh, fourteen or so." "

Uh huh, and you chust sort of grew out of it?"

"I suppose so. Anyway, by that age Sammy had grown much bigger than me so there wasn't much point in it."

"Umm, but this time you took him on anyway, even although he was a lot bigger than you."

"Yes, I may be little but I'm not a yellow belly. Besides, I'd been in training - weight lifting, body building, that kind of thing, and I'd joined the lunch-time karate club at work so I reckon I'd have won even if he'd really tried."

"Uh huh, but even with all this karate training you still hit him with an ordinary punch, nothing else?"

"Yes, we're taught at the karate club that we should never use dangerous blows against untrained opponents." He looked a bit sheepish. "Well, I'd only been to the club three times and I was too angry to even think of trying to use karate on him."

Murdo nodded understandingly, then asked, "Have you any idea how Sammy could have come to die from a wee tap on the chin?"

"It was more than a tap, I hit him pretty hard. I may not have used a karate blow as such, but my training was designed to help me make up in speed what I lack in weight. But, no, I don't know why he died." He made an anguished sound. "He shouldn't have died from one punch, should he. Can't the doctor find out what happened - whether it really was me that killed him?"

Murdo shook his head sympathetically. "He hasn't been able to, not yet anyway. But they're still working on it. Now, did anybody else see the fight?"

Jamie shook his head. "I don't think so, we were in the back bit of the car-park and completely hidden from the pub and the houses. I didn't see anybody around, anyway."

"Did anybody leave the pub just after you came back in?"

"I don't know. I didn't see anybody, but folk come and go all the time from the pub."

"Did anybody see your predicament in the toilet?"

Jamie flushed crimson at the memory. "No, I told you, there was nobody else there at the time. If there had been I'd have got them to chuck me in some paper and none of this would have happened."

"Chust so. Now, can you think of any reason, any reason at all, why somebody might have wished Sammy some ill?" Jamie's head jerked up. "What do you mean? Do you think somebody might have done something to him after I left?" There was a lift of hope in his voice as he grasped at the possibility that he might not have killed his best friend after all.

"Just answer the question."

"Well, no I can't. Everybody liked Sammy, why would anybody want to kill him?"

Murdo's voice hardened. "I'll ask the questions. Now, think carefully. Did anything happen in the last few days or weeks that might have indicated that anybody might have had reason to hurt Sammy - not necessarily kill him, that might have been an accident?"

Jamie shook his head, then hesitated as if something had crossed his mind. Then he shook his head again, more vigorously this time. "No, I can't think of anything."

Murdo's eyes bored into him and the youngster looked uncomfortable but remained defiant.

"Why did Sammy go looking for his Grandad on the Friday evening before he died?"

Jamie looked startled. "I didn't know he did. He never said anything to me about it."

"I see." Murdo stood up and put his notebook and pencil back into his pocket. "Well, think about it and if anything occurs to you, let me know. Never mind how trivial or daft it seems, it might just be the snippet we need." With that he nodded affably and let himself out of the house.

 

When he arrived back at the Plough he found WPC Murray tapping her teeth with a finger nail and staring into space. "Hullo, Lass, you're looking like you're doing a terrible lot of thinking." He called to the barman to bring him a lager and another of the same for the WPC before sitting down at the table. "Well, Lass, did you find out anything interesting?"

"No, not really." She shook her head. "Sorry, but all I got was a bit of background we didn't pick up when we questioned them at the dance. Nothing of real interest."

He nodded lugubriously. "Och well, that's usually the way of it so chust you be telling me what you found and you can put it down on paper in the morning."

She related the interview almost word for word, finishing with, "It's not exactly the case breaker, is it?"

"Och well, if detective work was easy everybody would be doing it." He said it with a twinkle in his eyes, then told her of his interview with Jamie Jamison. "I'm thinking that that young fellow is hiding something but he's not ready to be saying anything about it yet. Never mind, if the post-mortem comes up with something positive we'll soon get it out of him. It's maybe nothing to do with the case anyway, it's maybe chust that he's worried about the homers you told me about."

"So are you saying that there's nothing more to be done until we get the new autopsy results?"

"Ah well, there's maybe a wee bit more asking around we could be doing. I'd like fine to be finding out a bit more about the two men seen talking to Sammy the night before he died." Seeing the puzzlement on her face he explained about what Morag had seen. "I'll chust be having a quiet day talking to the folks out there to see if any of them saw the men or their car. If that doesn't turn up anything we'll chust have to wait to see whether the autopsy comes up with something new. The results from Glasgow might arrive tomorrow if we're lucky."

"Will you wait here until they come?"

"Och well, that depends on how long they'll be." He gave a deep rumble of a laugh. "If I don't get back home or show some results soon my Inspector will be doing his 'Come in number seven, your time is up' routine."

She blushed a little and asked hesitantly, "Sergeant, when you're working on the case up here, well, if you need local help, will you ask for me?"

"Och, indeed I will, indeed I will - although what my wife will be saying if she ever hears about it I chust don't know."

True to his word, he spent the next day speaking to everybody he could find in the area stretching from Inkrock to Sandbay, and from the coast to the village of Tingle to the south of the moor. He drank enough cups of tea and ate enough home baked scones to satisfy even his appetite, but nobody could remember seeing the men or their car. He began to doubt that they had ever existed outside Morag's imagination.

 

Murdo ran into Inspector Pollock on the steps of the police station the next morning. "Hullo, Murdo. I was hoping you'd be in today, your Inspector Charles 'phoned three times yesterday trying to get in touch with you." He grinned, "I spoke to him the last time and he said, and I quote, 'I'll bet Murdoch is up to his usual tricks, wandering around like a bloody great bloodhound, blethering to every Tom, Dick and Harry he finds and wasting police time. Tell him to report in immediately.' then he rang off. I got the impression that he thinks you're having a wee bit of a paid holiday."

Murdo quelled a quick surge of anger. It was one thing for Charlie to harangue him in person with his petty-minded sniping but it was another thing altogether for him to pass it to him through a different station. His reply was more curt than usual. "Humph! Right, I'll 'phone him when I get a minute." He followed the Inspector to his office. "May I use your 'phone to give the Path Lab in Glasgow a ring?"

"Help yourself, I'll just go and see what's been happening." The Lab said they were very busy but expected to have a full report ready by Monday morning - and, no, that didn't mean last thing on Friday night, they would be working all weekend." He put the 'phone down and was staring at it trying to summon the enthusiasm to 'phone Charlie when Inspector Pollock returned.

"Murdo, this may be of interest to you. Mrs Jamison is in Reception looking for Jamie, she says he didn't arrive home last night. Would you like to interview her?"

Murdo was already on his feet. "That I would, that I would. Could I have WPC Murray to take notes?"

"Yes, take the woman to Interview Room 2 and I'll have Murray sent along."

Jamie's mother started speaking in a rush the moment he reached her. Jamie hadn't come home the night before - she and her husband had thought at first that he had been called on to do some overtime at short notice - normally he'd have 'phoned but their phone was out of order due to some line work being carried out by British Telecom - when he still hadn't turned up by midnight they thought he'd been called on to work the night shift as well - that was very unusual but not entirely unheard of, and he had said that they were in a very busy spell at the time - when he still hadn't arrived home by 8:30am, Mrs Jamison started to get worried and had gone to a phone box to call the Plant - she'd been told that Jamie had left at the normal time the previous night and hadn't turned up for work in the morning - in view of her son's depression after Sammy's death, she feared that Jamie might have done himself some harm - she flinched at suggesting suicide but that was obviously on her mind.

The distraught woman poured out her story in an unpunctuated stream and Murdo waited patiently for her to finish. Then he raised the counter flap, passed through, and took her arm to lead her gently towards an interview room. As he left he caught WPC Murray's eye and indicated with a brief gesture of his hand that she should bring tea.

"Come in, Mrs Jamison, we'll be more comfortable in here." He ushered her into the comfortably furnished room and pulled out a chair for her at the table. Then he sat down opposite her and continued in a soothing voice. "Now then, Mrs Jamison, I know this is most distressing for you but I speak from long experience when I say that young lads often take off for a few days and only one in thousands comes to any harm." He saw her make to speak and smiled as he forestalled her. "And, believe me, nearly all their mothers start by saying that their son would never do a thing like that."

His calm, low-key attitude steadied her and she managed a watery smile. "Och, Sergeant, I know I'm just being silly but Jamie has never done anything like this before. At an ordinary time I might not have worried but this terrible business with poor Sammy Murchison has changed Jamie a lot. He was always a lively sort of lad but since Sammy's death he's been terribly withdrawn. He hardly speaks, just sits in front of the TV or lies on the sofa or his bed staring at the ceiling. He never seems to even want to leave the house, just moons around as if he was in the condemned cell. Even going to work seems to have become an effort - in fact I'd sometimes swear he's scared to go out." Her smile had faded and her face was tense with worry.

The big sergeant nodded sympathetically - and mentally noted that he too had got the impression that Jamie was running scared. "I see, and do you know of any reason why he might have been frightened to go out?"

She snorted with impatience. "No I don't! Unless it was that he didn't want to meet people in case they accused him of killing poor Sammy."

"Aye, folk can be very unkind." Murdo sighed ponderously, then turned as the door opened and Carol came in carrying a tray on which were three large cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. "I'll bet you haven't had breakfast yet, have you?"

"Well, no. I just couldn't settle until I'd come here."

"Well come on, have some tea and biscuits, then when you've finished you can tell me again exactly what happened." He set a cup in front of her and placed the plate between them. Carol took her place unobtrusively at the end of the table and arranged a Report Sheet in front of her.

Mrs Jamison sipped her tea and Murdo watched the tension ease out of her at the familiar ritual. She took a biscuit, nibbled tentatively, then started speaking quite calmly. "It's as I said before. Jamie went to work yesterday morning and I haven't seen him since. I went down to the 'phone box at the bottom of the street and called the Plant," She shook her head in a mixture of anger and bewilderment. "Before this business happened I'd have just gone to my back-to-back neighbour, Mary Sherington, and used her 'phone but now it seems better to go to a 'phone box. Anyway, I 'phoned the Plant and after being kept waiting and being passed around from one number to another I eventually got through to his foreman. He said Jamie left at five o'clock as normal last night and didn't arrive back in this morning." Her eyes seemed enormous in her pale face. "Can you do anything, Sergeant? Can you make enquiries or do you just mark him down as a missing person and leave it at that? You see, I've heard of folks who have had their son or daughter disappear like this and have never heard of them ever again, and I'm sure that if you just put in some effort now you could find him. Nobody could run away from an isolated place like this without being seen by somebody, but if you leave it for weeks they will have forgotten all about it."

"Har humph." The big sergeant cleared his throat and looked down at the table. "Normally there wouldn't be much we could do, Jamie's over eighteen and can wander off if he wants to. Anyway, as I said earlier, in such cases the wanderer nearly always turns up safe and sound a wee while later. However," he looked her in the eye, "in this case I think we can make some inquiries. The fact that he's a key witness to our Inquiry means that we want to know where he's got to. Mind, he hasn't done anything illegal yet but ..." he let it trail off.

Mrs Jamison sighed with relief. "Well, I never thought I'd see the day when I was glad my son was wanted by the police but I'm right glad now!"

He took the statement from Carol, read it aloud and asked Mrs Jamison to sign it. Then escorted her out and returned to the Inspector's room to fill him in.

"Hmm, scarpered do you think?" The Inspector cocked an interrogative eye.

Murdo hesitated, then shook his head. "Och, I wouldn't be saying so myself. I'm thinking Jamie's not the sort of lad to run. Lads like him from country places have a respect for the power of the police and he'd never think he could get away from us. No, he might be skulking somewhere locally but I'm thinking he wouldn't have run. What I am thinking, and what his Mother is afraid of too, is that he might have tried to do away with himself. With all the cliffs around here he wouldn't have to commit suicide, chust go for a walk and be a wee bit careless."

The Inspector stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Ah ha, and what do you suggest?"

"I'd like to pass the word to all the forces from here to Inverness to keep a lookout for him - nothing special, just keep an eye open - I don't think he's done a runner but better to be sure. And I'd like to go out to the Plant and ask around." He eyed the Inspector hopefully. "If you could spare them, I'd like to have a few officers have a look around at some of the more obvious cliffs and gloops - just in case."

"Hmm, you are worried, aren't you?"

Murdo waved his great head side to side indecisively. "Och, not exactly, but there's something about this whole business that disna rest easy on my mind."

"Well, you go on out to the Plant, I'll get a search going here."

Having set the wheels in motion in town, Murdo set out to drive to the Plant. He'd been there a few times before but had never liked the place, there was something entirely alien about its high-tech spheres sitting lonely among the heather covered hills. It always reminded him of the first Martian spaceships as they started invading Earth in a science fiction film he'd seen years ago.

He parked just outside the gate and walked to the police lodge. A young constable stood up as he entered and looked at his card. "Hullo, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"

"I'd like to see the Duty Inspector, please?"

"Certainly," he pushed up the counter flap and came through to lead the way. "If you'll just follow me I'll take you to his office."

The small, bare office was just behind the Duty Room and the constable ushered Murdo in with little ceremony. "Detective Sergeant Murdoch from Inverness to see you, Sir."

The grey haired, elderly man at the desk sighed at being interrupted from trying to hack his in-tray down to size, and looked up. Seeing Murdo he grinned and stood up. "That will be Murdo Murdoch, won't it? We met a year or two back when you were up here on that case with the London stockbroker. Man, that was a grand booze up at the end! He squeezed round the desk and thrust out his hand. "Come in, come in, Man. Have a seat and give me all your crack." He looked up at the closing door and shouted, "Two coffees, Lad, and make it quick."

Murdo had met the elderly Inspector only over a period of a few days but he knew him well enough to know that it would be useless to try to hurry him. Frank Robertson was a slow moving, slow thinking old gossip of a man, but his very proclivity for gossip ensured that there was little he didn't know about what was going on in the area. With a bit of luck he'd be as well informed about what was going on in the Plant. Murdo grinned and swept his hand around in a gesture at the untidy desk. "I see they're still managing to keep you busy. God alone knows what we did in the old days before they invented all this paper work."

Frank surveyed the chaos and sighed in heartfelt agreement. "I don't know - but what I do know is that the crime rate was a damn sight lower and the clean-up rate a damn sight higher." He had been an ordinary policeman before transferring to the Force that dealt exclusively with the Plant.

They chatted for a few minutes, catching up on news of families and mutual friends. The young constable arrived with two big mugs of coffee and waited until the Inspector had cleared a bit of desk before setting them down and leaving.

"Well, Murdo," Frank leaned his chair back against the scarred wall and sipped his coffee, "what brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"Its about a young lad who works here. He didn't arrive home last night and his Mother is a bit worried."

"Uh, I hadn't heard. Do tell. It must be important if it needs a Detective Sergeant from Inverness to look into it - and to get here in just a few hours. Have we had a member of the Royal Family working here incognito, or something?"

"Och no, I was up here anyway looking into the death of the Murchison laddie, you'll have heard about that. The young fella that's gone missing is Jamie Jamison, and since he was the one involved the night Murchison died I thought I'd chust have a wee bit look into it in case there was some kind of a link. He didn't arrive home last night and his folks thought he might have been doing special overtime, but when he still hadn't shown up this morning his Mother 'phoned his workplace and was told he'd left there at the usual time last night."

"Uh, you tell me that. He's an Instrument Mechanic in the Fuels Department if my memory serves me right?"

Murdo nodded. "Aye, so I'm told."

They finished their coffee in silence, then Frank stood up and reached for his cap. "Come on, I'll take you over there myself - a good excuse to leave some of this paperwork to those lazy hounds on back shift."

He led Murdo through another Police Lodge set in the high wire fence surrounding the Fuel Reprocessing area, and into a large office block. It was unlikely that anyone more senior than the Instrument Foreman would know anything about the situation but protocol dictated that they start with the Reprocessing Manager and work their way down.

Ten minutes later, having talked briefly with three different layers of management, they emerged again from the office building. Frank led the way through a large Change Room where they both had to don white overalls and shoes in case they got contaminated, and along a long corridor to the Instrument Workshop.

The Foreman's office was a small, windowless cubby-hole opening directly into the main workshop. The door stood open and the Inspector ambled straight in. "Hullo, George. How are you getting on?"

A middle aged man in the standard Contamination Control Zone white boiler suit dropped a clipboard of timesheets onto his desk and grimaced. "Struggling, Inspector, just struggling. But to what do I owe this rare visit?"

"This is Detective Sergeant Murdoch from Inverness. He'd like to ask some questions about Jamie Jamison."

"Ah. Well I don't know much. He was in yesterday and worked as normal and left at the usual time." He shrugged. "And he didn't turn up for work this morning."

"I see, did you see him yourself yesterday?"

"Yes, I dish out their instructions. He spent most of the morning finishing off a job in the Control Room, then made up some data cables at that bench," he gestured towards a work bench, "until lunch time. After lunch I sent him to the waste disposal plant to do some wiring for a computerised monitoring system that's being installed there. I don't think he went for tea in the afternoon - food isn't allowed in here and its such a drag to get changed to go over the contamination barrier that some of the lads don't bother. I didn't see him at knocking off time either because I was handing over to my opposite number on back shift when the lads would have been finishing up."

"But he would have come back here before he left would he?"

"Yes, he'd have brought back his tools - if he'd left them out on the plant some thieving sod on back or night shift would have half-inched them."

"And his tools are here?"

"I suppose so, I haven't looked. Every mechanic has his own locker and normally keeps it locked." He pushed past the Sergeant and went to a six-foot high locker whose door bore the name 'J. Jamison' in red Dymo tape. He tugged the knob but it was locked. "We don't keep master keys for these but if you want it open I can send for John Bolton to pick the lock for you."

Seeing Murdo's expression, Frank chuckled and explained. "Relax, Murdo, we don't really run a school for scoundrels here. Its just that we have an awful lot of lockers and filing cabinets and security cupboards and the like, so we have a skilled locksmith who looks after them. He knows so much about these things that I'd be surprised if there was any that he couldn't open if he had to."

"Oh, well, can you get this one opened right away?"

The Foreman looked at the Inspector for confirmation before answering. "Sure, but I don't know how long it will take. Hang on and I'll try to locate John." He went in his office to use the telephone.

There was one man in the workshop, and Murdo went over to the bench where he was dismantling a complicated-looking device. "Hullo, I'm Detective Sergeant Murdoch from Inverness police. Jamie Jamison hasn't been seen since he left here last night, did you see him at all yesterday?"

The mechanic swivelled his chair to face Murdo and furrowed his brow for a moment before answering. "Yes, I saw him in here first thing yesterday morning, then he went to do a job in the Control Room and I went to look at this," he gestured to the instrument on the bench, "timer unit in the Analytical Lab. Then I had lunch at the same table as him in the tea bar. That was the last I saw of him."

"Did you speak to him at all?"

"Not much. Said hello, like, in the morning. Didn't speak at lunch time, just nodded. He was chatting with Josh Jaffery so I didn't butt in."

"Any idea what they were talking about?"

The mechanic laughed. "Oh yes, cars and hi fi, what else." He saw their blank looks and continued. "Jamie is car mad and Josh has an immaculate Saab 900 Turbo that Jamie has helped him with from time to time. Josh is a hi fi freak and he's always doing something new to his in-car system. Jamie, being an instrument bloke, gets roped in to do the actual work in return for a run in the car and the odd bob or two." He laughed again. "They were talking about the proper car-type Compact Disc unit they'd just fitted. Josh had been after one for ages because a mate of his had had an ordinary domestic one fitted before car ones became available." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "Silly bugger, he wouldn't have had a chance to get it to work on the move, the vibration in the car would have been too much for it, but the Young Laird o' Cockpen wouldn't listen." Seeing Murdo's puzzled look he grinned and explained, "Nelson Roberts, the Laird o' Murie's son."

Murdo tried a few more questions but there was nothing more to be extracted. The Foreman returned to say that the locksmith was on his way and would be another ten minutes or so. He then helped the two policeman to construct a list of all those who would have been likely to see Jamie on the previous day.

The locksmith turned out to be a cheerful little man who made short work of opening the locker. He needed nothing as romantic as a set of cracksman's tools, just a glance at the lock number and then a brief search through a big bunch of keys for a carefully filed-down specimen. Swinging the door open he asked, "Do you want me to stay to lock it?"

The Foreman answered. "No, its okay, John, I'll lock it all up in a spare locker." Then he cleared an area of bench for Murdo to transfer the contents to.

"Well, is there anything missing?" Murdo surveyed the professional and personal bits and pieces laid out on the bench.

The Foreman shrugged. "Well, his tool box is for a start, but other than that I just couldn't say. The lads tend to keep their lockers strictly to themselves so I doubt that anybody could tell you any more about what should be here - unless, of course, he'd borrowed something from one of the other lads or something like that." He shrugged again. "The only one who could have told you was Sammy Murchison, they each had a key to the other's locker but ..." He left the rest unsaid.

"Aye, well, what about this missing toolbox, how big was it?"

"Same as that one over there," he pointed at the hefty box on the bench beside the mechanic. "They're standard issue."

"Would you expect one left lying around to be noticed?"

"Oh aye. There might be stuff nicked out of it but the box itself is too big to nick, you couldn't get it out the gate past the police."

"Umm, could you take us to where Jamie was last working to see if its lying about?"

"Surely." He called to the mechanic to answer the ‘phone and contact him at Waste Disposal if it was anything important, and then led the way through a maze of corridors. Eventually they entered a cavernous, windowless, airless room with large open-topped bins arranged around the walls. The only other items in the room were a few large drums and a rack of electronic equipment. The Foreman indicated a mass of wiring going from the rack to sensors on the walls and roof. "He was wiring this lot into the rack." He peered inside. "See, he had nearly finished."

"Has he done about as much as you would expect if he'd finished at the normal time last night?"

The Foreman shrugged and then nodded. "Yes, I suppose so. He's done as much as any of them would have done, but Jamie is a fast worker so he might have finished a wee bit early."

Murdo and the Inspector prowled around the room but found nothing of note - in particular, they didn't find a toolbox. "Och well, and how would we be finding a toolbox in a place like this?" Murdo asked Frank.

"I'll have some of my lads get a search going. They know the plant fairly well but we'd be best to recruit the staff in each section to search their own area. We're well practiced at it - we have to be, every now and then some crank 'phones up and claims to have planted a bomb somewhere and we have to turn the place upside down looking for it."

"That would be chust fine, I'm much obliged to you. Whilst that's going on I'd like to interview everybody who might be able to tell me anything. Could you fix me up with a room somewhere handy?"

"No problem, there's sure to be an empty office in one of the Labs. I suggest you have some lunch first, though."

Murdo drove back to town for lunch, and returned accompanied by Carol. He'd asked at the Inkrock station for someone to take notes and had suggested that he would be happy to accept WPC Murray. They spent a gruelling afternoon interviewing everybody who might have had some contact with Jamie. The hot, airless office in the corner of a Chemical Lab stank of years of spilled chemicals - although none of the usual inhabitants seemed to notice it. By the end of it Murdo's head throbbed and he once or twice came close to panic stricken flight to the open air.

By four o'clock they had got nothing very helpful. Jamie had been seen around by a number of people during the day, and had chatted briefly to a number of them. His only prolonged conversation had been with Josh Jaffery at the lunchtime table, and that man seemed to have been the last to be seen with Jamie. Jaffery's name had cropped up a number of times, and Murdo remembered the words of Mr McAllan from Tornaquirt Mains when he had said that Jamie had been keeping bad company in Josh Jaffery and through him with the self-styled laird's son. With this in mind he had kept Jaffery 'till last. Now he asked the Plant constable loaned to him by Inspector Robertson to ask Jaffery to come to the office.

"Joshua Jaffery, Sergeant," said the constable as he ushered the man in and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Murdo looked up and ran a practiced eye over the man standing in front of him. Young, but not nearly as young as Sammy and Jamie. Late twenties or early thirties, as against their late teens. "Sit down please, Mr Jaffery," said Murdo, his policeman's brain still classifying and analysing the specimen before him as surely as the chemists outside the door could classify and analyse the materials that came before them. He saw a man who, despite being clad in a white boiler suit identical to those worn by everyone else in the Clean Conditions Zone, had about him an air of smartness bordering on the fastidious. His black hair was thick and lustrous and shining with a gel that held it in immaculate waves. The cheeks and chin were clean shaven and the upper lip adorned by a small, neatly trimmed moustache. All in all, a strong, handsome face in a gipsyish way, but one with a coldness about it.

Murdo went quickly through the preliminary questions of full name, address, occupation, etc, etc, and then launched into the main questioning. "You'll have heard that we're trying to trace the movements of James Jamison who appears to have last been seen sometime yesterday afternoon. Can you please give your own movements yesterday and tell me anything that might throw light on Jamie's movements."

The answers were clipped, concise and flowed without a trace of hesitation. "I live about ten miles west of the Plant, and came to work alone in my car as I always do, arriving at my normal time of about a quarter to eight. Jim Sutherland, Alan Deans and Sandra Williams followed me into the car park in Jim's car and parked alongside me. Then we walked together to the Chemical Plant and changed at the Clean Conditions Zone barrier - Sandra, of course, went through the ladies change room and I didn't see her again until lunch time. Jim and Alan work in Lab 8, which is up at the top end, so I left them at the main corridor and went to the Mechanical Workshop. We only run a couple of fitters on night shift just now and they had already left to shower and change so the place was empty when I arrived."

He paused until Murdo and Carol stopped writing and looked up, then he continued. "A couple of minutes later the Foreman and Chargehand arrived, and the rest of the shift drifted in over the next five or ten minutes. The jobs were dished out and I and my mate spent the morning Argon-arc welding some stainless steel pipework for a new Pulsed Column rig. We finished that at about half past eleven and went back to the workshop and then went to lunch."

Again he paused with an air of an executive waiting for a stenographer to catch up with his dictation. "I didn't go outside the wire at lunchtime, just had a roll and a coffee in the tea bar. That was the first time I saw Jamie that day, he came and joined me at one of the little tables. We chatted for the rest of the break and then went back to work. I was working in the Mechanical Workshop until just after tea break, and then I had to go to Waste Disposal to weld up a few drums. Jamie came into the Mechanical Workshop for a chat at tea break - its nearer to Waste Disposal than the Instrument Workshop - and then I walked back there with him to do the drums. I was only there half an hour or so, and Jamie was still working there when I left. That would be somewhere between quarter to four and four o'clock. I haven't seen him since."

Murdo finished writing, contemplated his notes for a long moment, and then raised his head. "Hmm, what did you talk about at lunchtime?"

"Nothing special, just odds and sods. The biggest topic was some work he'd done on my car recently, putting in extra speakers and a new Compact Disc unit. There wasn't anything wrong with it, he was just interested in how it was performing."

"And what about at tea break?"

"Nothing much, as far as I can remember. Since his accident with Sammy Murchison he hasn't been very chatty."

"I see, and did he say anything that might give an indication of where he's gone now?"

He pursed his lips and considered for a moment before speaking slowly. "Well, no not really. But he did seem a bit edgy and cheesed off with life in general and working here in particular. Nothing very specific, like, and you get used to that sort of thing working here - working in a place without windows and with the criticality alarm always plonking away is enough to make anybody wonder if there isn't a better way to make a living. But looking back he maybe was a bit more serious than usual. He talked about how lucky I was, living on my own and not having parents always bossing me around." He shrugged, "But I wouldn't want to make too much of it, if he hadn't walked off I wouldn't have thought any more about it."

"Have you any idea what happened to him?"

Again the casual shrug. "No. But I can guess. I'd guess that the strain of Sammy's death finally got to him and he decided to get out for a while. I suppose you'd have expected him to take some holidays - he could get them any time he wanted - and done it all above board. But I guess if people flip their lid they don't necessarily do the rational thing, do they? He's been dead set on getting a car for ages and has been working overtime and doing homers to get the money. The trouble is, his Mother insists on him giving her a big slice of his earnings every week - he says its not digs, she saves it for him but she won't give him any of it to buy a car. He's been getting pretty cheesed off with it and has been keeping his extra earnings to himself. He's probably scarpered to have a look for a cheap motor in one of the cities, or maybe he's going to look for a job down there to get away from home. Anyway, if I know Jamie he'll turn up okay one of these days."

"And do you, know him I mean?"

"Oh well, fairly well I suppose. He's just a kid really, and a bit young for his age - comes from living at home, I guess - but we chat about cars quite a lot. He's done a few small wiring jobs on my car over the past few months too. Other than that, well" he shrugged, "we don't have much in common."

"Hmm, and did he have a lot of trouble at home?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it was all just talk. I never heard his parent's side of the story so I wouldn't know the truth of it. Still, I suppose the only thing that mattered was Jamie's perception of it, and he often moaned about it, particularly since the accident with Sammy. He hasn't gone out much since then so maybe they just got on his nerves a bit."

The questioning went on for a while longer but nothing of importance emerged. Eventually Murdo sent the helpful Mr Jaffery on his way and stood up to stretch his cramped limbs. "Well, Lady Detective, what did you make of all that?"

She smiled ruefully. "Well, we didn't exactly catch him out, did we? I think he had it all thought out and just told us what he wanted us to hear." She cocked her head to one side. "I know him a little bit, at least I've met him once or twice before, and I'll bet his story will check out exactly where it can be checked. He's a cool customer and not one to attract friends easily - a bit of a loner really. He's pretty friendly with Nelson Roberts, although I've never quite figured out what the mutual attraction is there. Maybe it's just that Roberts is pretty much ostracised on account of his father being so unpopular and Jaffery finds him useful sometimes - they go shooting on Roberts' land, that sort of thing."

Murdo nodded slowly "Mmm, it doesn't do to jump to too many conclusions in this game - but I'm inclined to be agreeing with you that he was a step ahead of us all the time. I got the impression that he wasn't by nature a talkative person, yet he chatted on as if telling us a story. Maybe he was telling the Gospel truth but you'd never know. A quick brain on him alright, but maybe you need that in a place like this." He looked around him with distaste, then gathered up his notes. "Come on, Lass, let's get out of here and get a breath of fresh air."

They called the Constable, who escorted them back to the Inspector's office. Murdo sank wearily into a soft chair and grimaced at Inspector Robertson. "Yes, Frank, we'd love a coffee! How anybody can work cooped up in that place all day is beyond me."

The old Inspector grinned. "Och, Murdo, your trouble is that you're not an intellectual. The young whizz kids in there are so tied up in their work they never notice their surroundings." He bellowed at the closed door for three coffees to be delivered tut sweet, then lowered his voice to normal again. "Had a good day, did you?"

Murdo shook his head lugubriously and Carol smiled faintly and shook her head. But before they could answer a young policewoman came in with their coffee, smiling smugly at how she'd anticipated their wishes and put on the kettle when they'd arrived.

Murdo sipped gratefully, then looked at the Inspector. "Och, we questioned everybody we could find, and I think we got them all, but it will take us a wee bit time to sort out the stories. As far as we can tell, though, Jaffery was the last to see him, at about four o' clock. Prior to that, he was seen in the Mechanical Workshop between three and half past." He took another sip. "Thing is. How do we know he left the place?"

"Oh, nothing easier. You went in as a visitor and got a temporary badge and were escorted. Regulars are treated differently. When they arrive for work my lads hand each one his own identity badge. It's a plastic card about the size of a playing card, and has the owner's photograph on it. All the time they're inside the Reprocessing area they must wear the badge in full view. When they leave the Reprocessing area, they must surrender the badge to my lads, who put it back up in the big rack you may have noticed in the Reprocessing Plant Police Lodge. We can see at a glance who is in and who isn't."

"So Jamison would have handed his badge to one of your policemen when he left?"

"Well no, not exactly. At knocking off time everybody leaves in a rush. It would be too much of a bottleneck to take each badge individually. There are a set of boxes attached to the front of the counter and the people just drop their badges in them as they file past. To make it easier to sort out the badges afterwards there's a box for each letter of the alphabet so the Aardvarks to Azures put their's in box 'A', and so on."

"So how can you be sure that Jamie did go past?"

"Well, his card is there so he must have gone out."

"Couldn't someone else have dropped it in the box for him?"

The Inspector wrinkled his nose. "In theory, yes, I suppose so. But there's always a few of my lads watching things at outmuster so anybody dropping in two badges would stand a fair chance of being noticed. Anyway, what are you suggesting? That your man is still in the Plant?"

Murdo shrugged and washed a hand over his face. "No, not really. I just wondered, that's all." He drained his cup and stood up. "Well, Frank, we'd better be going. Thanks for all your help - and especially for that coffee, it saved my life."

They took their leave of the Inspector and drove gratefully away from the Plant and into the luxuriant greenery of the country lane. "Well, Sarge, what now?" Carol drove the police car with negligent ease, enjoying the late afternoon sun.

"Och well, we'll be having a look at our notes to see if anything comes to light. Likely Sunny Jim will be picked up somewhere anyway, and today will have been wasted effort. But, we have to try to get everything while it's still fresh in people's minds, chust in case we need it later."

When they arrived back at the station the Receptionist told them to go straight to Inspector Pollock's office. There they were met by the news that a car had been stolen from a garage off Kylie Street, just a hundred or so yards from Jamie's home, and had been found parked neatly in a back street not far from Inverness Railway Station. Murdo rubbed his chin thoughtfully at the news, "Umm, and when would this have happened?"

Pollock pushed the Incident Report across his desk to Murdo. "We're not sure, the loss wasn't discovered until Mrs Gunn went to get the car to go shopping at about two o'clock this afternoon. We've asked around the neighbouring houses but the garages are grouped together well away from the houses and nobody heard or saw anything. The door lock had been forced but it was only a flimsy wee thing so nobody would have heard it being broken."

"Humph, when was the car last known to be in its garage?"

"About ten o'clock last night, they'd been out for the evening."

"And when was it found in Inverness?"

"About half past three - not long after we put it on the wire as stolen. It had been parked legally enough but in an awkward sort of place, so the local police had noticed it earlier. It's a distinctive kind of car, a bright red Ford Capri."

"Umm, and the theory is that Jamie nicked it and drove to Inverness, perhaps then catching a train to go further afield?"

"Well ... yes, I suppose that's about the size of it."

Murdo nodded slowly as he turned the scenario over in his mind. "Possible, I suppose. Jamie did like cars - he was saving to buy one - and he might have fancied something as flash as a red Capri." Then he shook his head and spoke slowly. "Naw, I dinna believe it. It just disn't seem in character for the lad to run like that."

Inspector Pollock shrugged. "Well, you might be right but it's a bit of a coincidence. It must be at least a year since the last time a car was stolen within fifty miles of here - damn funny that it and Jamie should disappear at the same time."

"Aye, well, maybe ... maybe. Och well, I take it they're looking for fingerprints and the like, and they're following up the idea that Jamie's been to Inverness?"

"Yes, both are in hand."

"What about the search of the area here?"

"Nothing. No sign of him, and nobody seems to have seen him since he went to work yesterday morning."

Murdo rubbed a vast hand over his craggy jaw, pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. "Ah well, I don't suppose there's anything more we can do here tonight."

They were just turning to leave when the Inspector's 'phone rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment, then held it out to Murdo mouthing 'Inspector Charles'. Murdo sighed a long-suffering sigh and took the handset. "Murdoch here, Sir."

"Ah yes, Murdo. What's this I hear about a car disappearing at the same time as your murder suspect?"

Murder suspect and mine now is it, ruminated the Sergeant, but he answered diplomatically. "I've just heard about the car, Sir, but there doesn't seem to be much information on it yet."

"Don't give me that! You have been up there for nearly a week now and what reports have we had from you? None, that's how many! I don't know what you've been doing but I don't like it. How the hell do you think I feel when the Super calls me in to brief him on the disappearance of this Jamison character and the theft of a car at the same time? What could I tell him? Bugger all, that's what! And why? Because my bloody Sergeant has been returning to his Neanderthal roots in the back of beyond and hasn't bothered to tell me. Well, I want a full report on my desk within two hours. Have you got that?" Inspector Charles' anger was spitting from the 'phone.

"Yes, Sir, but...."

"Never mind the buts - just do it!" and the 'phone went dead.

Murdo handed it back to the Inspector and rubbed his violated ear ruefully. "His Master's Voice, I'm afraid. Could the WPC and myself borrow one of your Interview Rooms for a couple of hours to put what we've got together?"

"Surely, Murdo, surely." He grinned, "Your Inspector seemed a wee bitty upset."

"Aye, the new Superintendant - West-Samual from Glasgow - has been twisting his tail a bit, I'm thinking."

Murdo and Carol threw their findings together as best they could in the time available. Thankfully, Carol was an excellent typist, something Murdo could never be when each of his huge fingers always seemed to span at least two keys. The finished sheets were clear, concise and dispassionate but as Murdo gathered them up to take them to the facsimile machine he commented, "It all looks pretty open and shut when you see it on paper but I'm not convinced that we're not being led by the nose. It's all too pat for my liking, the lad's not daft, why would he skite like that and nick a car? He'd know that running would make us wonder about Sammy's death and we'd mount a murder hunt for him. Stealing a car and going during the working week would just draw attention to himself, and if he was intending to come back for the inquiry, well, he'd immediately be charged with taking the car." He shook his head decisively. "No, there's something not right here."

Inspector Pollock was still at his desk although it was now after six thirty. He looked up as they entered and threw a sheaf of papers into his out-tray. "Bloody paperwork, it all seems to land here on Friday afternoon. Anyway, how did it go? Did you get your report away okay?"

"Yes, and I think I'll push off down the road myself. The Lab say their report won't be ready until Monday, so unless Jamison turns up somewhere there's not much more I can do until then. I don't know whether I'll be back up on Monday or not, it will depend on Charlie's humour." He thanked them for their hospitality and then drove off south, arriving home at about 11pm.

The fine weather held for the weekend and allowed Murdo and his wife to get the garden more or less back into shape. As they worked they talked, bringing each other up to date on the week. He had spoken of the case and had filled Mary in on the news and gossip of their friends at Inkrock, but as usual it was what he didn't say that caught her attention. "What is it that's troubling you, Love?"

He stood up and straightened his aching back. "Och, I'm not so sure myself. Maybe the lad has done a bunk, but I chust can't believe he'd do that chust because the Inquiry might say that he'd killed Murchison." He put his hands on his hips and strained back to try to relieve the ache. "However that lad died I'm positive that young Jamie didn't mean him any lasting harm."

"So what are you so worried about? Are you thinking that he'll maybe get in more trouble if he's run away?"

He led the way to a pair of deckchairs set on the back lawn and looking south over the River Ness and to the mountains beyond. Sinking into one of them, he sighed, "Ooh, that's better, thank the Lord we're about done. Och, I don't think the lad's done anything illegal - at least as far as Murchison's death is concerned. But when I questioned him I got the impression that he was hiding something and that he was scared. What worries me is that if that lad knew something serious enough to make him leave home he might be in danger, and the damn of it is that without him we don't have much chance of finding out what he's scared of."

"Well, can't you just step up the search to find him - pictures on the TV and that sort of thing?"

He laughed harshly. "Aye, that's chust what we need -but can you see me being able to convince Charlie Charles about that? As far as he's concerned it's all as straightforward as all these piddling little cases he's been making his name on all these years. Jamie hits Sammy, and Sammy dies. Autopsy can't find the cause of death so it's put down to some weakness. Coroner returns a verdict of Death by Misadventure. Young Jamie knows nothing about the Law and thinks he might go to jail so he does a runner. But he's done nothing wrong so the police aren't interested, so it's left to his family and the newspaper reports to tell him he's in the clear and can come home. Case cleared up, police have done all that is required of them, no need to waste more police time." He snorted. "The only trouble is that if I'm right the puir wee craitur knows it isn't the police he has to fear. Aye, and if anybody does catch up with him and does him in, as long as the body isn't found nobody will be looking for his murderer."

"But surely Inspector Charles will listen to a man of your experience."

"Huh, you know Charlie. As cunning as a fox when it comes to looking after Charlie, but when it comes to scintillating intellect he'd come a poor second to a brain-damaged amoeba. No, I don't think I can convince Charlie so I'll have to go over his head and see West-Samual - and that's not going to go down well with Charlie, I can tell you that." He shook his head. "Och well, maybe the Glasgow Pathologist will find something that Winn missed."

His wife stood up. "You put away the tools and come in. I'll go and put on the vegetables."

Next morning his fears were realised. There had been no fingerprints or other evidence on the car to tie it to Jamie. The results of the second post-mortem were no more helpful. They had apparently uncovered nothing that the rudimentary pathology skills of Doctor Winn hadn't found already. The only new information they'd added was that the under-arm scratches were very recent - no later than the day of death - and that one of the scratches had shown traces of copper sulphate. Any other evidence that might have been present at the time of death had been destroyed during the first post-mortem when the good Doctor had swabbed the small wounds to get a better look at them.

No opinion had been expressed to try to account for the presence of the copper sulphate but Murdo formed the opinion that the specialists in Strathclyde had perhaps attributed it to contamination introduced during the first post-mortem. Whatever the cause, the specialists' lack of interest in it had relegated it to the level of unimportant trivia. Murdo's knowledge of chemistry was miniscule so, other than noting that it couldn't have come from the galvanised steel of a barbed wire fence he shrugged it from his mind.

The only solid fact to emerge from the second post-mortem was that they agreed with Doctor Winn that no cause of death could positively be identified. Speculation was not their style, but they did note that such deaths did occur from time to time in circumstances where foul play could be absolutely eliminated. Whether the blow to the chin had triggered the death, or whether the proximity of the two events was just a cruel mischance, was more than they were prepared to guess at.

At 9am the summons came, and in a black Celtic mood Murdo gathered up his papers and went to the Inspector's office. Copies of the reports lay on the desk, and the Inspector smiled expansively as he bade Murdo be seated. "Well, well Murdo, so it was all quite straightforward after all. The Coroner's Inquiry can go ahead without the boy if he doesn't turn up, and they'll return a verdict of Death by Misadventure - nothing else they can do, open and shut case." He saw the stubborn look on Murdo's face and smirked. "Come on, Man, don't look so miserable, you had a week's holiday at the Country's expense, what more do you want?"

Murdo shook his head grimly. "I'm thinking there's more to it than that. That lad didn't run because he thought he'd go to jail, if he ran at all it was because he was scared of something else. I think we should step up the hunt for Jamison before he gets a chance to build a new life - if he's still alive, that is. Dammit, Sir, you know as well as I do that it's bloody difficult for a decent, hard working lad like Jamison to hide. He wouldn't want to be a dropout, he'd want a job - and he won't get a half-wise decent one without the paperwork going through the Tax and National Insurance systems. He doesn't seem to have taken any money with him, and I've got the Bank keeping an eye on his account, so he'll have to get a job right away. If we move now we'll pick him up if he's still alive, but if we chust leave it he'll get a chance to disappear."

The Inspector grinned. "Oh dear, Murdo, what an imagination you've got, always looking for complexity where none exists. Once the papers print the verdict he'll know there's no reason for him to stay hidden and he'll turn up. You mark my words."

Murdo's fist hit the Inspector's desk with a crash that knocked the Pending tray off the edge and caused the balls of the executive toy to swing so much they became tangled. "God, dammit, will you not listen, Man! I'm telling you that the boy is either dead already or has run because he fears for his life. Our best chance of solving this case is to find the lad." His voice had risen to a roar. The door burst open and Superintendent West-Samual stormed into the room. "What the hell is going on in here? Your banging and bellowing are going through the whole building. Now, Inspector Charles, what is going on?"

"Well, Sir, we were just discussing the Inkrock case. I've told Sergeant Murdoch that it's closed but he has a theory that some gang has killed Murchison and are chasing Jamison." Charlie's face was dead white as he faced the furious Superintendent.

"Well, Sergeant, what have you got to say for yourself?" Murdo was on his feet and he towered over the slim Superintendent like a Basalisk of doom. His words were conciliatory but his face was mutinous. "Sorry, Sir, I got a bit excited and didn't realise I'd raised my voice. It's as the Inspector was saying, I think there's more to this case than chust a young lad running from the police. I think he may be in danger."

West-Samual sat down and gestured for them both to do likewise. His voice was still harsh but he was interested. "On what do you base this, Sergeant?"

"The lad acted scared when I interviewed him, Sir. Apparently he'd hardly left the house except to go to work since the night Murchison died. Even his mother said he seemed to be scared to go out. She put it down to his trying to avoid folk who would blame him for Murchison's death, but I think there's more to it than that." He leaned forward impulsively. "Dammit, Sir, it all stinks. Have you ever heard of somebody dying like young Murchison did without anything to account for it? Well, have you?"

The Superintendent smiled slightly at the intensity and lack of respect. "I see you haven't changed, Murdoch! But, no, I can't recall anything like it. What exactly are you suggesting?"

Murdo shook his head impatiently. "I'm not sure, Sir. Look, Murchison dies without any discernable cause of death, but that doesn't mean he wasn't killed. We reckon it must have been an accident because he was a country lad in an out-of-the-way place. If he'd been a spy, or a Government Minister, or somebody important we wouldn't have said that. We'd have wondered about Bulgarians with umbrellas tipped with unknown poisons, and things like that. Well, maybe Inkrock is the back of beyond, but it's right next to an Atomic Plant with barbed wire fences, patrolling dogs and policeman with guns - and not chust revolvers either, sub-machine guns and pump action shotguns as well. Presumably all that is for something." He looked from one to the other. "Aye, maybe it was an accident, but maybe it wasn't - and if it wasn't, Jamison is in danger of going the same way."

The Inspector's face was still suffused with annoyance, but the Superintendent's brain was of an altogether different calibre. "Okay, Murdo, I take your point. Let's all calm down and go through the evidence at," he looked at his watch, "two o'clock in my office. In the meantime, Inspector, arrange for a Police Message to go out on TV this evening asking Jamison to contact the police. There's still the matter of the stolen car so we can't let him off the hook completely but word it so that he knows we won't be sending him to Barlinnie. And step up the police inquiries, I want him found." With that, the Superintended stalked out, leaving a heavy silence behind him.

"Humph, right, Sergeant, get everything prepared to give a briefing in the Super's office at fourteen hundred hours." Charlie avoided Murdo's eyes but his face was suffused with anger.

In the event, the briefing and subsequent discussion uncovered nothing new, but it raised Murdo's spirits and restored his faith in the Force when he saw the incisive way the Superintendent dissected the problem and made his decisions. "Okay, Murdo, you will continue to be the case officer but it looks like there won't be much for you to do until Jamison pops up again. We're too busy to have you spend all your time on the case in the meantime, so you'll just have to fit it in with the rest of your work."

 

The weeks passed, one, two, three, four, and the fine summer wore gently to a close. Twice Murdo went to Inkrock, once to attend the funeral of Sammy Murchison, and once to attend the Coroners Inquiry. As a result of discussions with the police, and in the absence of Jamie Jamison as chief witness, the Coroner returned an Open Verdict.

The rest of the Sergeant's time was spent on routine cases that seldom caught his interest. Only one was at all out of the ordinary. An Alexander MacPherson, a small-time Filling Station owner on the West Coast, had been bashed on the head with such enthusiasm that his life, and certainly his sanity, were in grave danger, and a car stolen from his forecourt. The thing that was most odd was that the car taken was a decrepit old wreck, despite there being some better ones just as readily available on the forecourt.

The local Police passed it on to Inverness because of the severity of the injuries caused, and because of a suspicion that it might have been attempted murder rather than an over-enthusiastic mugging. The injured man had come within an ace of death and had lain in a coma for three days. He would certainly have died but for the sheerest chance that had brought a local Vet past on his way home from stitching up a pony that a tourist's dog had panicked into a barbed wire fence. He had seen the lights still on and had decided to fill up with petrol rather than leave it until the following morning. He had found the victim lying in a pool of blood and had used his skills to staunch the flow of blood. Even more important, he had recognized the need to have the victim helicoptered immediately to the Head Injuries Unit at Inverness hospital. Without that expert serendipity the man would certainly have died, and the case would have been murder. As it was, Murdo set off for Ullapool with the knowledge that it would be touch and go and that he might well be looking for a murderer before the day was out.

He arrived at the Filling Station in the mid afternoon of a bitterly cold, drizzling October day. The place had originally been a small croft set slightly back from the single-track road, but the tiny fields behind it had been almost completely reclaimed by the great sweep of heather-clad hills that surrounded them. The lone building had been crudely modified by hacking out a large window so that the occupants could keep an eye on the two old-fashioned pumps and could see the road as it curved up to the north west and down to the south west. As Murdo stopped the car the dismal clunk of the wipers and the dank overcast added to the impression of subsistence desolation that had been the lot of so much of the Highlands since the English had managed to do what the Romans had tried and failed.

He climbed out and slammed the door, the clang echoing eerily in the way that only a drizzle on a bleak moor can generate. He looked around but if there was any other habitation within line of sight it must have been higher up and hidden by the low cloud. He picked his way through the puddles where the thin tarmacdam had been depressed into the underlying peat by the weight of delivery tankers and sundry other vehicles over the years. Two fairly modern cars, a Japanese pickup truck, an old Land Rover and a rusty old Morris Marina were lined up forlornly between the building and the pumps.

He pushed open the door and entered the single room. The end furthest away from the big window held a jumble of cans of oil, new and old tyres for cars and tractors, odds and sods of motoring accessories in their faded and dust-laden packets and the accumulated general detritus of years of neglect. The other end was more cheerful, with the dull light from the window augmented by a fluorescent tube on the ceiling and the softer glow from the glass door of a soft-drinks cabinet. The counter and the shelves behind it were packed with sweets and bottles of drinks. Clearly there was more money to be made from feeding the occupants of the passing cars than the cars themselves.

A small, grey haired old lady clad in a long black coat rose from behind the counter. "Can I help you, Sir?"

She seemed to fit the scale of the rest of the place, and Murdo felt like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput. He nodded slowly and brought out his badge. "Detective Sergeant Murdoch of the Inverness CID, Madam. I've come to investigate the assault and theft that took place here last night."

Her bright eyes watched him for a long time with the solemnity of a child and he began to fear that she was a simpleton. Then she nodded once and said, "The Ullapool police were here all night and half the morning."

He nodded again. "Would I be right in thinking that you're Mrs MacPherson, the mother of the assaulted man?"

"Yes", then she rushed on, "I should be at the hospital with the lad but they took him away in a helicopter before MacDonald the Vet came up and told me." She looked around the room helplessly. "My sister's grandson from Durness is coming down to look after the place until Alec is better. He should be here tomorrow forenoon, then I'll get the bus to Inverness so I can visit Alec. I had to open this place, you see, because folk depend on us. It's not just the petrol, but the grocer's, butcher's and milk vans leave stuff for the folk who live around here."

Murdo laid his coat and bonnet on the counter and moved around the end to join her. "Och well, I'm going back to Inverness myself tomorrow afternoon and you'd be welcome to a lift. Do you know anybody at Inverness to stay with?" His voice was soft and sympathetic.

She shook her head. "I've only been there once, and that was years ago. But I'm sure there are plenty of hotels in a fine big town like yon."

"Aye, there is that, but you'd be welcome to stay with my wife and I until you get yourself settled." He'd sat down on a stool whilst he was speaking, and the old woman took this as her cue to sink back into her own chair.

"That's right kind of you, Sergeant. Thank you." She said simply.

He pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. "Tell me in your own words what happened. Chust take your time, there's no hurry."

She ran her eyes slowly around the dirty old building. "Well, my late husband started this place nearly thirty years ago. We lived here at that time. Then my folks died and we inherited their wee croft a mile or two up the glen so we moved in there and turned this into the business. Och, it doesn't look much now but it did right well when my husband was alive. He was a mechanic to trade and in those days cars and tractors were less reliable than they are today so he was kept busy with the repairs and I dealt with the petrol and that. We were blessed with just the one child, Alec. He's forty now but he was just nineteen when my Sandy died and he had to take over. He never married so we've just run the place together, although I'm not so fit now and he spends most of his time tending the pumps and shop. There's not much call for the mechanicing now but he does a bit of welding and sorting of farm machinery and things like that. Och, the place has gone down hill a lot in the last year or two. Alec never was what you'd call a tidy lad, and I don't get down here so much any more."

Murdo nodded his understanding and eased her gently towards the events of the previous night. "I see, and he was here alone last night?"

"Aye, I haven't been so well lately so I've only been down now and then since the summer - just to let him go into town for supplies and things like that."

"So had he been here all day on his own?"

"Aye, he opens up about half past eight in the morning and just has a sandwich or a cold pie for lunch. Then at this time of the year he usually shuts up at about six o'clock - just late enough to catch the folk going home from their work so they can get petrol and pick up groceries and things. Last night, though, he came home for his tea as usual and said he had to go back down because somebody had 'phoned about buying a car." She gestured towards the misted over window. "We buy and sell the odd car or pickup, and sometimes local folk leave one with us to sell for them or ask us to find a suitable vehicle for them to buy."

"Uh huh. And what time did he come back here?"

"Oh, he was home about quarter past six and just had a quick meal. It was tattie soup so it was all ready for him and he just had the one plateful and said he'd have some more when he got back. So he would have been back here about seven."

"Did he say anything about the person who 'phoned?"

She shrugged her bent shoulders. "He said it was a man and that he had a sort of foreign accent. We thought he might be a Kloyndyker, you know, a Russian off one of the factory ships, and looking for a cheap car to use to see around the place on his time off."

"Is that not a bit odd? I mean, would he not have been able to get a better choice in Ullapool?"

"I suppose so, most people go to the garages there but he might have been looking for something cheaper and one of them might have given him Alec's name."

"Did your son say where the call was made from?"

She shook her head. "No, but with the foreign accent we supposed it must have been from Ullapool."

"This accent, did he say whether it was just foreign or of any particular country?"

"He just said it sounded Russian. We get a lot of foreign visitors in here so he wouldn't mistake Russian for French or German, if that's what you mean. Besides, you often hear Russians in the shops and pubs in Ullapool. Nice, well behaved folk they usually are, too", she added.

"So he'd have been back here about seven, and the Vet found him at about quarter past eight. It's thought the attack must have taken place about eight, but we won't know for sure until your son regains consciousness. Did you see or hear anything in that time, a car on the road, perhaps?"

"No, our house is about half a mile back from the road and at the other side of a hill. You can't see the road from there at all."

"And was anything taken, apart from the car, that is?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing as far as I can tell. There was about fifty pounds in the till, and another twenty in Alec's jacket according to the police. All that was taken was the old Volkswagen Beetle that Alec was sorting up for Lachie Campbell. Alec does it every year before Lachie takes it to a garage in town for its MOT. I can't imagine why he'd have taken that auld wreck when there were better ones beside it. Maybe the man tried to buy Lachie's old car and attacked Alec when he wouldn't sell it. Maybe he thought taking the old banger wasn't really theft. I don't know." She shook her grey head in bewilderment.

The old woman made them a cup of tea whilst Murdo telephoned the Hospital to get the latest information on the state of the injured man. He was still unconscious, but stable. He then telephoned his wife to tell her that he'd be bringing a guest to stay for a few days. Knowing Mary as he did, he knew that it was unlikely that Mrs MacPherson would ever move to a hotel.

By the time they'd finished their tea it was time to lock up the Filling Station for the night, and Murdo drove the old lady home before heading for Ullapool to find a Hotel for the night.

The next day dawned as dull and wet as its predecessor, and the Sergeant felt as miserable as the weather as he checked out the garages to see whether they had been approached by a foreigner wanting to buy a car. They hadn't. He then checked out the thirteen private individuals who had advertised cars for sale in the local papers over the past fortnight. None had been approached by a foreigner. Then he went to see the Vet, and was duly grateful for the large dram that was pressed on him.

The Vet was a man in his late fifties, alert, intelligent and with a quick way of speaking. "I expected Alec to come out and fill me up - he doesn't believe in this new fangled self-service business." He grinned. "I waited a couple of minutes, then got out of the car to go and look for him. He was lying outside behind the parked cars with his head bashed in and blood everywhere. His skull was quite deeply indented just behind and above his right ear, as if a right-handed person had swiped him from behind. There was a strut-type car shock absorber beside him that I supposed was the weapon but it was lying in the pool of blood so I couldn't say for sure. I did what I could for him and called for an air ambulance. How is he, by the way?"

"Still unconscious but stable, according to the Hospital when I 'phoned a couple of hours ago. They say the operation went okay and it's now a matter of just waiting until he comes round - if he ever does."

They talked for a while longer in the warmth of the big kitchen, but there was nothing more to be gleaned so Murdo reluctantly took his leave. A visit to the Police Station to compare notes, then a quick lunch before driving out past the MacPherson Filling Station to interview Lachie Campbell. He turned out to be a shrunken little gnome of a man with a puckered mouth completely devoid of teeth. His first words on Murdo introducing himself were, "Well, have you found it yet?" Then before Murdo could reply, "Good God, man, what the hell do we pay all you polis for? Surely to Christ you can find a stolen car in a place like this!"

"Och well, an alert has gone out to all Stations in the area so it will likely be turning up before long."

"Huh! Well, it's due it's MOT and Road Tax next week so you'd better be watching all the garages, he won't be wanting to draw attention to himself by driving around in an illegal car." Murdo looked at him for a long moment to see if he was being serious, then the old man gave a cackle of a laugh. "Come awa' in, Sergeant, it's a hellish day to be bletherin' ootside," and led the way into the small house. His wife, who must have been a good ten years his junior, had overheard them. "Pay no attention to the auld goat, Sergeant, he's Lauchie by name and laughy by nature. You'll have a cup of tea?" Without waiting for a reply she went to the kitchen.

Murdo sat down and took out his notebook. "Now Sir, when did you put your car to MacPherson's Filling Station?"

"Last Thursday morning. Alec was going to do some wee repairs before I took it in for its MOT next week."

"Have you any idea why anybody would steal it?"

"No' really. It's a good car, them Beetles is hardy little beasts and mine was in pretty good condition -considering its age - but there were a couple of better cars on Alec's forecourt if the booger just wanted a car. Maybe he was a collector of old cars, or maybe he wanted a Beetle to make a Special from." He peered at Murdo in the gloom to see if he was understanding. "A lot of Special cars and Beach Buggies are made by cutting the top bodywork off a Beetle and replacing it with plastic stuff."

"Oh, yes. Do you think that's likely?"

"Naw, but I canna think of any other likely reason either. Hell's bells, good wee car though it was, it wasn't exactly a high-speed getaway car, was it?"

Mrs Campbell returned with the tea. "Dinna you be trying too hard to find it, Sergeant, we'll just take the insurance money and buy a decent car. We've had that old thing for years and years and it's getting to be just a damned nuisance with its repairs." She glared defiantly at her husband, then added, "Of course, we'd want you to find the man for what he did to Alec. Poor Alec, him that wouldn't hurt a fly and would give any down and out his last penny. Mony a hungry hitch hiker has had free odds and sods from Alec."

"Och well, it will likely be turning up in time, but it may well be a write-off when it does. Now, when did you find the car had been stolen?"

"When your pals from Ullapool came and told us. But as I told them, Alec 'phoned us when the man was with him and said he was wanting to buy my car and what did I want for it. It was all very unexpected so I just said it wasn't for sale. I heard Alec tell that to the man, and then he said he was offering twice its value - five hundred pounds - but I just said that if it was worth that to him it was worth it to me. A lot of them auld cars are increasing in value now, you know."

"Have you had any other offers for it recently?"

"Naw." Old Lachie was positive so Murdo finished his tea and took his leave. He returned to the Filling Station to collect Mrs MacPherson, and found that her nephew, a cheerful young man of twenty or so, had arrived from Durness on the morning bus. He was obviously very fond of the old lady and grinned indulgently as she fussed around giving him instructions. "On you go Auntie Ruth, I'll manage just fine." Then he picked up her suitcase in one hand and wrapped the other around her frail shoulders to guide her to the car. "Don't you be worrying about here, I'll sell so much petrol and sweeties the garages in Ullapool will be bankrupt within the week!"

 

On the third day after the assault, Alec MacPherson surfaced from his coma. A day later Murdo was permitted to see him for a few minutes, on the strict condition that he didn't say anything that might excite or exhaust the patient. The constable at the bedside moved aside to let Murdo sit down, and he leant over the pale figure in the bed and spoke softly. "Alec, do you hear me?"

The eyes flickered briefly but remained shut, then he croaked, "Yes."

"Alec, I'm from the police and I'd like to ask you a few questions. Can you tell me anything about the man who attacked you?"

There was a pause so long that Murdo was beginning to think he should call a nurse, then the lips moved again. "Man 'phoned in afternoon - said he wanted to buy a car -would be out about seven - didn't even ask what I had in stock - was there when I got back from my tea - big, hefty man, six feet - heavy built - few days growth - ginger on chin - dark on sideburns - knitted cap - didn't see hair." A long pause, then, "Fortyish - Slavic - sallow - pudgy face -bushy eyebrows." He stopped, then, "Don't know how he arrived - no car - must have been dropped off - it was raining but he wasn't soaking."

"Can you tell me what happened from the time you met him?"

"Was waiting when I arrived - didn't give his name -said he wanted to buy an old car - showed him what I'd got." Pause, then, "Wanted Beatle - Lachie's - told him - said he'd pay double top book value - I 'phoned Lachie but he said no - went to look at Fiesta - don't remember any more."

Murdo leaned forward. "What about his accent?"

"Sounded Russian - good English but accent Russian -didn't say much - wearing clothes like Russian seaman -thought he was off factory ship."

The Ward Sister tapped Murdo's shoulder and beckoned him away. "That's enough for today. Try again tomorrow, he should be a bit stronger by then."

Murdo drove back to the Station and, finding the office empty, brewed himself a mug of tea and slumped down to think. Why would anybody be prepared to pay over the odds for an old Beetle? And be prepared to kill when the offer was refused? He gnawed a thumbnail. What was so special about the Beetle? Despite what old Campbell had said about it appreciating it wasn't old enough to be valuable. Besides, another Beetle had been advertised for sale in the local paper and hadn't drawn any inquiries. In any case, the assailant hadn't inquired about what cars were for sale so how had he known the Beetle was there? He dropped another teabag into his mug and filled it up with hot water. It was all very odd. If the assailant had known about the car beforehand, and had been prepared to commit a savage assault to get it, why had he telephoned and arranged a meeting in the first place? Why not simply steal it in the dead of night? Same effect but a much more minor charge. On the other hand, maybe he was looking at it the wrong way round. Did the man go to get the Beetle legally and resorted to violence only when it was refused? Or did he go to assault or kill Alec MacPherson and the Beetle was just a red herring? He shook his head, the only thing that seemed to make sense was that the man knew about the Beetle and went to buy it legally, only resorting to violence when he was stymied. If that was what happened, did he deliberately try to kill Alec to get rid of the only witness? Or did he just panic and lash out with whatever came to hand, a heavy shock absorber?

He sighed and pulled the telephone towards him. His colleagues at Ullapool were much better placed to check up on the movements of Russian seaman, they knew the area and the locals, and would probably know most of the Russians as well. They were already trying to find the Beetle and to trace any vehicle that might have delivered the man to the Filling Station.

The word quickly came back that the Russian factory ship had left her moorings on schedule at first light on the day after the assault, before the police had started questioning the crew. She would be returning in a month’s time. As for traffic on the road that night, a number of cars had been seen and efforts were being made to trace them all. However, unless drivers came forward in answer to the broadcast appeal, all the police could do was eliminate the innocent. It had been a foul night all over the north of Scotland and no one had reported seeing the dark green Beetle.

 

Then, the following Saturday, a report came in that a couple walking their dogs had seen a green car on the rocks below a sea cliff about thirty miles west of Inkrock. Bells jangled in Murdo's mind at the thought of a Russian seaman dumping a car close to an Atomic Plant, but try as he might he couldn't piece a believable picture together. The whole thing seemed too incompetent to be the work of the KGB, surely they didn't have a Volkswagen Beetle fetish.

The management of the Plant swore that there was nothing there that was of anything more than mild commercial interest to any other country - and their Security Branch swore that there had been no unusual incidents at the Plant. Anyway, the car was craned up the cliff and taken to Inverness for examination. It was the missing Beetle alright, and the damage to it was consistent with it having been run off the top of the cliff into the sea. The area was scoured but there was no sign of anyone having gone into the sea along with the car.

A check with Alec and old Lachie showed that the Beetle had not had enough fuel in it to get from Alec’s Filling Station to Inkrock without refuelling - and no one would admit to having supplied it with fuel that night, or at any other time between it being stolen and turning up in the sea. Presumably the mystery car that had delivered the driver to the Filling Station in the first place had also carried spare fuel, but why steal a car, drive it up the west coast and along the north coast of Scotland, and then dump it over a cliff when all the time you were accompanied by another car and driver? And why dump it in that particular place? It wasn't just at the side of the main road, it was up a side road, then up an unsurfaced road, and finally over a small field to the unfenced cliff top. A total distance of two and a half miles from the road. Not somewhere to happen on by chance, and not easy to identify from a map. Everything pointed to local knowledge.

Weeks of widespread questioning failed to turn up a shred of evidence to shed any light on the matter. Security at the Plant was tightened up, anti-terrorist measures were dusted off and re-tested, but nothing positive showed up. Like the death of Sammy Murchison, the case of the stolen Beetle came to a stumbling full stop. Two such mysteries culminating within thirty miles of each other, and with an Atomic Plant in between, gave Murdo the uneasy feeling that he was maybe dealing with a crime well out of his class.

 

Then in mid November, Murdo was sitting in the Station writing up another case when a call came in. The Desk Sergeant took some quick notes, then put the 'phone down and turned to Murdo. "I think this might interest you, Murdo, a body has been found out at the Atomic Plant at Inkrock. They're not sure yet but they think it might be your missing man."

Before the Desk Sergeant could move, Murdo had stood up, plucked the note from his hand and was pushing through the swing door towards the offices. The Super's secretary drew her feet quickly under her desk as he stalked by and knocked briefly on the inner door. Not waiting for a response, he strode in. "Sir. A report has just come in that a body has been found at the Atomic Plant at Inkrock. They think it might be Jamison so I'd like to go straight there."

The Superintendent ran his eye over the terse note and nodded. "Okay, do that. I'll get a Team up to you as soon as possible, you keep a grip on things until they arrive. Ask around, but don't interfere with the body before the forensic boys arrive." He smiled slightly. "I take it you haven't asked Inspector Charles yet?"

"He's at the conference in Edinburgh, Sir."

"How fortunate!" He waved a hand. "Go 'way with you, Man."

Murdo drove to Inkrock in a fever of excitement and was told at the Station that a small team had gone to the Plant to secure the area until he arrived. On arriving at the Plant he asked for the Duty Inspector and was escorted through the bitter wind to the Low-Activity Waste Disposal Pit where Inspector Robertson and Inspector Pollock were co-operating to cordon off an area containing a large machine and a lot of steel drums.

Inspector Pollock greeted the Sergeant soberly. "Hello, Murdo. I think we've found your missing man." He led the way forward to a crushed drum standing with its lid removed. As they drew near an awful stench assailed them and Murdo's face hardened as he peered down into the drum. Inside was a body. It appeared to have been sitting on the bottom of the drum, knees pulled up in front of it, and with a large toolbox sitting on its lap. That had been before the drum had been crushed to about half its original length. Now the rotting body looked like a piece of pressed meat, with the head pushed down into the shoulders, the white ends of broken bones sticking through the flesh, and the whole swimming in a sickening liquor of body fluids.

The body was in an advanced state of decomposition, but there was no sign of maggots so it must have been sealed in the drum before the flies had had a chance to lay their eggs on it. The crushing and petrifaction made casual identification impossible but the squashing down of the head had pushed the knees up and with them the toolbox. Now it stood exposed with the legend J. JAMISON in white paint showing clearly through the vile brew. There could be little doubt that young Jamie Jamison had been found.

Murdo turned his grey face towards the Inspector and met his eyes. "Christ! I've seen some bad ones in my time but this ...!" He turned away and lurched back towards the clear air. After a few deep breaths to try to clear away the stench, he pulled himself together with an effort. "When the Scene of Crime Team arrive they'll take over, Sir." He looked at his watch and did a quick calculation. "It's nearly one now so I'd guess they should be here about two or three o'clock. That'll only give them a couple of hours before its dark so we'll need to organise flood lights."

Inspector Robertson nodded. "Okay, anything we can help you with, just ask. I'll delegate one of my Sergeants to act as your contact man." He turned to leave, then swung back. "Oh, don't worry about arranging for food, our canteen will be open all night and I'll warn them to expect visitors."

Murdo nodded his thanks but his mind was already grappling with the problems on hand. Until the Scene of Crime Squad had been assembled and shipped in from Inverness, it would be up to the local Force to protect the area from further interference, and to start the long, painstaking process of questioning everybody in the vicinity.

He called together the small group of Constables from town in the lee of a large grey building to shelter them a bit from the biting wind. Then he quickly set them to work taking over from the Plant police, preserving the area from any interference and getting the names and first statements from everybody in the vicinity. A young Sergeant from the Plant police hurried up to him and introduced himself. "Hullo, I'm Geoff Wilkes, I've been sent by Inspector Robertson to liase with you and see you get anything you need."

They shook hands briefly and then Murdo started right in. "First thing I want is to talk to the man in charge of this part of the Plant."

"Okay, that'll be Dr. Simpson, he's Head of Waste Management. His office is in the big building over there, do you want to go to him or will I find him and bring him here?"

"Bring him here - but first, can I get some sort of office around here?"

"Certainly, no problem, there's three offices over there. Do you want them all or will one do?"

"All three if you can."

The young Sergeant nodded, clearly excited to be part of a murder inquiry and as keen as mustard to make his mark. "Right, I'll clear out their occupants and then telephone Dr. Simpson and ask him to come down."

Five minutes later he was back to report that all had been arranged. Shortly afterwards a tall, elderly man with the most completely bald head Murdo had ever seen came bustling into the compound. Sergeant Wilkes spotted him and led Murdo to meet him. The scientist didn't wait for introductions. "Right, Sergeant, I'm Simpson, what can I do for you." His voice was fast and clipped, the archetypal English gentleman. Adding to this English-eccentric aura was his goatee beard - he was completely clean shaven except for its tiny tuft of hair on the end of his chin. As always on such occasions, Murdo's brain asked the question of why. Why would anyone go to all the trouble of shaving round that tuft every day? Oh well, he'd never understood why people wore makeup and ornaments either. Maybe the man was disguising a receding chin.

"Well, Sir, you will have heard that a body has been found in one of your waste disposal drums so perhaps you could start by explaining to me what goes on in this area."

"Certainly." He paused, apparently marshalling his thoughts to explain things in such simple terms that even a police Sergeant could understand. "Right. This area handles waste that is only very slightly radioactivity. Other, more highly radioactive waste is dealt with elsewhere. We produce a lot of low-activity waste on this site. For example, workers handling radioactive materials wear protective clothing which sometimes comes in contact with radioactive liquids or dust. Gloves, overalls and the like. Every time they go to remove their protective clothing it is monitored to see whether it has become contaminated. If it has, it is discarded as low-active waste. The level of radioactivity is very low and the clothing could be laundered, but whilst that would remove the contamination from the clothes it would merely transfer it to the laundry water. We'd then have to either store all the water or get the radioactive material out of it. Much easier and cheaper to just dispose of the clothing. Doesn't contaminate the laundry machinery either."

He suddenly set off walking at a fast pace, his hunched shoulders thrusting the chin tuft ahead like a Scottie dog in reverse gear. "Come here. I'll show you." He led the way into the building that Murdo recognized as the one that Jamie had been working in on that last day. A number of the open drums - as far as Murdo could tell they were just like ordinary forty-five gallon oil drums, but with one end removed - stood against one wall. The scientist made straight for them. "See, the clothes, and any other lightly contaminated bits and pieces are put in the drums and packed down reasonably tightly."

Murdo peered in and saw that there were dozens of pairs of thin rubber surgical gloves and pieces of cloth that had obviously been used for cleaning and wiping. There was also the odd pair of shoes and overalls. Mixed in were bits of pipes, wires, electronic components and just general bits and pieces that would be thrown out of any large chemical engineering plant.

The Doctor continued in his staccato way. "Can't be too clever in the packing because the contents have to be below the rim when the lid is welded on. Don't want the welding to set fire to the contents and have radioactive smoke escaping." He pointed to some drums further along. "These are full and have had their lids welded on. When there are a half dozen or so they are transported out to the pit and put in a temporary area. Come on." He set off again, leading the way outside.

Fifty yards from the building was the pit where the body had been found. Carved out of the sandstone rock, it was a vast hole about fifty yards long by twenty five wide and fifty feet deep, with a steeply sloping ramp leading down at one side. At one end, reaching up to within about five feet of the lip were tiers of crushed cans. At the other end was a smaller pile of perhaps fifty uncrushed drums. At the bottom of the ramp was a large machine. It was beside it that the drum containing the body stood.

The scientist strode to the top of the wall overlooking the pit, screwing his face up against the cold, wet wind blowing off the sea just over the fence. "The drums are taken from the building and stacked there." He gestured at the uncrushed pile. "As you saw back there, the drums are full but not very tightly packed. They'd take up a lot of room to stack them that way and it costs a lot of money to dig pits in this rock. So we've just started compacting the drums. Every few months, when a sufficient number of drums have accumulated, we'll bring this new compactor down here and squeeze the drums so that they take up less space." He set off again and half trotted down the ramp to the machine, apparently oblivious of the smell that by now pervaded the whole pit.

He stood in front of the machine. "A drum is picked up by that special fork lift truck and set on this bed, the top ram comes down and the whole drum is pushed down into a hole just big enough to hold it. Then the top ram seals on the top of the drum and a drill comes down and makes a half-inch diameter hole in the lid. That's to let the air escape as the drum is compressed. Then the hydraulic ram descends and crushes the drum in a controlled manner until a preset force is reached." He turned and waved his hand at the tiers of crushed drums. "That's why they're all different sizes, some have got more in them than others."

Seeing Murdo nodding, he turned back to the machine. "Air escaping from the hole in the lid is filtered to remove any contamination and is automatically monitored to detect any radioactivity being released from the drum. When the crushing is complete, a plug is automatically welded into the vent hole and the drum is ejected. It is then stored over there." He gestured again towards the tiers of crushed drums.

Murdo nodded again. "Thank you, Sir, that was very clear. But how did you detect that there was a body in the drum?"

For answer the scientist set off again, ascending the ramp at a demon pace. Heading towards the ropes cordoning off the area, he shouted to a group of men. "Harry! Come over here a minute." A man detached himself from the group and hurried over to meet them by the rope. "Harry, would you tell the Sergeant here how you came to decide that the drum should be opened. I've explained to him how everything works."

"Right." He didn't seem at all in awe of the scientist. "I was foreman on the shift. We'd done a dozen or so drums when we put that one on the machine. When it started to crush it was okay at first, then the filter blocked." By way of explanation he added. "The pressure drop across the filter is monitored all the time because if it gets blocked the gasses will blow out past the seals. Anyway, we thought nothing off it at first, we've only just got the machine and we're still learning how long we'll be able to go between filter changes. When we took off the filter we found that it was soaking wet and stinking to high heaven."

The Doctor interjected. "We never put liquids in the drums, we have other ways of dealing with liquid waste."

The foreman nodded. "Yes, so we were a bit surprised at the liquid, and the stink was so bad it did smell like something dead and rotten." Murdo noticed that his face had grown more pale as he spoke and the memory came back to him with awful clarity. "We couldn't think what it could be, we never thought of a body, even a rat's or anything like that, we just thought that some peculiar chemical reaction must have taken place and we cut open the drum to take a look."

Again the Doctor broke in. "There's always the possibility that mixing some quite innocuous things together might start a chemical reaction that could produce corrosive substances that might damage the drum. It's very unlikely but we're always on the alert, just in case."

The foreman nodded and then continued. "Well, we have a cutter that takes a lid off by cutting round the outside of the rim, a bit like an ordinary tin opener. When we took the lid off we took one look and I told the lads to get back and to leave everything just as it was." He smiled slightly. "They didn't need any second telling, most of them were already spewing their guts up. Anyway, I got straight on the 'phone to my manager, Ian Rosie, and he called the Police and Doctor Simpson here."

Murdo nodded. "Thank you both, that all seems very clear. We'll need full statements from you both, and everybody else who was in the vicinity or in any way involved. Perhaps you could get everybody to do that in time for the rest of the Scene of Crime Team arriving in a couple of hours. In the meantime, could I ask you, Dr. Simpson, to write down what you told me about the background procedures. Nothing very technical, you understand, chust as you explained it to me. It will be useful background for the rest of the Team, and for the Court later."

"Of course. I'll have it to you in about half an hour. Do you want multiple copies?"

"Yes please, a dozen would be fine." Murdo shambled over to the pit, looked down into it sombrely for a moment, and then continued to the offices the young Sergeant had requisitioned for him. A couple of typewriters had been unearthed from somewhere - no mean feat in an organisation where sophisticated word processors had superseded typewriters years ago - and two young constables were busily pounding out lists of names of witnesses, duty rosters and similar organisational trivia that were inseparable from any police operation.

It all seemed to be well in hand so Murdo retired to an empty office and slumped into a chair to think. It appeared probable that Jamie had been murdered on the day he was last seen at work. The killer must have been either an employee or a visitor - and visitors didn't get to wander around alone in places like this so they could be discounted. And he must have known the system well because he had deposited Jamie's security pass in the police lodge as he had left.

And what of the stolen Capri car? Was it just coincidence, or had it been stolen deliberately to give the impression that Jamie had run? And how likely was it that the body would be discovered? Murdo pushed himself to his feet and realised for the first time that Sergeant Wilkes was sitting quietly by the door. "Can you take me to see Dr. Simpson, Lad? I've a few points I'd like to clear up."

As they left the office Murdo saw Inspector Pollock speaking to a small group of constables and waved to him. "Sir, I'm going to see one of the managers. Could you be doing the needful until I get back?"

"Sure, Murdo, no problem." They went through the nuisance of stripping off their coveralls and changing their shoes at the Contamination Control Barrier. Then they washed their hands and monitored their person before proceeding to Dr. Simpson's office. His secretary checked briefly over the intercom and then ushered Murdo in, leaving Sergeant Wilkes in the outer office.

"Sorry to bother you again so soon, Sir, but I wonder if you could clear up a few points for me."

"I'll do my best. Ask away."

"Well, Sir, our forensic people will look into it of course but I wonder if you could give me your opinion on how likely it was that the body would be discovered."

"Good question, Sergeant, I've been thinking about that myself." He kneaded his tufted chin with a bony hand, repeatedly sliding his fingers through the hair, kneading the skin underneath and then coaming the fingers out through the hair. "I don't really know how bodies behave under pressure but I think it would have been inevitable that it would have become very liquid if given time to decompose. It would only mummify in a dry atmosphere and sealed in a drum like that it wouldn't get the chance. So, in my opinion, if the body had had time to decompose before the drum was compacted it would have had to be discovered. I don't think there can be any doubt of that."

"I see, Sir, so discovery would have been inevitable."

The scientist rested his elbows on his desk and made a steeple of his fingers in front of his face. "Well, I'm not so sure of that. For a start, we've only just got the compacting machine. Without it the body would only have been discovered if it had caused the drum to corrode through and the smell had attracted attention before that part of the pit was filled in. Then again, our aim is to compact the drums just far enough to force out excess air and pack the contents fairly tightly. We're not trying to crush the drums in the way a car crusher would - that would risk rupturing or weakening the drums and perhaps releasing contamination. I'm not sure, it isn't my field, but I suspect that if the body was reasonably fresh it would have just been squeezed down a bit and not been detected. Mind you, that's just a guess but the load sensor is set to give just enough force to crush the drum itself and put only a modest amount of pressure on the contents." As an afterthought he added, "Of course, if we had waited another month it might have been cold enough for the body liquids to have frozen solid - although I don't know what temperature they'd freeze, lots of impurities you know."

"I see, and who would have known when the drums were going to be crushed?"

"Actually they were due to be done just a few days after young Jamison disappeared, but when the machine arrived it was faulty and it has taken this long to get the manufacturer's engineers up here to repair it."

"So if things had gone normally the body might not have been far enough decomposed to have been discovered."

"That would be my opinion, yes. Of course, that begs the question of how many people would know how long it would take a body to decompose to the state where it would be detected. Very few, I suspect."

"I see, and everybody would have known about when the compacting was to start?"

The scientist looked down at his hands on the desk. "Well, no, not many people would have known." He looked up. "We still tend to work a bit on the 'need to know' principle - old habits, you know - so we don't broadcast these things around. All the senior management would have known, of course, it had been discussed at management meetings. However," he drummed his fingers on the desk, "how many others would have known is hard to tell. It wasn't a secret or anything like that, it's just that there would have been no official move to spread the word. It was to be a trial with an operator from the manufacturers here for the first run so there was no need for pre-training. If the trial was successful, two or three of our own staff would have been sent on operators courses before the next run in February or March."

"Humph. And if the body hadn't been discovered during compaction, how long before the drum would have been opened?"

"Never. When that pit is full in another couple of years it will be covered over and left there for all time. The only chance of discovery would have been if the body liquors had been corrosive enough to rot through the drum before the pit was filled in. Or if the decay process had produced enough gasses to cause the drum to swell noticeably - and I don’t know whether the pressures produced would have been great enough."

Murdo digested that for a long moment. "So, if the murderer hadn't known about the machine, he'd have thought the body safe from discovery. And, if he had known about the machine and when it was supposed to start work, he'd also have known he was pretty safe because the body wouldn't have decomposed by then. Then again, whether he'd known about the machine or not, if he didn't know how bodies decompose he might have thought he was safe anyway."

The scientist chuckled dryly. "I think you've just proved to yourself that you can't exclude anybody on the grounds of what they knew about the compaction machine."

Murdo grimaced in agreement, and then changed tack. "When the waste is put in the drums, how are the lids welded on? I mean, do you fill a few drums and then put in a team of welders to do them all, or do you do it a drum at a time, or what?"

"We wouldn't use a team, just one welder would be enough. There would usually be just a few drums to do at a time, it depends on how busy the welders are at the time but there would rarely be more than five drums to do." Then he threw in as an afterthought. "But, of course, this one wasn't welded by a welder."

Murdo's head came up at that. "What do you mean, wasn't welded by a welder?"

The scientist smiled benignly. "Didn't you look at the weld? No certified welder on this site would make a weld like that. Ours are all first rate, that weld was done by a rank amateur."

"I see, so it could have been done by anyone."

"Yes," a small smile, "anyone except a welder. The welding equipment is kept there permanently so anyone could have thrown the body in the drum and welded the lid on."

"It would have been chust as easy as that, do you think? Bundle the body into the drum, set the lid on, and run the welder round it?"

"More or less. I wouldn't have thought that any normal man would have had any difficulty putting the body in the drum, after all he could have put the drum on its side, shoved the body in and set the drum back upright. If I recall young Jamison correctly he wasn't a big fellow. As for the welding, well, even I could have done it - and I haven't touched a welding gun since I had a vacation job when I was a student."

Murdo considered that, disliking the coldly clinical way the scientist had described disposing of the body of a cruelly murdered young man who had been on the threshold of life, but being fair-minded enough to concede that objectivity was an essential stock in trade of the scientific profession. He masked his feelings and his face was as expressionless as ever when he raised his eyes from his notebook. "And who would have had access to that area?"

"Oh well, it's protected by a magnetic card security system. You'll have noticed it at other places as you passed through. Everybody who works in this part of the plant has a card and a personal number. To get through a particular door or turnstile you put the card in a slot and punch in your number on a keypad. If you're entitled to get into that area the door or turnstile will automatically unlock, otherwise it won't. As to who is entitled to get into that area," He kneaded his chin thoughtfully, "we'd have to look it up on the computer to get a precise answer, but all the maintenance staff would have access, and all the Waste Disposal staff, and a lot of other Lab personnel. A few hundred at least. Unfortunately, whilst some areas are important enough for all staff entering and leaving to be automatically logged on the computer, this isn't one of them."

Murdo sighed, he might have known it wouldn't be easy. "Och well, Sir, I'd be obliged if you could arrange for me to have a list of all those entitled to enter the area, and of everybody who was in the Chemical Plant that day."

"Certainly, Sergeant, nothing easier. I'll have my staff collate the data and deliver it to you."

Murdo got up. "Thank you for your time, Sir. You've been most helpful."

He left the room deep in thought and didn't notice the young Sergeant rise from his chair and follow him like a shadow. He tried to order events in his mind. Joshua Jaffery claimed that young Jamie was alive and well when he had left him in the Waste Disposal building at between quarter to four and four o'clock. The problem was, nobody had seen him since. Jaffery was therefore the chief suspect - except that he was a welder and the eminent Dr. Simpson, who knew more about all things technological than Murdo could ever hope to imagine, had quite categorically stated that the one group of suspects that could be eliminated was the welders.

 

The rest of the Scene of Crime Team arrived in their vehicles, escorted by the Plant police in a pair of Landrovers with their blue lights flashing in the gathering gloom and turning the driving smirr into an electric blue halo around the vehicles. Murdo knew all the team but no time was wasted on personal greetings. There was work to be done and the Team swung into smooth, professional action, working fast but never for an instant allowing haste to compromise meticulous attention to detail.

The body was removed, still in its drum, and the whole area of the pit and Waste Disposal building scoured for clues. By the time that had finished it was morning and the questioning began. An Incident room was set up and Murdo and Carol's notes and diagrams were scooped up and added to the growing pile of detritus that was part and parcel of any murder enquiry.

Despite the assertion of Dr. Simpson that the drum had not been welded by a skilled welder, Joshua Jaffery was the obvious suspect. He was the last person known to have seen Jamie alive, and he'd admitted that he'd been alone with Jamie in the Waste Disposal building and so would have had the opportunity. He had no elaborate alibi although he was a cool, clever man who would not have been likely to put himself in such a vulnerable position if he had committed the murder. Of course, but for the web of circumstances surrounding the installation and subsequent breakdown of the compacting machine the body would probably never have been discovered so it was reasonable to suppose that he had never expected to need an alibi. To try to create an alibi in such circumstances would probably have increased, rather than decreased, the risk of being caught.

Hours of repetitive questioning uncovered nothing new, Jaffery stuck to his story with all the unstressed stoicism of an honest man determined to help the police even if they were treating him unfairly. In the end, the Scene of Crime Team came up with nothing more than Murdo had by himself the day after Jamie's disappearance - and more important, they could find nothing in Jaffery's story or manner to lead them to suspect that he had anything to hide. He would remain a suspect, the loose end of him being the last person known to have seen Jamie alive would see to that, but there was no evidence to implicate him, no motive to entrap him, and not the slightest inconsistency in his story or manner to expose him. The Team looked towards the more fertile ground of painstaking police work within the tightly controlled community.

The Inspector in overall charge of the Team poured out his frustration to Murdo. "God damn it! It must be one of the people who clocked into this hells-kitchen of a place that day - nobody in their right mind would break into a place like this to murder somebody!" He hesitated and looked at Murdo with a jaundiced eye. "You know how the locals around here think, are they the sort of awkward buggers who would think it a fine joke to slip in and out of a place like this just for the devilment of it?"

Murdo laughed. "Are you meaning like poaching for the thrill of it and to put up two fingers at authority?" He shook his massive head. "Och no. Oh, they poach alright, but this is different. They'd get no sympathy from anybody, least of all the local Sheriff, if they broke in here and were caught. No, I've never even heard of anybody thinking of trying it - but I'll ask around."

"Are you saying it couldn't be done?"

"No...oo, I wouldn't be going so far as that. I'm chust saying that it's not the sort of place to have well worn paths through holes in the back fence."

"But it could be done?"

"Och, I'm sure it could. I dare say a team from the SAS could get in and out nae bother. But it wouldn't be easy for lesser mortals. The Waste unit is inside a fence within a fence, so an intruder would either have to get past two big fences, or bluff his way through two police checks. It would be a terrible chancy chob to try to scale the fences without being seen during the day, and I've already had the fences checked for holes. Getting in at night and lying low until daytime wouldn't be much easier. There are policemen with Alsatian dogs and revolvers on constant patrol all night. As for getting in by bluff, well, I doubt it myself. On that particular day there are no records of any visitors or outside maintenance men or contractors being inside the inner wire. Anyway, even after getting in he would still have to be able to move around in the buildings, and you need a magnetic security card to do that."

"Well, dammit man, how could they get in?" The Inspector was getting exasperated.

Murdo shrugged fatalistically. "Damned if I know, but you know as well as I do that no place can ever be truly secure. I suppose the easiest way to crack the system would be to have an accomplice on the inside." He smiled slightly. "If the intruder was a local man I wouldn't be in the least surprised to find that he had inside help, in a place like this he would probably have half a dozen relatives working inside."

"But how would inside help make it easier to get in?"

"Och well, he could be smuggled into the main site in a car. Only one in twenty or so gets stopped in the random checks at the main gate. That would get him inside the outer fence. You can't take private cars inside the inner wire, but if the helper was, say, a driver with the firm he could smuggle the intruder inside the inner fence in a firm's vehicle. The police know all the drivers by sight and hardly ever stop them. Once inside the wire, well, everybody looks alike when they're dressed up in the white overalls so it would be no big deal for the helper to use his own security card to get the intruder to the Waste area. Then afterwards they could leave by the reverse route." He chuckled wryly. "The devil of it is that with so many people related to each other around here an intruder might well be able to wander around freely and be taken for one of his legitimate kin!" He became serious again and screwed up his eyes in concentration. "It would take a gie contorted mind to break into a place like this to kill Jamie when he could have got him outside at any time. Of course, if you could be dead sure of getting in and out without being discovered it would be a damned good way to keep you off the suspected list -and a good way to hide a body. Risky though, if you got spotted going out you'd be done for." He rubbed his chin reflectively. "I wonder if there could have been an intruder in here to spy or steal something important, and he killed Jamie chust because he got in the way - it didn't even have to be an intruder, it could have been one of the workers here. Maybe there's no tie-up with the Murchison case at all. Och well, I'll ask Doctor Simpson about it later."

The Inspector rubbed his tired eyes and sighed. "Yes, I suppose you're right. It's damn near certain to be one of the legitimate staff but we can't rule out the possibility of it being someone we've never even heard about. Ah well, all we can do is keep looking and asking." He got tiredly to his feet and went back to the interrogation room. Murdo went through the laborious rigmarole of shedding his overalls and made his way back to Simpson's office.

"Back again, Sergeant. What is it this time?"

"It's like this, Sir, could Jamison have been killed because of something that happened here? I mean, could Jamison maybe have come across someone up to mischief, maybe an intruder, and been killed to silence him?"

The scientist looked at him coldly for a long moment. "I'm not entirely sure what you're suggesting, Sergeant, but I can assure you that it would be extremely difficult for an intruder to get in here."

"But not impossible, I'm thinking."

"Of course not! Nothing's impossible, but the probability is vanishingly small. You seem to be suggesting that there is something going on in these Labs that somebody would kill for. Is that right?"

Murdo's shrug was non-committal. "Och well, I'm supposing your security is for something."

The scientist glared at him. "These Labs contain sizeable quantities of fissile material. No, you couldn't make an atomic bomb with it, it's not pure enough for that, but if any should be stolen the Press would pillory us." His lips turned down disdainfully. "You've seen how the media coverage of a riot, violent picket lines, or whatever, always shows more Police brutality than mob brutality. Well, it's like that with bells on if they get onto anything to do with the nuclear industry. The tiniest incident, not involving anything nuclear and reported only because we don't want to hide anything, and what happens? The hyenas of the Press put out big headlines 'INCIDENT AT NUCLEAR PLANT' and only in the fine print do they mention that the whole thing was about somebody twisting his ankle getting off a ladder - that's if they mention it at all, more likely they fill the space with the handful of serious incidents from the forty odd years of the industry's existence." A flush had spread right up over his bald pate, leaving his billygoat beard wagging like the powder puff on the fanny of a surrealist rabbit.

"So there's nothing in here that another country, or maybe a commercial competitor, would be interested in?" Murdo's tone was conciliatory but his eyes were watchful.

"Well of course they'd be interested in it! Good God, man, we are world leaders in some aspects of fuel chemistry and fabrication technology, and that doesn't come cheap in this business. Anybody getting that sort of information without having to spend the millions on having to do the research themselves would save money and time - and even more important, they could put the money they'd saved into other research to try to leapfrog us."

"So there's enough at stake to be worth killing for." It was a statement, not a question.

"No, no, no! Look, we are no different from any other large, research-based organisation in a competitive market. There's nothing we do that would have the KGB swarming over the place, those days are long since gone in the nuclear industry. If you want to make an atomic bomb you can read it up in books, or you can simply hire somebody who knows how to do it. It's a high-tech industry so it will be expensive, but all you need is money - the sort of money that countries have. Nobody in their right mind would steal the bits to make a bomb from a place like this, if they want a bomb they'd either manufacture it themselves or steal it complete." He waved a hand whilst he struggled to find words that a layman would understand. "Look, we're really just an ordinary commercial firm, and the way to do industrial espionage is to subvert an existing employee or get one of your own people taken on as an employee. We're not talking about James Bond types, just ordinary people who are a bit greedy or a bit disillusioned."

"And do you have these sort of people?"

"How the hell would I know? All I can say is that I've been here twenty six years and I've never heard of it happening here. I suggest you go and ask the Security Officer."

"But you do have things here that would attract spies, of an industrial kind at least?" Murdo persisted.

"As any leading-edge organisation would, Sergeant, like any leading-edge organisation would. Now, if there's nothing else ... ."

"And the stakes might be high enough to make murder a proposition."

"How would I know? I'm a scientist, not an espionage expert! Look, for what it's worth, and I'm only making an intelligent guess, I have no practical data to base it on, I don't believe that there's anything here that any organisation would be willing to kill for - the resulting furore would be counter productive. However, anyone who would betray their country or employer is obviously ... unstable in some way. If such a person was caught in the act I suppose he or she might commit a murder that was as stupidly unnecessary as most murders seem to be. Now, I really must ask you to excuse me."

Murdo stood up and looked down at the man whose insensitive pedantry was becoming more distasteful by the minute. "Thank you for your time, Sir, you were most helpful." As he walked along the corridor the young constable fell in beside him and commented artlessly, "Were you and the good Doctor Simpson actually shouting at each other, Sergeant?"

"Humph, he was! Are they all as snooty as that around here?"

"No, most of them are as decent as you could wish. Not him though, he's a right bigoted bastard. Kids on he's upper crust but his dad was a bus driver in Manchester. Got where he has by the old kickin' an' lickin' routine. Kicking those below him and licking those above. A right know-all, by all accounts."

Murdo had the constable take him to the office of the Security Officer, who turned out to be a retired Chief Inspector McNair from Edinburgh. When Murdo put it to him that Jamie, and maybe Sammy too, had fallen foul of some sort of espionage activity, he considered carefully before answering. "Well, it's always possible of course." He tilted back his chair and stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. "I can't think of anything in the Waste Disposal plant, or anywhere else in that general area for that matter, that would be of any interest at all. No, Sergeant, I don't think young Jamison could have come across somebody up to mischief and been killed on the spot." He tilted his chair forward and looked at Murdo. "There are bits of the Plant that Jamison and Murchison would have had access to that are more sensitive. Maybe they did see something and were eliminated to keep them quiet." He swivelled his chair through ninety degrees and stared at the wall. "Hmm. How exactly did Murchison die?"

Murdo told him, stressing the lack of any known cause of death. The Security Officer raised a questioning eyebrow and smiled slightly. "Thinking of Bulgarians with poisoned umbrellas, eh Sergeant?"

"When secretive places like this are involved, yes." Flat and uncompromising.

"Quite right, too." He sighed. "One of our problems is that no matter how often we plead our innocence, and no matter how freely we show people around the Plant, all sorts of people still think we harbour dreadful secrets." He nibbled at a thumb nail. "I think you can discount the Russians and other first-world countries, they would be interested in our tidbits in the same way as we would be interested in their's, but none of us have any grand secrets in this business anymore. Developing countries like Iraq, Libya, places like that, might pay big money for design and test data to save them having to do the research and development themselves. These people want to build their own bomb in secret, and whilst it's one thing to hide away a manufacturing plant it's another thing altogether to hide away the sort of Research and Development place you'd need to do it all yourself. There's always just a handful of people with the sort of intellect and training needed for that kind of work, and the scientific community has got the sort of grapevine that notices if any of their number drop out of sight." He had swivelled the other way and was staring out the window now, still nibbling his thumb. "Then there's the terrorists, like the IRA, and other more well-meaning but still pretty fanatical organisations like Greenpeace. No." He corrected himself. "Greenpeace and the like might snoop around looking for something to embarrass us - might even at a push be capable of stealing something or doing something to illustrate some point about the dangers of nuclear energy - might even kill somebody in the heat of the moment I suppose, but they wouldn't cold bloodedly murder two young men. After all, their aim is to get publicity, not suppress it." He swung back to face Murdo. "As for the terrorist groups, well, who knows what they might get up to next."

"So you're saying that developing countries or terrorist groups might have infiltrated this place and have killed Jamison - and maybe Murchison as well."

McNair shrugged eloquently. "I'm sure you know as well as I do, Sergeant, that espionage is about stealing information and leaving no trace, so the only way we know they're there is when something happens to cause them to leave a trace. Maybe this is just such a thing."

"If you don't mind me saying so, Sir, you don't seem to be very worried about the prospect of espionage and murder going on here." McNair stopped his swivelling and stared hard at Murdo. "Don't get the wrong idea, Sergeant. In a place like this, the control of espionage is four pronged. First, we have fences and policemen to keep unauthorised people out of the area altogether. Second, once inside, the area is divided up into smaller areas by means of doors and turnstiles that can only be opened by individuals with the right magnetic cards and code numbers. Third, everybody knows the need for safety and security so everybody makes sure their neighbour isn't doing something stupid or illegal. And, fourth, everybody working here has gone through some form of security vetting." He saw Murdo's scepticism and his voice hardened. "You needn't look like that, either. Everyone employed here has had their background and character looked at to some extent - not very much I'll admit, but enough to make sure that they are at least who they say they are. But that's just the very least, in fact everybody working inside the Reprocessing Plant fence is also Positively Vetted. That means that a trained security man has gone to their home area and investigated them in depth there."

"Chust so, Sir, but all our really important traitors have been vetted like that. And we still haven't cleared up that business of the car from Ullapool that was stolen by a man with a Russian accent and ended up in the sea chust west of here."

"Agreed, no security vetting process can ever be perfect. But rest assured that we've already started rechecking everybody who has been in the Reprocessing area from a month before Murchison died until the present. And a general tightening up has been initiated - for example, the checking of passes as they are handed in has been improved."

Murdo nodded. "But the fact remains that despite your vetting, a spy from a developing country or a terrorist group could have penetrated the place. More likely, they could have subverted one of your ordinary workers. And if Murchison or Jamison had seen them ... ." He let it trail off. "I'm afraid I must ask you for a list of all employees and contractors who have been inside your Reprocessing Plant in the past six months, plus any information you have on gambling, drunkenness or any changed behaviour or circumstances. Can you get me that?"

The Security officer was tight lipped but he nodded with an outward show of compliance. "Yes, and since most of them are paid through the bank I'll include their bank account details. I assume you will be checking for changes in financial circumstances?"

"Thank you, Sir." Murdo got up. "If I could have it all sometime tomorrow I'd be obliged."

The intensive investigation in the Plant lasted for three days, and supplementary cross-checking of statements and further investigations in the town and surrounding area stretched on for weeks, but nothing more was found. The post-mortem showed that Jamie had been killed by a blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument. And the said blunt instrument was obligingly at hand in Jamie's own tool box. Workmates identified it as his own hammer. There were no fingerprints other than Jamie's on the hammer, the box or the drum. As far as Sammy Murchison's death was concerned, it was assumed that there must be some connection, but nobody had the faintest idea what. Whoever had murdered Jamie, and perhaps Sammy, had apparently got clean away

As time went on, the focus of the case moved further and further from the police and fell more and more firmly into the hands of the Security forces. Numerous petty fiddles were uncovered, three men were fired for misappropriation of materials, one for nicking platinum crucibles, one for stealing enough electrical fittings to renovate his house, and the third for hand-crafting a stainless steel exhaust system for his vintage car at the firm's expense. Seventeen others were subjected to internal disciplinary procedures for a variety of mildly criminal entrepreneurial activities. Five were discreetly moved to jobs that would no longer require them to enter sensitive areas - no hard charges were laid because no hard evidence was unearthed but little bits and pieces had pointed to their integrity being a shade iffy. Two men and one woman retired, and five men and a woman resigned to go to work further south. All were discreetly monitored but nothing was found.

The Inquest on Jamie's death came and went, returning a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. Police cases never truly die, so Murdo stayed on the case. Other work had to be done so he was able to devote less and less time to the Inkrock Murders as they had become known in the Press. In truth, there was little more that one man could do, any further progress would result from the routine piecing together of information that was the real mainstay of successful police and security work - or from sheer luck. Gradually the case joined the list of unsolved crimes.

The festive season was drawing near but somehow Murdo couldn't get the case out of his mind. He could accept unsolved major crimes in a city environment, but this was a double murder in a small community - and one of them had taken place inside a tightly controlled area to boot. The likelihood of spies and dark secrets being involved made it even more unlikely that a culprit would ever be found, but that only served to heighten the sense of frustration surrounding the mystery - and Murdoch hated mysteries. When at home he would potter around the house or his shed in the garden or go for long swinging walks in the hills behind the house. Mary went with him at first, loving the clear, crisp air of winter, but she soon divined that he was out there to be alone and she started to make excuses to stay at home. At first he made half-hearted attempts to persuade her to go with him, but soon the walks together that had been a constant feature of their quarter century of marriage fell away and became memories.

Then, on an unseasonably fine Sunday he was out in the garden doing a bit of tidying up. He crouched down on his hunkers, eased his hand through the mesh of the sheep fencing and took a handful of the couch grass that infested the narrow strip of ground between the fence and the remains of an old drystone wall. Bracing himself he heaved at the tough grass. The whole clump pulled cleanly off a flat stone lying just a few inches below the surface and, taken by surprise, he staggered backwards. He caught himself before going flat on his back but not before his watch had snagged in the mesh and the stitching of the leather strap had been torn apart at one end.

With a muffled curse he fished the watch from where it had fallen beyond the fence, glanced at the broken strap and then got slowly to his feet. For a long time he stood looking out over the heather covered hillside, his face as hard and expressionless as the granite tops of the mountains that cast their evening shadows over him. But the gleam in his eyes belied the lack of expression on his face. The watch was hidden in one massive hand and as he turned back towards the house he slipped it absentmindedly into his jacket pocket.

He said nothing to Mary when he settled himself in his armchair, and if she detected a lightening in his humour she knew better than to say anything. Years of experience had taught her that he would tell her in his own good time, and not a moment before. Later, as they were going to bed he said, "I'm not sure, Lass, but I'm thinking I might have a bit run down to Glasgow tomorrow. I'd like to have a wee chat with the Forensic boys."

"Alright, Dear. If I'm home first I'll ring the Station to see whether you're at Glasgow or just late."

Next morning he strode into the Station with more vigour in his step than had been seen for weeks. His 'good morning' was only a little more distant than it would have been in the middle of the summer. Even the set of his head as he strode decisively towards the records room with its rows of filing cabinets was one of alert anticipation.

He took a key from the key safe on the wall and unlocked one of the filing cabinets. Pulling out a drawer, he flicked briefly through the rack of folders, and then pulled one out. Not even taking time to go to the table, he slid the contents of the folder onto the top of the filing cabinet. A bundle of photographs fell out, and he brushed his hand over them like a gambler spreading a deck of cards. Selecting three, he took them over to the table, sat down and turned on the anglepoise lamp. After a few seconds of peering, he rummaged in the table drawer, found a magnifying glass, and fell to scrutinising the photographs with minute care.

The photographs were the forensic records of all the items found in the drum along with Jamie's body. There was the clothing, the tool-box with all its contents, sundry bits of dirt and fluff - and the thing that was holding Murdo's attention, a tiny piece of thin wire. Less than a quarter of an inch long and the thickness of a darning needle, it was slightly bent in the middle.

With a grunt of satisfaction he rose, restored the photographs to their folder, and returned them to the cabinet. Then he pulled out another file and took it to the table. It contained copies of all the statements taken at the Plant the day after Jamie disappeared. Leafing through, he found the one he was looking for and settled down to read it through. When he finished, his face was as hard and expressionless as ever but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his black Celtic eyes.

When he'd locked the cabinet and restored the key to the key safe, he hesitated, undecided whether to go to Inspector Charles or to beard West-Samual directly. Concluding that diplomacy was the order of the day, he knocked briefly on the Inspector's door and strode in.

Charlie looked up. "Hullo, Murdo. And what are you in to do me for today?"

"Och, I just wanted to see if it's okay for me to go on a wee trip to Glasgow."

"Glasgow, is it? And what would you be wanting to go to the big city for, Murdo?" His manner was affable but his eyes were sharp.

"I'd like to go and have a look at some of the stuff at Forensic. I've had a wee bit glimmer of an idea."

Charlie was persistent, but he had learned over the months that the Super was a hard man and wouldn't tolerate any browbeating of men on a case - especially men who had been with him in his days on the beat. He hummed and hawed and gnashed his teeth but finally, with ill-grace said, "Oh, alright! Only a couple of days, mind, and I want a full report when you come back."

Murdo telephoned Glasgow to make sure he'd be welcome at the Lab. Then he signed out, went to his car, threw his case on the passenger seat, and set off south. He was in no great hurry, it would be mid afternoon when he arrived and that would give him a couple of hours to follow up his lead. If that wasn't enough, he could work on into the evening or go back in the next morning. Either way, he should be back home sometime in the afternoon.

On arrival at the Forensic Laboratory, he went straight to the office of Doctor Sommers. Murdo remembered him as a crotchety old devil from his days in the Glasgow Force. Now he must be within an ace of retirement, and by all accounts had grown more crotchety with each passing year. The secretary looked in her desk diary to check on the appointment. "Ah yes, Sergeant, Doctor Sommers said that you were to go straight to the Lab when you arrived. Do you know the way or shall I call for a guide?"

"No need, I know my way around." He pushed through the swing door into the Lab and immediately recognised the Doctor. His scholarly stoop had matured into the humped back of old age, and his slight figure had become noticeably frail. But his eyes, when he looked up and saw Murdo, were as brilliant as ever. "Come in, man, come in. Murdoch, isn't it. Remember you when you were in the Force here." He gave a dry cackle. "Couldn't forget anything your size. Often remember you in fact -when I take my grandchildren to see the bears at the zoo."

It crossed Murdo's mind to suggest that he thought of the good Doctor whenever he saw a Bantam cock, but thought better of it. "Hullo, Sir. It's good of you to see me at such short notice."

"Humph, I'm always busy so it makes little difference whether I see you now or later. Now, what do you want?"

Murdo always found himself slightly intimidated by this little wisp of man. "Well, Sir, I wonder if I might be allowed to see some of the items found in the drum with the body of Jamie Jamison."

"Ah! Anything in particular take your fancy?" But Murdo, for all his diffidence, wasn't giving anything away. "Just all the bits and pieces found in his tool box and in his clothes. I thought there was chust a chance I might recognise something that would mean something to a country yokel like me but would pass clean by a city man."

The blue eyes took on a glacial glint and the voice was dangerously soft. "Ah! Are you saying that you've come all this way to teach we poor, ignorant Forensic Scientists how to do our job?"

"Och mercy no, Sir! Nothing like that, I promise you." Murdo smiled slightly, remembering how they used to deal with the domineering little scientist years ago. "It's chust that you always used to tell us young Constables that even you were continually learning. I may be wrong in what I think I saw in a photograph, and even if I'm right it's likely you've already spotted it. But I came here, chust in case. That's another thing you used to tell us, that if anything came to mind, no matter how small it seemed to be, we should check it out."

The little man cackled again. "Heh heh, I'm glad to see you learned so well, Sergeant. Alright, I haven't time to play guessing games with you so come on and I'll let you see the stuff." He led the way over to a large steel cupboard, took a key from the pocket of his white lab coat to open it, and lifted out a plastic bag containing all the items Murdo had asked for. Most of the weight was in the tool box, and the little man grunted at the effort of carrying the bag to a bench. "Right. Each item found in a different place is in its own labelled bag. If you have to take things out of their bags, handle them carefully and don't get them mixed up."

"Right. Thank you, Sir." Murdo waited until the scientist had turned away and had trotted back to where he had been working. Then he turned and opened the big bag and started to search through the individual bags. Eventually he found what he was looking for, a small bag containing just a tiny sliver of slightly bent wire. He took the little bag to a clear bit of bench and gently tipped its contents out. Then, not touching it, he put on his reading glasses and bent down to examine the wire closely. He was still peering intently when a dry voice said, "If you're going to examine that little bit of wire you'll need a microscope. Can you use one?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid, Sir."

"Humph. Come on, man, let me show you." Taking a small pair of plastic tweezers from his pocket the scientist picked up the piece of wire and carried it over to a large, elaborate microscope. Dropping it on the slide, he peered through the binocular-like viewer and deftly adjusted the lighting and focus. Then he stood back. "Try that. Twist this knob to get the right focus."

Murdo mutely obeyed, but it seemed to take an age before he could see clearly. All the time he was acutely aware of the little man fidgeting with curiosity at his side. Eventually he straightened up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, come on, man, out with it. What's so special about this bit of wire?"

"We...ll, Sir, I can't swear to it ..."

"Nobody's asking you to swear! Just tell me what you suspect, dammit."

"Well, Sir, I think it's possible that that bit of wire was used to hold on a watch strap." He took his watch from his pocket and pointed to the join between the watch and the strap. "The strap is held on by a little tube with a spring in the middle and a little bit of wire at each end. The spring pushes the wires out so that they stick into holes in the watch."

"Yes, yes! I know how a watch strap is held on! And let me tell you that the bits of wire, as you call them, are nothing like that. They're actually little pins with collars on them, and they are made of entirely different material." The little man said acidly.

"Chust so, Sir, chust so. But sometimes a pin flies out and gets lost. I think that this bit of wire might have been used as a makeshift replacement."

"A makeshift pin! Who in heaven's name would repair a thing like that? For God's sake, man, they cost only a few coppers each."

"Chust so, Sir." Said Murdo stolidly. "Nobody in a big town would be bothering to repair such a thing - but what you have to remember is that there are plenty of places in the North where it might be weeks before a man was near a shop where he could buy one. Up there people would bodge up a repair until next time they were in a sizable town. I've done it myself many times - usually I just snip a bit of wire like that off a nappy pin." He grinned. "The kids have been grown up a long time but we still seem to have nappy pins in the house."

"Humph. What makes you think this bit was used for that? I can tell you that the lad's watch was not broken." He went to the plastic bag and, after a brief rummage, pulled out a bag containing Jamie's watch. Taking a small penknife from his pocket, he deftly unclipped both ends of the strap and shook out the pins into his hand. Holding them up in front of Murdo's nose he cackled, "See! not only unrepaired but both obviously well worn and of a similar age."

"Chust so, Sir, but it wasn't Jamie's watch I was thinking about. You see, when Jamie first went missing I conducted some enquiries out at the Plant where he worked. I interviewed all his workmates and one of them said that he'd seen Jamie and another person looking at a watch during afternoon tea break on the day Jamie was last seen. If they were repairing that other person's watch, I thought you might be able to match the bit of wire with the watch. Like matching bullets to guns, maybe." Murdo's voice trailed off uncertainly.

"Ah!" The scientist stood for a long moment looking intently up into Murdo's face. "Ahah! Well, that's a very interesting idea so let's try it out." He put Jamie's watch back together and sealed it back in its bag. Then he trotted off to the far side of the Lab and pulled open a drawer. "Let's see, now. We need a bit of similar wire. Ah, this will do." Laying the small roll of wire on the bench he took off his own watch and unclipped one end of the strap. Then he extracted the pin from one end using a small pair of pliers. Turning to Murdo, he said. "Alright, let's see you fix this watch."

Murdo snipped a short piece from the wire and poked one end into the tube. Then he re-assembled the watch, explaining as he did so, "You should really square off the end of the wire with a file. Some watches have very shallow holes and the chisel end you get from just snipping the wire often makes it a bit easy to pull out." He handed the watch back to the scientist.

"Humph. So you think that your Jamison and his mate fixed his mate's watch like this, and then the mate murdered Jamison and put him in the drum, breaking his watch again in the process." He obviously didn't expect an answer so Murdo kept silent. "Well, let's see if we can break this one." He tugged at the strap but it held firm.

Murdo took it from him and applied a steady pull. The strap pulled away easily. "Humph. Well, let's look at it under the microscope." He took the slightly bent piece of wire over to the microscope and, after carefully returning the original piece to its plastic bag, examined it intently. "Ah hah! It does indeed look similar. The question is, can we match the wire to a particular watch?"

Murdo waited patiently whilst the scientist turned the wire every which way and examined it at length. Eventually he straightened up and handed his watch to Murdo. "Go and do exactly the same thing again." Murdo did, and brought him the second piece of bent wire.

This time the Doctor mounted both pieces in a stereo microscope usually used for matching bullets. Without raising his eyes from the eyepieces, he said. "Now go and do the same thing using your own watch. Murdo obediently did so, and duly returned with another two pieces of bent wire.

After examining them all for a long time, the old man straightened up. "Well, Sergeant, I think you've maybe got something. The two bits from each watch are very similar, and distinctly different from those from the other watch. I think we could match a bit of wire to a watch fairly convincingly." He grinned like a happy little gnome. "Yes, Sergeant, I think I maybe have learnt something from a country yokel."

Murdo grinned back. "So what do we do now, Sir?"

"I carry out a lot more tests, and you find me the suspect's watch. I need to find out whether all watches will produce their own unique fingerprint, or whether only different kinds of watches can be differentiated. It's maybe to be expected that I could tell the difference between my Rolex and your Timex, but could I tell the difference between two ostensibly identical watches?" His keen eyes looked hopefully at Murdo. "I don't suppose you know what kind of watch the person discussing watches with your Jamie wears himself, do you?"

"As a matter of fact I do, Sir. The witness's statement says that they were discussing an Omega Seamaster, of which the suspect is apparently quite proud. However, he also said that Omega don't make that precise model any more."

"An Omega, eh. Good, good! They're an excellent watch and we can expect them to have first-class quality control. If we can tell the difference between two new Omegas of the same type we can be reasonably confident that we'll be able to identify any particular watch of any kind." He rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Sergeant, there's a big jewellers just down the street. Go down there and buy two Omegas as nearly like the Seamaster as they've got." He gave Murdo a shove. "Off you go now, as quick as you can." He turned back to the microscope and resumed his scrutiny, then sensing that Murdo was still standing there he spoke without raising his head from the eyepiece. "Well, go on, man. Two Omega watches, surely you can manage that."

Murdo shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Humph, well, Sir, I'm thinking that watches like that are hundreds of pounds each and I don't have that kind of money on me."

"Tch! Is that all? Go to my secretary and tell her to go with you, she'll deal with the money."

"Right, okay." Feeling slightly miffed, Murdo stumped back to the office and tentatively put the requirement to the secretary. To his surprise she didn't demur for an instant, just stood up, picked up her handbag and lifted her jacket from the coat stand as she led him out the door. Despite her quick stepping gait, Murdo had to slow his long-striding countryman's walk to allow her to lead the way. Neither said a word until they were in the large jewellers store and an assistant had asked if he could help them. The secretary's voice was crisp and business-like. "We'd like to buy two Omega Seamaster watches, please."

"Seamasters? I'm sorry, madam, that particular model went out of production about three years ago. Can I show you some others?"

"Yes, two Omegas as nearly like Seamasters as you can."

"Certainly, madam." He led them across the plush carpet to a glass-topped counter that held nothing but Omega watches, and pulled out a tray. "These superseded the Seamaster." He proffered the secretary one. "A beautiful watch, they'll give you years of excellent service."

Murdo's large hand intercepted the assistant's and took the watch. He'd had only the merest glance of the one on Josh Jaffery's wrist but it certainly looked similar. It had the same fairly thin stainless steel case and the same understated, elegant dial. He ran his eye slowly over the entire display, seeing watches ranging from the ostentatious gold fashion pieces to the chunky, some would say clumsy, diving and sports chronographs. None looked closer to the one Jaffery wore than the one in his hand. He handed it to the secretary, "Yes, two of those."

She paid by charge card as if it was the most normal thing in the world to go out and casually buy a pair of the most sought-after watches available. Murdo reflected that he didn't move in the right circles.

On returning to the lab, he found Doctor Sommers still at his bench, periodically stooping over the microscope and then making rapid notes in a small note pad. He looked up as Murdo clumped towards him. "Well, did you get them?" Murdo opened his massive hand and proffered the two watches, still in their gift boxes.

"Well, man, go over there and do half a dozen bits of wire from each of the four pin places for each watch. Then jumble them all together and give them to me to see if I can separate them." He rubbed his bony hands together. "Go on, chop, chop!"

Murdo laboriously did as he was bid until he had a little pile of forty eight bits of wire on the bench beside him. Then he scooped them off the edge of the bench and onto his palm and carried them over to the elderly scientist. "Here you are, Sir, where do you want them?"

"Here," he took them in one hand, cupped the other over it and shook hard. Then, when he judged them to be well and truly mixed he seated himself at the microscope and set to work. Murdo pulled over a stool and settled down to wait, reflecting that waiting was the one thing that every policeman could do well. Working with ever increasing confidence and speed, the little scientist separated the pieces of wire into eight small piles. When he'd added the last one to its pile he turned to Murdo and beamed up at the big man. "No problem! You bring me the right watch and I'll convince any court in the land that it matches that bit of wire we found on Jamison's body." He chuckled. "Well done, man! That was good work, spotting that little bit of wire."

Murdo flushed with embarrassment, knowing that this little man didn't pay compliments lightly. He'd wish afterwards that he could have said something clever and flippant, but all he did was bob his head like demure young girl and murmur, "Thank you, Sir, I'm glad it helped." Then he cleared his throat and asked, "But where exactly was the wire found? I mean, could it be proven to have been dropped into the drum after the body was in, or could it have been stuck in Jamie's clothing before he was killed?"

"Ahah! Good question." The scientist slid off his stool and went to the locker from which he'd taken Jamie's clothes, and returned with a large envelope. From it he extracted a bundle of photographs, quickly riffled through them, and handed one to Murdo. It showed the squashed body in the drum, and marked on it was the position of all the detritus found on it. "See, it was found just here." He pointed to a fold just above Jamie's waist and about two inches to the left. "I checked the clothes myself and there is a distinct mark on the overalls in that position that matches that point, so we can be sure that it had lain there at least since the drum was put in the Low Active pit."

"But could it have been stuck on the clothes somewhere before Jamie was killed?" Murdo persisted.

The old scientist shrugged, his bonhomie changing to faint irritation. "I'd say it was dropped in after the body was put in the drum - but I couldn't swear that in court. The wire could have been stuck anywhere from his navel to his neck and been dislodged when he was put in the drum. As I say, I don't believe that, but I can't prove otherwise."

"I see. So we need more evidence. Och well, thank you for giving me so much of your time, Sir." Murdo stood up and was surprised when the little man walked him to the door and reached up to pat his shoulder as he left.

 

It was late when Murdo arrived home, weary from the excitement of the day as well as from the long hours of driving.

Next morning he went straight to West-Samual's office and caught him before his secretary was in to protect him. The Superintendent looked up as Murdo walked in unannounced. "Hullo, Murdo, I hear you had a jaunt to Glasgow yesterday. How did it go, did you learn anything new?"

"Och, I did that, Sir, I did that." Murdo quickly and concisely related the important events of the day.

The Superintendent gestured for Murdo to sit down, then leant back in his chair and spent a long time rubbing his rather long chin and staring at a picture of a ballet dancer on the wall above Murdo's head. His agile brain teased out the case and eventually the blue eyes lowered and stared into Murdo's black ones. "That was good work, Murdo. But how much further does it get us? It's good corroborative stuff but it isn't enough to make an arrest on, especially with Jaffery's skill as a welder seeming to either eliminate him or mean that there was more than one person involved."

"You mean that Jaffery might have helped to put the body in the drum but that somebody else did the welding, Sir?" He thought for a moment. "I suppose there would be advantages and disadvantages in getting an amateur to do the welding. If the body was discovered it would mean that there were far more possible suspects. On the other hand, it's likely that the roughness of the weld would draw attention to the drum in the first place."

"Well, it might not have been as complicated as that. Maybe Jaffery would have been missed if he'd hung around, so the accomplice had to do the welding." The Superintendent seemed to remember that he was talking on equal terms with a mere sergeant, and became suddenly business-like. "Well, I think that's as far as we can go just now. Inspector Charles will be back tomorrow so write up your report and ask my secretary to arrange for the pair of you to come to see me for about an hour sometime tomorrow."

The meeting the next afternoon came to the conclusion that there wasn't yet enough evidence to be sure of getting Jaffery, and West-Samual teetered between pulling him in to try to crack him and risking having any accomplices run, or moving softly and taking the chance that Jaffery would smell a rat and bolt for it. Eventually he came to a decision and explained in his incisive way. "If Murchison was murdered it was not only with intent but with coolness and skill. If the Jamison murder was linked to that - and I can't imagine that it wasn't - we have at least one dangerous man on our hands. The question is, what was the motive for the murders? I've tried to find out whether this spy business has any substance but the security mob have been typically bloody-minded so bugger them, we'll go ahead and treat it as a criminal investigation and if they want to stop us they'll have to come clean. Now, if we ignore the James Bond stuff, were the murders personally motivated, or was there some underlying criminal reason for them. I'm inclined to believe the latter. That being the case, I think we should do some more quiet digging." He looked at Murdo and smiled thinly. "Get up there and wander around doing your innocent country bumpkin act - and find something!"

Again Murdo took the now-familiar journey north, with high winds and driving rain to accompany him all the way. Christmas was drawing near and in the late-afternoon darkness the Inkrock shops had a cheerfully festive look about them. Murdo was beginning to look forward to Hogmanay and New Year’s day as if a new year might shake off the combined frustrations of the case and of having been passed over in favour of Charlie Charles.

He went first to the Police Station, mostly because it was as good a place to be as any other on such a foul day. They seemed pleased to see him and suggested he join them for a bash in a local hotel that evening. As far as he could judge, it wasn't for anything in particular. As one Constable put it, "Ach man, we're just feeling in need of it - and it'll be grand practice fur Hogmanay!"

The atmosphere at the party was warm and friendly with that special conviviality that normally dour country folk reserve for their gatherings and get-togethers. Even Murdo who, as the only one there without a partner, had started out without much of a feeling of festivity, started to loosen up and enjoy himself. Work, with all its trials and tribulations, drifted into the background and the drams made him look on everyone with a kindly eye.

It was his turn to buy and he took the big tray to the bar for another round. Things were busy and he found himself wedged between the wall and a pillar behind a small man. The man turned and looked up. "Well, well, if it isn't Murdoch the Mighty. How are you, Sergeant, getting in a wee bit practice for Hogmanay?" He was small and wizened, and his wrinkled face seemed to be permanently engrained with dirt, but his grin was friendly. "You won't remember me but you gave me the third degree out at the Plant after they found young Jamie Jamison's body in the drum."

"Och aye, I place you now. Geordie Gordon, isn't it? Aye, I'm practising, it's hard work but I'm thinking I'm making a wee bit progress. What about yourself, how's life treating you?"

"Never better, man, never better." The little man gave the impatient barmaid his order and turned back to Murdo. "Ach but it's been a queer year. Grand weather, plenty of work, the garden's doing grand; but then there's the youngsters getting killed. Ach, it's a terrible thing when the young ones get taken before they've had a chance to get used to life." He sighed, then asked, "I hear tell that you were on that case. Are they any nearer to finding out who did it, yet?"

Murdo's party spirit sagged a bit. "No, not so you'd notice, as far as I know."

"My God, you'd think it would be easy to find the bugger when you only have to look among a dozen welders. What the hell's the problem?"

"Ah well, I doubt it's not a welder we want." Murdo stopped, wondering for a moment whether the whisky had made him say too much. Knowing too that old Geordie was a welder at the Plant, had been in that line of work all his adult life and would know what he was talking about when it came to welding so what he had to say might be worth listening to.

The little man was crushed against him by the crowd and had to tilt his head right back to look up into Murdo's face "Not a welder? What the hell do you mean, not a welder?"

"Ah humm, I can't discuss a case but it's fairly well known that the welding of the drum was an amateur kind of job."

The little man heard the 'keep off' tone but was undeterred. "Balls! I saw that drum out at the plant. Who said it was an amateur job?"

"Ah well, I'm no' sure but I think it was maybe your Plant Manager, but of course Forensic would have looked into it as well."

"Plant Manager my arse! What the hell would any of the Managers know about welding? They're all University men and are at their limit sticking a sheet of paper to the wall with Blutack, never mind welding." Geordie's voice was rising and Murdo started to realise that he'd had a few, not enough to be drunk and hardly noticeable when he was being amiable but unmistakable now that he was becoming angry.

"Weesht, man, you'll be having everybody listening."

"So what? It's time the public knew just how incompetent the Polis are." But he lowered his voice for all that and looked around surreptitiously before saying in a hoarse whisper. "You don't believe me, I can see that. Look, you get a couple of drums from the Plant and bring them to my garage tomorrow evening and I'll prove it to you. If you can, bring photos of the drum welds. Okay?"

"Aye okay, Geordie. Now take it easy and go on and enjoy yourself." Murdo's voice was placatory and he clapped the little man's narrow shoulder with a massive hand. Nonetheless, he now realised that no one seemed to have questioned the statement made by the Plant Manager that the weld had been done by an amateur. He'd assumed that the Forensic experts had made their own assessment but there'd been no mention of it in any of the reports he'd seen. With a sigh he pushed it to the back of his mind and carried the laden tray back to the table.

Next morning Murdo telephoned the Duty Inspector at the Plant and explained that he wanted two drums and lids for the purpose of carrying out some forensic tests. Without being very specific he let it be understood that the tests were of a metallurgical nature. Whatever the outcome, there was no point in drawing attention to the welds. The Inspector hummed and hawed for a while trying to decide whether he should put the matter in the hands of the Security Officer. What decided him was that he happened to know that McNair's daughter was being married the next weekend and his wife had dragged him away to Inverness for a last minute shopping spree. It would be a nuisance trying to find someone else to pass the buck to, so he reasoned that giving the police two unused drums could hardly be seen as a security breach and promised to have them ready for collection by mid-afternoon.

Murdo drove to the Station and exchanged his car for a Police Landrover. Then he drove to the Plant and collected the drums from an otherwise deserted compound. He returned to Inkrock by the back road so that he could arrive at old Geordie's house without going through the town. Behind the house was a large shed big enough to hold three or four cars, where Geordie did a bit of moonlighting, welding up old cars and other odds and sods that people brought to him.

When the Landrover drew up the little man, clad in a dirty boiler suit and a filthy cap poked his head out of the side door of the garage, waved Murdo forward and started to push open the big sliding door so that the vehicle could enter. Immediately it was in the door was closed again. The greasy cap appeared at the Landrover's window. "No point in letting the world see what we're up to, is there?" He opened the driver's door and peered in the back. "Ah, I see you've got the drums. Have you got the photos as well?" Murdo nodded. "Right, let's get on with it."

They manhandled the two drums over to a low bench that would raise the drums to a comfortable working level, just as they had been out at the Plant. Geordie set the two lids on top and then gestured to a pair of welding units, one old and the other new. "Have you ever done any welding, man?"

"Och well, I've had a go once or twice but that's all."

Geordie grinned. "Just what we need, a genuine amateur. I'd better give you a wee lesson first. Come on over to the bench and try your hand." He led the way to a bench where two pieces of metal about the same thickness as the drums were held together by a pair of clamps. He pulled one of the welding sets nearer the bench and unwound the cable connecting the gun to the transformer. Murdo took the opportunity to swap his jacket for an old fisherman's smock he normally kept in his car boot in case of breakdowns.

Handing a welding mask to Murdo and donning one himself, the little man deftly ran a three inch weld. Then he handed the gun to Murdo and stood aside. "Right, let's see how you get on."

Murdo knew just enough to try to keep the weld flowing steadily and to try to avoid sticking the welding rod to the test piece. With a lot of sputtering and backtracking he eventually completed the remaining fifteen inches of weld. Geordie slapped him on the back and grinned at his dirt-streaked, sweating face. "Not bad, man! I'd say you were definitely a typical amateur welder." He looked critically at the weld. "I have to sort out a lot that come in looking like that." He dropped the piece back on the bench with a clang. "Okay, let's get you started on your drum. Weld the lid on and make as good a job as you can." He pulled the welder over and put a new rod in the gun before handing it to Murdo. "Let's have the photos?"

"In the Landrover."

"Okay, go to it." Geordie grinned encouragingly and then went to get the envelope of photographs. He took them to the bench, spread them out and studied them carefully. Then he went to the remaining drum and started making chalk marks on it, referring frequently to the photos as he did so. By the time he was satisfied, Murdo was half way round his drum.

The little man threw his cap on the bench and replaced it with the welding mask. Then he picked up the gun and with practised ease started to weld. He finished before Murdo had reached the three quarters mark and stood watching until he had finished.

When Murdo eventually straightened up, Geordie switched off the welding set and handed him a can of beer. "You look as if you need one of these. Get it down you and then we'll examine the evidence." He grinned at Murdo's sweat-streaked face as he bumped cans. "Bottoms up!"

They drained their cans and Geordie picked up the photos before leading the way to Murdo's drum. "Now then, lad, let's see what sort of job you've made." He walked slowly round the drum and then fanned the photos in his hands so that Murdo could see them. "Well, do your efforts look like young Jamie's drum to you?"

Murdo looked at it ruefully. "Och well, I'm thinking it's every bit as much of a botch up."

"Oh aye, a botch up alright. But look at it, does it look at all similar to you?"

"God, man, I don't know. One welding mess looks much like another to me. You tell me what you think."

"Well, I'd have thought an idiot could see it was nothing like the same," the little man said with some acerbity. "Just look at your work and compare it with this photo. Your's is a consistent mess, it wiggle and woggles around all over the place, its thickness varies, its width varies, and you've gone over some bits umpteen times. The work in the photos is nothing like that. There's bad, messed up bits but the stretches in between are straight and even and professional. Can't you see the difference, man?"

Murdo compared the drum and photos doubtfully. "Ye...s, I think I see what you mean, but couldn't it just have been that he rested his hand on something to do the good bits and made a mess each time he had to shift his position?"

"Ha ha! Would you like to try it or will you just take my word for it that no amateur could weld like that," he thrust a photo under Murdo's nose," and it would take a real virtuoso of a professional to make a bloody mess like you made. Welding's like riding a bike, a good rider couldn't fall off like a learner, you'd need a circus expert to do that."

"Okay, so mine's a mess, let's see your's." Geordie shuffled the photos into order and handed them to Murdo. "Start here on the drum and work your way round."

Murdo did as he was bid, and caught his breath. "Christ almighty, man! Anybody seeing this should arrest you immediately. That drum is identical to the one we found Jamie's body in."

The little man gave a dry chuckle. "Haud your horses, I've got an alibi, remember? Anyway, I could give these photos to any of a dozen welders I know and they'd do exactly the same. That's what I've been trying to get through to you, man, your murderer is a first class welder. But don't take my word for it, run as many tests as you like - but I'll bet you anything you like the outcome will always be the same, your murderer is a welder."

Murdo shook his head slowly. "But how on earth did this go on all this time? Your boss at the Plant made a statement saying that the welding was done by an amateur, and Forensic must have looked at it as well. Bloody hell, man, are you sure you couldn't be mistaken?"

"Not a chance. You daft buggers are just going to have to admit you cocked it up."

"Aye, you're right about that. Now, Geordie, I'll need a statement about this - and you're not to talk about it to anyone. Understand?"

"Of course I won't blether about it. What do you think I am, daft? Until you have the murderer behind bars I don't want anybody to know I said a dicky bird in case he has a go at me next."

 

Murdo drove back to the Police Station and transferred the awkward drums to his own car, one on the back seat and the other on the reclined front seat. Then he drove back to Inverness.

He was at the Station early the next morning and asked the desk sergeant, "Is the Superintendent in yet, Sam?"

"He is that. In fact, the bugger's always in, I sometimes wonder if he's got a home to go to." But he lowered his voice as he said it.

Murdo passed through the empty secretary's office and knocked on West-Samual's door. "Come." West-Samual looked up as Murdo entered. "Ah, I thought you were away up north."

"I was, Sir, but I've brought some new evidence down for Forensic to have a look at. Being so near Christmas I thought it would be a lot quicker if I brought it here myself."

The Superintendent leant back in his chair and supported his pencil horizontally in front of him between his two index fingers. "Alright, let's have it."

"Well, Sir, you know how we've been assuming that the murder drum was welded by an amateur. Well, I've just found evidence to disprove that." He quickly and succinctly outlined all that had happened since he'd met old Geordie in the pub, ending with, "So you see, Sir, I think this puts a completely different complexion on things."

"By Christ you're right about that." He waved towards a chair. "Sit down, man, this needs thinking about. Now, who first mentioned that the weld on the murder drum was an amateur job?"

"A Dr. Simpson, who is the Manager of the Waste Disposal part of the Plant. He told me just after Jamie's body had been discovered, before the Scene of Crime Team had arrived. He said the same thing again when they questioned him, it's in his statement."

"What about the Forensic report, did they corroborate Simpson's statement?"

"Well, not exactly, Sir. What they said was that the weld was a rough job. They didn't express any opinion on how skilled the welder would have been. I think that we, and the Crime Team, took that to be corroboration of Dr. Simpson's statement."

"Maybe we did, but it's Forensics' fault not our's, they're the experts." As ever, Westie was making sure his own yardarm was clear. "Right! Now, where does this get us? All the evidence seemed to point to Jaffery, but his being a welder seemed to let him off the hook. Now it all adds up so we can pull him in and charge him."

"Och well, Sir, it does that but I'm thinking we should maybe try to find out something about the motive first. If Jaffery murdered Jamison it was presumably to cover up something that Jamison had discovered." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Maybe Jaffery has been involved in something like espionage - something serious enough to murder for anyway - and Murchison somehow got an inkling of it. Jaffery finds out and somehow kills Murchison, then Jamison says something at work that tells Jaffery that he's beginning to put two and two together, so he gets the chop too."

"Well, that sounds plausible enough so what's your problem?"

"Well, Sir, my first problem is Murchison. He MUST have been murdered, it would be too big a coincidence for the two deaths to be unrelated. But according to the Security Officer at the Plant, none of the advanced nations would be involved in anything like this anymore - it chust isn't that secret anymore. But would a tinpot country or a terrorist group have an agent here conveniently equipped with the drugs or whateffer to be able to kill Murchison without leaving a trace? Then there's the business of what skulduggery is going on. The Security people at the Plant swear they'd know if any Uranium or the like was being nicked, and they say that none of the stuff that's on paper would be worth killing for."

"Huh, when you've known the Security services as long as I have you won't trust a bloody word they say. Lying bastards to a man." West-Samual butted in bitterly.

"What I mean, Sir, is that there are a lot of things that don't seem to make sense unless there's something big going on that we don't know about. Would it be possible for you to sound out the security services again in case we make a move and foul up something they're involved in?"

"I've tried. They deny all knowledge of it and suggest it's either somebody with a do-it-yourself spy kit, or it's ordinary crime."

"And would you be believing them, Sir?"

"Hah, that's the question, isn't it." The Superintendent gave a bark of laughter and was as quickly serious. "Yes, I think I do, if only because they'd have warned us off otherwise. The snag is that there are so many of these bloody cloak and dagger outfits that you can never be sure you've checked with the right ones. Anyway, we've tried, and if any crypt of spooks is involved they should have had the sense to know that we couldn't turn a blind eye to a couple of murders. So, we're going to treat it as a purely criminal matter and do it the police way. Now, this Jaffery character, if we pull him in can we break him? Or might we get him to turn Queens evidence if there seems to be more than him involved?"

Murdo shook his head decisively. "I don't think so, Sir. He's a hard, intelligent sod and he'll know bloody well that he won't get much off his sentence in the face of one, maybe two, murders. No, I think we'd just warn any others." He hesitated before continuing, "If there is somebody doing freelance spying I wouldn't be surprised if it was Jaffery. I chust wonder if he would have known how to kill Murchison like that. He's been abroad a lot - all over the place and mixing with other people from God knows where, so he might know about some rare poisons or something. I wouldn't even be surprised if some of the stuff they have out at that Plant would kill and be so unusual that nobody would ever think of testing for it."

The Superintendent rubbed his chin absentmindedly. "Well, if it is spying we need to try to find out who is involved and who is behind it. Trouble is, after this kafuffle any half competent spy ring will be long gone by now so pulling Jaffery in won't do any harm because there's nobody left to warn."

Murdo's shoulders hunched stubbornly. "Och, I wouldn't be knowing that, Sir. I'm thinking he might have others living in that area involved with him. Any Russians or whateffer they are will be gone but any locals probably won't. Jaffery is the sort to be doing the actual spying but I'm wondering if he would be the organising brains behind it all."

"Humph." West-Samual looked at him with a jaundiced eye. "Maybe, maybe. But pure speculation. I haven't seen any evidence to suggest that more than one person was involved. In fact, the only evidence we have is that Jamison was murdered and that the welding and watch point to Jaffery."

"Och, och, I know that, Sir, but I'm sure young Jamie was holding something from us and that he was killed to keep his mouth shut. The thing is, was he killed because he knew something about Sammy's murder, or about why Sammy was murdered? I suspect the latter because Sammy tried to contact his grandfather the night before he was killed, and by all accounts he always did that if he was bothered about something. He and Jamie were such close mates that it's likely that if one knew something the other did too."

"Dammit, you're still assuming that Murchison was murdered. I keep telling you, you've no evidence of that." The Super sounded a note of caution.

"Och, no direct evidence, Sir, but the odds against two pals dying like that must be astronomical." He leaned a massive forearm on the Superintendent's polished desk and tapped softly with the side of his fist. "It's the very fact that we don't know the links between the deaths that makes me think that something is going on that we don't know about - and that we should."

The Superintendent tapped his teeth thoughtfully with the pencil. "You're a thrawn bugger, Murdoch, but then you always were. Alright, I agree that it's more likely that the two deaths were somehow linked, and we'll take that line in our enquiries but I don't want anybody to lose sight of the possibility that they might not be." His eyes stared blankly at the wall and the pencil went plonk, plonk, plonk on his teeth. "What to do, what to do? Arrest Jaffery, confiscate his watch and, if we're lucky, stitch him up good and proper? Or do some investigating to try to find out what game he's playing?" His head was still back against his headrest and he looked down his nose at Murdo. "Just exactly what do we know about this Jaffery?"

"Not very much, Sir. His statement says that he's originally from the suburbs of Edinburgh and that he trained there as a welder. He worked there for three years after finishing his apprenticeship and then moved to a firm in Dundee. They were involved in the oil industry and in the five years he was with them he travelled widely, mostly in the Middle East but also to the Far East, the Gulf of Mexico and Panama. He came here on a short term contract at the Plant a couple of years ago. The oil work was running down at the time so he decided to stay. He lives on his own in a flat in Scarfmore and doesn't seem to have developed much in the way of personal ties in the area. He appears to be a bit of a loner and spends most of his weekends and holidays down south. According to his workmates he speaks of Edinburgh a lot so it seems likely that he goes back there -but we've no evidence of that yet. The only person he seems to see much of outside work is Nelson Roberts, the Laird of Murie's son." Murdo looked up from his notebook in time to see the after images created in West-Samual's eyes by the mention of a Laird.

"A Laird, eh. What do you know about him?"

"Ah well, he's not actually a Laird. He lives in the big house on the cliff top at Murie. It used to be the residence of the Laird of Murie, but that was a long time ago. The Murie Estate was broken up and sold shortly after the First World War - the Laird and both his sons were killed on the Somme. The family kept it as their country house until the late fifties, then it was sold to a businessman from London, and then in the sixties it was sold again and became a small hotel. But it wasn't really big enough to be viable and it's changed hands a few times since, as restaurants and bed-and-breakfast places mostly. Then, about eighteen months ago, the present owner, Christopher Roberts, bought it and has lived there with his wife and son ever since. He's a self-made man and by common opinion a terrible bigoted man so he's tried to revive the title of Laird. None of the well-off people in the area have any time for him and the title is only given to him in a derogatory sense."

"Oh, I see. And what does, or did, he do?" The Superintendent was again business-like now that it had been made apparent that he wasn't going to be moving against important personages.

"Och, I'm not knowing that, Sir. I think he was in business of some sort in Edinburgh. I don't know what it was but he's still a comparatively young man, somewhere in his late fifties I'd say. I don't think he's fully retired, I've heard that he and his son - who's in his late twenties - spend a lot of time away on business and go to Edinburgh a lot. His wife is as funny as a nine bob note and rarely leaves the house, and never alone."

"So he's from Edinburgh. Jaffery is from Edinburgh. They move here at roughly the same time and both seem to go back to Edinburgh a lot. I think we'd better investigate their background before we pull in Jaffery."

"Right, Sir. I'll get onto the Edinburgh Force and get them to send anything they've got."

Plonk, plonk, plonk went the pencil again. "Got any contacts in Edinburgh, have you?"

"Och well, I know one or two from 'way back but no old boy's network or anything like that."

"Pity. Oh well, I'll put in a word for you with their Super. Go there first thing on Monday and stay as long as it takes to get all the information you can find on Jaffery and Roberts. They'll do any investigating of course, so don't you be poking your nose in there, but I've a feeling that a chat to just get the flavour of their suspicions might be as useful as their official report." He kept his eyes on the pencil as he twirled it like a Drum Major between his fingers. "Yes, do that."

 

On Monday morning Murdo caught the early train to Edinburgh. He was no railway enthusiast but he didn't fancy being stranded away from home over Christmas. The train arrived at Waverly station just after twelve noon and he took a taxi straight to Police Headquarters, timing it just right so that he could report in and then be taken to lunch to break the ice. He was expected and was taken efficiently in hand by a cheerful young plainclothes sergeant by the name of Henry MacLintock.

They shook hands and weighed each other up in the privacy of the sergeant's office. "Have a good journey?"

"Och well, as good as could be expected but I'm not a man that's liking the trains."

"Me neither, bloody awful things." Then getting down to business. "I hear you're after information on Christopher and Nelson Roberts and some character called Joshua Jaffery."

"Chust so. I'm thinking you don't know Jaffery, but what about Roberts, father and son? Are they known?"

"I'll say they are! At least, the father is." He started towards the door. "Come on, we'll go to the canteen for a bite to eat and I'll fill you in. We can go through the files later but I know enough about him to give you the flavour."

Nothing more was said about the subject until they were seated at an isolated table and had started eating. Then Sergeant MacLintock began. "Christopher Roberts. Right. He is a native of Edinburgh. The only son of, as far as we know, an honest man. His parents are long since dead but his father was a school janitor and his mother a cleaner at the same school. As I say, decent folks and, by all accounts of the older folk who knew them, friendly, helpful, always ready to help anyone worse off than themselves."

"Your man was the youngest of two children, both boys. He was a good bit younger than his brother Mathew, more than ten years, and seems to have looked up to him. Mathew was called up during the War and served in the Army. He seems to have liked it and been good at it because he finished the War as a Sergeant and elected to stay on. When young Christopher turned sixteen he joined the same regiment and his army record shows him to have been an excellent soldier, not just a gung ho type but a thinker and planner as well."

Murdo chewed steadily and waited patiently whilst his companion carried out some complicated surgery on his tough steak and forked a lump into his mouth. "By Christ, this steak would stop bullets! Anyway, the young Christopher Roberts was a lad to be proud of, so much so that he was selected for a commission and was just waiting for the paperwork to come through when it all went wrong. You see, brother Mathew was killed whilst on a training exercise. That sort of thing happens, of course, and at first Christopher was sort of an ordinary bereaved man. He was devastated by the death of his brother but he was a soldier and knew very well that realistic training has to accept the accidents of war, if not the actual deliberate killing. Then word started to leak out amongst the lower ranks that it hadn't been just an ordinary accident. A cover-up was tried but the rumours were too strong and an inquiry was called."

Both men had pushed their plates aside and the young sergeant's blue eyes held Murdo's black ones as he continued. "The inquiry was another cover-up so the official reports don't say much of any use, but all the contemporary rumour was that the Platoon Captain - they were still usually the sons of the ruling classes in those days -chickened out during a night cliff climb. Mathew had seen the problem and had at first had no reason to suppose that the officer hadn't run into some genuine trouble. So he carried out some very tricky climbing and got to his officer - only to find him a gibbering wreck. This wasn't a case of a good man freezing, the Captain should just never have been in that sort of job. Anyway, after what was by all accounts a feat of extreme heroism, Mathew got the officer off the dangerous stretch and onto easy scree. At that point, according to a Private with exceptional night sight, the officer pulled himself together and knocked the exhausted Mathew off the face."

"Did the Authorities know what had happened?"

"Not at first, the Captain claimed he'd had an attack of stomach cramps and was full of praise for his rescuer. Of course, in those days the officers didn't listen to the men very much and even the young Lieutenant didn't realise what had happened. Nonetheless, one of the Corporals shouldered the responsibility and took the matter to his officer. The Lieutenant, to his credit, followed the book exactly and passed it to higher authority." Harry shrugged with cynical resignation. "But, as I said, the Army covered up most efficiently and the only result was that the young Lieutenant found himself serving in Palestine before he knew what was happening."

Murdo nodded. "Och yes, I can well believe it."

"Yes, rough days. Anyway, whilst young Christopher had taken his brother's death as well as could be expected, he couldn't take the cover-up. He is reported to have told some friends that he wasn't going to become an officer if that was the sort of shower of bastards he'd be joining. So all his work towards a commission was thrown away and even his non-commissioned career came to a halt and he became a sort of persona non grata in the Army. He finished off his engagement without any big trouble but his records show him to have become an awkward customer and a bit of a sea lawyer."

"Can't say I blame him for that, but was it just that he was a weak character or was there more to it than that?"

"Not weak, certainly not that. Young for his years, naive, idealistic, that sort of thing, but not weak." The young sergeant shrugged again. "Anyway, I tell you all that just as a bit of background colour. It's what has happened since he left the Army that concerns us."

"So, what did happen?"

The younger man grinned. "Let's get the pud and the coffee and I'll tell you." He got up and led the way back to the counter. When they'd returned to their table and settled down he continued. "When he was demobbed he gave full reign to the chip on his shoulder. He moved from job to job with monotonous regularity, not fitted to get a job with the workers and too much of the militant Shop Steward to last long among the management of the day. Eventually he set up on his own in the shady wheeling-dealing world where he first came to our attention. Not that he was caught, mind - in fact he was something of a Robin Hood, still trying to support the ordinary man against authority. Later though, the idealism died the death and he moved into straightforward crime."

The pudding plates were pushed aside and they were nursing their coffee cups. "He was always a clever man, not just a smart alec but a genuine thinker and planner. He was involved in a number of genuine businesses, and they were well run with impeccable book keeping and things like that. He understood the working mind and was regarded as a good boss, and the firms prospered. In fact, they prospered considerably better than other similar firms and we knew bloody well that illegal money was being laundered through the legitimate firms. However, knowing was one thing, proving another." Again his characteristic shrug.

"But he's sort of retired now, isn't he?"

"Ah yes. Well, a lot of things have happened over the years. He married the daughter of another well-off man who we kept an eye on, and they had one son. Gradually he made the step from just being involved with businesses to being a genuine businessman, with all that involves. You know how it goes, no specific profession you could put your finger on, just business interests all over the place. Lots of money floating about but everything too diffuse to get a firm handle on." Harry paused thoughtfully for a moment. "The only business he has that we think is really and truly his own is a large scrap yard. It's bloody strange that, not at all the sort of business you'd associate with Christopher Roberts - too low-brow and ... rough. Of course, being the man he is, he went into the business just when it was starting to change from being a melt-it-down scrappie's junk yard to being a high-class pre-owned spares business. And a very successful business it is, with not a breath of crooked dealing about it."

"So?"

"Aye, so? There is no doubt that our friend has many legitimate business interests, and there is no doubt in the minds of anyone in this Force that he has many illegitimate ones as well. But the scrap business is the odd one out. It's not like any of his other interests, and it's obviously successful. Yet he hasn't made any move to open similar places in other cities. Very odd, that, it's just not like him to let a good business opportunity slip past. I'm not alone in thinking that there's something very significant about that business, but I'm damned if I can prove it."

"What about his move up North?"

"Ah yes. He does tend to stay aloof from his businesses, picks good men to run them and lets them get on with it, so it's not so very odd that he should move away from the city. He also seems to like the countryside - and fancies being a real nob well away from where there's any lingering taint of villainy about his name." He rubbed his chin pensively. "His wife is a different story. She's a real city type and I wouldn't have expected her to like being out in the sticks all the time - especially in the back of beyond up north!"

Murdo grinned. "Och well, she's certainly regarded as a bit of a weirdo by the folk up there. Nobody ever seems to have seen her out alone, only with her husband, or occasionally with her son. We'd wondered whether she was agoraphobic - or scared."

"I've never heard of her being agoraphobic."

"Scared, then?"

"Now that would be interesting, wouldn't it! Have you any evidence to back it up?"

Murdo shook his head. "No, just a suggestion." He grinned. "We're usually prepared to believe that city dwellers are a queer lot so we haven't done any looking."

Harry suddenly stood up. "Come on, the canteen is fine for talking common history but now we're getting into new stuff we'd be better elsewhere."

Murdo raised his eyebrows and looked quickly around at the crowded tables but made no comment as he followed the young man out. They walked quickly back to McLintock's office and then Murdo stood patiently at the window looking at the wintry scene under a leaden sky whilst his host bustled about getting water and replenishing the filter coffee machine.

Eventually Harry sat down and cleared his throat. "I wouldn't like you to make too much of this, but I think our friend has such wide interests that he might have a few informers in the Force." He hurried on as if excusing a blasphemy. "Nothing big, just the odd chat about things that seem unimportant. But you know how intelligence gathering works, just little snippets from here and there to build up a bigger picture." He spread his hands, palms forwards, in a gesture of helplessness.

Murdo nodded but said nothing.

"Roberts did a stint in Intelligence when he was in the Army, and seems to have been good at it. I'd be surprised if he doesn't practice what he learned." The young sergeant seemed to be anxious to avoid any suggestion that some of his companions might be bent.

Again Murdo nodded and observed quietly. "We're lucky that so few criminals take the long view." Then, after a pause. "So what do you suspect?"

The young man sprang to his feet and moved quickly to stand beside Murdo at the window. He stared stonily ahead and then sighed heavily. "There's not a shred of evidence to support it, but we think he might be in drugs." There it was out in the open, and he relaxed a little. "As I say, no evidence - but there's a lot of drugs swilling about in this area and we can't pin it on anyone. Oh, there's lots of small timers that we know about and keep mopping up, but the vast majority of the traffic is anonymous. And it's not just in Edinburgh either, a lot of the filth spreading throughout Scotland is emanating from this area." He clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration.

"So what makes you suspect Roberts?"

The brief lift of the shoulders was a tired shadow of the usual eloquent shrug. "You know how it is, nothing in particular, just a feeling. Roberts has such a web of interests and contacts that you're bound to trip over them no matter where you look. Yet, these are just the things you need to control something like this - and there's no doubt he's one of the very few known villains in the area with the brains and the patience to set it all up."

There was a long silence, then Murdo asked pensively, "I haven't met the man myself, have you?"

"Oh yes. Yes, I've met him." The younger man's eyes didn't leave the dismal scene outside.

"Well, what's he like?"

"Oh I don't know, a complicated man. A lot to like about him, somebody you can't help feeling was a loss when he went bent, but hard too. Likes his own way, and for all his support of the common man in the past he never leaves any doubt that he's the boss." He maintained a moody silence for a long time before continuing. "A strange character, I've met him seven times in all and he's never been anything less than charming. Yet, more than any man I've ever met, I get the feeling that if you crossed him he'd be prepared to take any amount of time out to get you - not so much for ordinary revenge, more just to set the status quo aright."

"And his son?"

"Hah! A lightweight! Nothing like the intelligence and finesse of his father." He swung round to look at Murdo. "I don't know how far into the crooked business the lad is but I have a feeling that he might be the chink in Roberts' armour. He dotes on the son - the mother does as well - and I suspect that if we could get a grip on young Nelson he would crack and not only implicate his old man, but his father would probably go under himself if he thought it would save his son." He turned his eyes forward and sighed. "Honour among thieves, blood's thicker than water, all that sort of thing."

"What about Joshua Jaffery?"

"Nothing much. He's not known to us officially or unofficially, in fact we'd never heard of him until we got the word from your boss. We did some checking of course, but all we got is that the story of his life seems to be just as he told it - as far as we know."

Silence drew out for a long time, then Murdo suddenly asked "This drug business, how sure are you about it?"

"Personally? Positive! Everything points to it - but smarter men than me have tried to trap Roberts."

"And officially?"

He shook his head. "Just the merest suggestion that he could be in it. Nothing more."

"Is it purely circumstantial, or have you got anything else? Personally, I mean." Murdo persisted.

"Mostly circumstantial. A lot of whispers from grasses. One or two promising leads that have terminated abruptly with people vanishing or turning up dead - all accidents of course, cars, drug overdoses, things like that."

"I see. So we need to do some thinking about whether we have a loose end at Inkrock that we can unravel." He paused, and then continued in an even, expressionless tone. "We're at a bit of a loss about the motive for the two deaths but, since one of them was killed inside the Atomic Plant and the other worked there too, we'd been thinking maybe espionage was involved. It needs a lot to make it worth murdering two young men, but espionage or drugs would be enough."

"Espionage? I thought that place was a power station, not an atomic bomb factory."

"Aye, so it is, but there's more to thae sort of places than the likes of us will ever understand" Then he added moodily, "And I suspect that a lot of the buggers working there would be smart enough to know how to kill a young man and not leave a mark."

"So what do you think? Espionage or drugs?"

Murdo shrugged and then answered gruffly, "It's difficult to make much money out of espionage, and in this cynical world I'm a great believer in the power of personal greed so I think we should look a bit closer into this drugs business. Mind you, I had a case chust a few weeks ago where a man thought to be a Russian battered a man near to death and stole an old car near Ullapool. The car turned up in the sea twenty miles west of the Plant. Och man, there's far too many coincidences in this case for my liking."

Sergeant McLintock straightened his back. "Yes, but believe me, confusion always seems to attend the nefarious activities of Christopher Roberts." Then his moroseness seemed to evaporate and he flashed a grin that Murdo was surprised to find had a predatory glint. "Never mind, if there are funny goings on in the vicinity of Roberets I for one am willing to believe he has a hand in them somewhere. If it's spying, well, maybe we'll have more luck there than we've had in trying to pin drug trafficking on him."

The grey afternoon slipped by unnoticed as the two men pondered the myriad scenarios that might, just might, tie together the deaths of two young men in the far North with the successful businessman in the Capital city - with the shady worlds of espionage and drugs looming indistinctly in the background like grotesque shapes in a foul fog. For all the possibilities, a single question loomed large ... should they strike now with Jaffery, or should they observe a little longer. McLintock was clearly in an agony of indecision. "If you pull Jaffery in now and he doesn't break - and you tell me he's a tough cookie - we'll get no further. Given just a little bit of time, Roberts will cut every thread and we'll be back where we've been for years. On the other hand, if you don't pull him in I guarantee that Roberts will suss out your interest before long and your witness will disappear. It's not for me to tell you what to do, but don't wait too long or you'll find that Roberts is 'way ahead of you."

They talked until nearly six o'clock, then Harry drove Murdo to the station to catch a train north. They had time for a few friendly drams in a pub near the station to fortify Murdo for the long, cold journey. As he sat in the crowded carriage, he turned the events of the day over in his mind. Young Harry had seemed like a nice enough lad, but more emotional about the job than was usual. He smiled slightly to himself, just like he'd been emotionally involved with young Sammy's death. Then the smile faded. No, not like that. It was one thing to take it a bit personally when a young lad died, and quite another when you were trying to pull in an impersonal crook. Perhaps young Harry had a reason to hate Roberts, maybe he'd had some personal experience of someone affected by drugs, maybe he just didn't like to lose - maybe it was a bit of overacting. Whatever ... he made a mental note to bear it in mind.

 

Next morning Murdo went straight to West-Samual's office to report his findings. The Superintendent was busy to the point of looking harassed when his secretary announced Murdo, and he hesitated, clearly undecided whether to see Murdo or tell him to arrange a later appointment. Then he sighed and pushed the pile of papers aside. "Okay, make it quick, what did you find?"

Murdo reported with professional brevity, finishing, "So it could be drugs, Sir. If Sergeant McLintock is right, it's going to be a bit chancy whether we settle for Jaffery or go for bigger fish."

West-Samual propped his cheekbone on the ball of an outstretched thumb and massaged his forehead with the fingers. "Okay, I see your point. I must get this report completed before I try to get some time to think about Jaffery so tell me what you think."

"I'd like to go over the evidence again to look for a link between Jaffery and either of the Roberts. If there is one, we could risk a few days to follow it up. Otherwise, well, we either pull in Jaffery or watch him. If we watch him and Roberts tries to spirit him away or to dispose of him we might get a hook into Roberts - and if Jaffery gets the message that Roberts is trying to dispose of him he might squeal. Of course, if we lose Jaffery we also lose the chance of cracking him and getting at Roberts that way -although from what I've seen of Jaffery I doubt he'd crack in the normal way of questioning." Murdo paused and took a deep breath. "I'd like to leave the decision until I've had another look at the evidence, but right now I favour keeping an eye on him to try to pull in the bigger fish."

The Superintendent continued to massage his brow, his eyes staring sightlessly at his desktop. "Ye...es. Yes." He lifted his head to look at Murdo and his voice sharpened. "Yes, I agree with you. Review all the evidence we've got here, then if you don't find anything go back to Inkrock and see what you can dig up." With that he returned to his paperwork and didn't appear to notice Murdo's departure.

Murdo ploughed through the masses of evidence, looking for links between Jaffery and the Roberts men. He found nothing new, but in leafing through his notebook he found the statement that young Morag Murchison had made on the evening he had met her on the road to her Grandad's. She had said that Sammy had met and spoken with two other men on the way back. His enquiries had drawn a blank last time but now it seemed as if it might be an area worth pursuing again.

The land where the men had been shooting - if that was what they were doing - belonged to Roberts. He had a reputation for being thoroughly unpleasant to anyone found on his land, innocent hikers, never mind shooters, so there might be two explanations for the men not coming forward. They might have had no right to be there and were frightened to talk to the police in case the word got to Roberts himself, or they might have been friends of Roberts. He mentally cursed himself for not having followed up that line at the time, the trail would be thoroughly cold by now.

He had questioned all the inhabitants of the area around Sammy's Grandfather's house, including all the children he could find. Now it dawned on him that he had missed a trick. At the time of Sammy's death there had been a lot of holidaymakers staying in the area, and some of them might have moved on before he started making enquiries. It would be a long, tedious business now but it was a chance he couldn't pass up. He'd leave for Inkrock in the morning. I

t was late when he got home, and by the time he'd eaten, all he wanted to do was snooze in an armchair by the fire. Mary, however, was having none of it. She'd let him eat in peace but now she poured them both a dram and handed him his glass. "Here, have this and stay awake, there's something I want to tell you."

"For a wee dram of Laphroig I'd be listening to the Sirens themselves."

"Och, Isn't that the truth! Now, listen. This morning I was on my rounds out West and I had to visit old Mrs Aikenhead - you maybe wouldn't be knowing her but she lived on her own just beyond Dryburn. Anyway, when I arrived at about ten o'clock I found the door open but no sign of anybody about, so I went in and found the poor old craitur lying dead on the floor. Well, I called the local doctor, old Dr Birnie, and waited until he arrived. It seems that what had happened was that she'd had one of her dizzy turns when she was filling the kettle. The cold water pipe runs down the wall there and she'd grabbed it as she fell but she still went down hard enough to bash the kettle on the floor and break the handle so that her hand went onto the metal. The bump caused the kettle to short out and it wasn't properly earthed so she was electrocuted between the kettle and the pipe."

Murdo made sympathetic noises.

"The point is, Dear, that there wasn't a mark on her. Dr Birnie said that it isn't all that rare for it to happen that way. Most electrocutions leave burns on the skin but he says that if the contact area is big enough there are absolutely no marks left. Even the best post-mortem will find nothing!" She paused dramatically.

"Ah, and you're telling me that Sammy Murchison might have been killed by electrocution?"

"Well, it's possible, isn't it? It would explain why a healthy young man should suddenly die."

Murdo shook his head gently. "Maybe it would, but where would the electricity have been coming from, them being out in the back car park at the Plough at the time - and he hadn't been moved, the reports from the Scene of Crime team and the post-mortem are sure of that?"

"Couldn't somebody have had a long lead like the one you use in the garden? They could have seen the fight and used the lead to get electricity from the Plough."

"Och, I doubt it, Lass. The only thing on that side of the Plough is the door and three small, upstairs windows. The lobby just inside the door was occupied the whole time, nobody could have come in and plugged in a wander lead."

The excitement died from her eyes. "No, I suppose not," she said disconsolately, "I chust thought it would have explained him dying without any apparent cause. And those scratches under his armpits would be chust the place where a layman would be likely to put the wires, at either side of the heart."

Murdo's eyes took on a thoughtful, hooded look "Well, well, these scratches have never been properly explained - but the autopsy report did say there were traces of copper sulphate on them, and that could have come from electrical wires, they're copper - and electric fencing wires are not." He smiled at his wife. "Och, Lass, you chust might have the right of it. God alone knows where a murderer would be getting a high enough voltage in the back car park, but it needs looking into."

His wife smiled in return. "In the morning, Dear. Come on, you'll be leaving early in the morning so let's be having an early night."

 

He arrived at Inkrock just before noon and went straight to the police station and wheedled the services of WPC Murray out of the Duty Inspector. His first instructions to her were, "Contact all the Hotels, Guest Houses and Bed and Breakfast places within a ten mile radius and get a list of names and addresses of everybody staying with them the week of Sammy's death. Then follow them all up to see if anyone saw two men or a car in the vicinity of Sammy's Grandfather's place the evening before Sammy died. I don't suppose any of them will remember back that far but you never know."

Then he set himself the task of tracing all the cars parked in the Plough car park at about the time Sammy died, and their exact positions. One or two were mentioned in the reports but the rest required laborious questioning of people who were there on the night. Fortunately the statements named the owner of the car Sammy had fallen against and he turned out to be a local youth with a keen interest in cars so Murdo was quickly able to identify all the cars parked in the small back car park at the time. He didn't say why he wanted to know about the cars, but just let it be understood that the police we're having another sweep over the crime to make sure there were no people unaccounted for that night and were using the cars as a means to this end.

It was early evening before he was satisfied, and by that time he'd identified nine cars near where the body was found - and one of them was a Range Rover belonging to Nelson Roberts. He'd also found by casual questioning that Josh Jaffery's Saab had been parked round the front of the pub, well away from the body and in a brightly lit area near the road. He took a pile of reports back to the hotel with him and spent the evening leafing through them. Eventually he found what he was looking for, and smiled quietly before going to bed.

Next morning Carol was surprised when he asked her, "Do you happen to have anybody on the Force who's knowledgeable about electricity and things like that?"

"Well yes, Andy Anderson is keen on that sort of thing, he's the resident lighting expert at the local Amateur Dramatics Society. Why do you ask?"

He ignored the question. "Is he in today?"

"Yes, he's just gone to keep an eye on the kids going into school and should be back about quarter past nine."

"Right. Just time for a cuppa, then. Ask him to come through to see me when he comes in, will you?"

"Sure, but he won't be able to stay very long, he's due in court about eleven."

"Och, I won't be keeping him long."

Murdo was just draining his cup when a middle aged constable poked his head round the door. "You wanted me, Sarge?"

"If you're Andy Anderson, I do that. Come in, shut the door and have a seat. I need some information about electricity and I'm told that such arcane things are an open book to you."

"Sarge?"

"I mean you know about electricity and the like."

"Well, that depends on what you want to know. I'm not an expert, just sort of interested in my spare time, like." Volunteering was usually not wise.

"You look after the lights and sounds at the Amateur Dramatics, don't you?"

"Yes."

"So you'll know something about Compact Disc players and the like."

"A bit. Not Much." The constable was wary.

"Okay, if you wanted to fit an ordinary household CD player into a car what would you have to do about the electrical supply? Would it run off the car battery?"

"Well, if you wanted to use the complete unit you'd have to supply it with 240 volts AC, so you'd need some kind of inverter. I dunno what the voltages inside a CD are like, maybe they are all low voltage DC and you could bypass the mains transformer and supply it more or less straight from the car battery."

"Assume you wanted to use the whole thing, what does this inverter thing do and what does it consist of?"

The constable shrugged. "An inverter changes Direct Current, DC, electricity from, say, a battery into Alternating Current, AC, like you get from the mains. In the old days it was done by having a combined electric motor and generator. You drove the motor from the DC, the motor turned the generator and the generator produced the AC at whatever voltage it was designed for. Of course, nowadays you'd use a static inverter which uses silicon chips to chop the DC up into a square wave, then you feed that to an ordinary transformer to increase or decrease the voltage to whatever you want. They range from the very simple, used to drive mains lights in caravans and boats, to very sophisticated ones to provide emergency power for computers and things like that."

"Uh uh. So what would you have, what, chust a small box that you could plug into the cigar lighter at one end and the CD player at the other?"

Anderson nodded. "I guess so but I’ve never used one myself"

"And are they easy to get hold off?"

"Sure, you can buy inverters to convert the 12 volt DC from a car to 240 volt mains in any good electrical suppliers - or you can get them mail order through loads of magazines and the like."

Murdo's craggy face was expressionless as he asked the final question. "And would the output from this thing be enough to electrocute someone?"

"Oh sure, all but the very smallest ones would do that easily. You only need, oh, a tenth of an amp or thereabouts to kill someone if it goes through the heart, and you'd need a lot more than that to drive a domestic CD player."

Murdo sat with hooded eyes for so long that the constable was beginning to shift uncomfortably, then he nodded. "Thanks, Andy. Not a word about this, mind."

He sat for a long time turning the possibilities over in his mind. The mechanic out at the Plant had said that Jaffery's mate had installed a domestic CD player in his car. Now it seemed that to do that he'd have had to have had an inverter to produce the necessary voltage. The question was, was that mate Nelson Roberts?

Murdo sat and ran the possibilities through his mind as if talking to another person. ‘So maybe electrocution was a possibility after all. Nelson Roberts' Range Rover was parked just one car away from where Sammy's body was found so it wouldn't have taken a long wire to reach. Even if the inverter's wires had been shortened when it was being used to power the CD it would have still had a bit to connect to the car electrics and another bit to connect to the CD. Presumably a domestic unit would have had to go in the back, it would have been too big to go under the dashboard, so that would have needed long wires. If they weren't long enough he would probably have had a set of jump leads or any old bits of wire.’ He banged his massive hands together in satisfaction and moved onto the next question - would it be wise to risk a raid on the Big House in the hope of finding the inverter with, hopefully, incriminating blood on its wires. If he did, and they missed what they were looking for it would be damned unlikely they'd ever find it after that.

He telephoned West-Samual and explained Mary's suggestion and his own theory. When he'd finished, there was a long silence before the Super replied. "Well, it seems a bit far fetched to me but I suppose it is possible." Another silence, then, "I don't think I'd like to show my hand by mounting a raid just yet."

Murdo spoke quickly before the Super could come to a final decision. "No, Sir, I agree. But I was wondering whether we could wait until Saturday night and see whether he makes his usual visit to the Plough. If he does, well, we've got a set of keys that will open any Range Rover..." He left the sentence hanging in mid air.

"Are you suggesting that I condone the police under my command breaking into a parked car owned by a member of the public?" West-Samual's voice was sharp.

"Och well, Sir, if he should chust happen to park in a dark corner we could have a look in through the glass and only open it if we was something interesting. Failing that we could mount a wee breathalysing spree at closing time."

"No! No breaking in! Even if you found what you were looking for, a charge of police misconduct could cause us no end of trouble in court. If he's seen to be in town on Saturday night, set up a drunken driver exercise - and don't you be pulling in the Chief Constable or the local MP!"

Murdo readily agreed, smiling wryly at the warning that he was to make sure he didn't arrest anyone who might subsequently be able to damage West-Samual's ambitions.

Come Saturday night, Murdo himself took a quiet stroll around town to see whether Roberts' Range Rover was in town, and smiled with quiet satisfaction when he found it parked near the back door of the Plough. He was doubly pleased when he saw Jaffery's Saab parked near the front. When he'd turned the corner into the next street, he took his radio from his pocket and spoke briefly into it. A young policeman in civilian clothes slipped away from the Station and braced himself for a bitterly cold vigil among the trees just over the wall at the back of the Plough's car park. Three other groups of policemen, this time in uniform, set out in their clearly marked police cars to cruise the three roads leading out of town. Their instructions were to wander around as if on a normal patrol in the countryside within five miles of town and to ensure that they could converge on their target zones to set their traps when warned by the hidden watcher.

Closing time approached and the pubs started to empty, but still the policeman on watch stayed back. Then, in the general exodus of closing time, Roberts and Jaffery were observed to leave the Plough, exchange a few brief pleasantries at the door, and then hurry across the crisp covering of frost to their respective cars. They turned in different directions when they left the car park, each taking his road for home. The radio message was unremarkable, but it swung the plan into action.

Murdo had driven out to join the squad on the road to Murie. They had stopped on suspicion two cars at random before the black Range Rover left the last pool of street lighting. A local policeman, massive and forbidding in his heavy police overcoat, stood in the glare of the floodlight and held up his hand. The large vehicle drew smoothly to a halt and the driver's window hummed down. "Evenin'. What's up?" Roberts' voice was helpfully affable.

"Oh, chust a check of vehicle condition, Sir. If you'd just step down we won't keep you a minute." Murdo opened the door and stood back to allow Roberts to alight. A constable led him into the full glare of the lights and started to take down his particulars, whilst Murdo and the other constable went to work with practised speed. Whilst the constable circled the outside of the vehicle, checking lights, tyres, bodywork and underside, Murdo rummaged through the pile of Wellington boots, workaday clothing and general huntin', fishin' accoutrements. It didn't take him long to find a small red box, about the size of a shoebox, with the words 'static inverter' on the label at the back.

He let the ruck of tackle subside as before, shut the door with an audible thud and nodded to the police constable, who walked to where Roberts was being politely questioned and pulled a breathalyser from his pocket. He waited until the constable had finished filling in his form and then held out the machine. "Would you just blow into this, Sir. Take a deep breath and blow."

"Uh? I'm not drunk, surely you can see that."

"You have been drinking though, haven't you, Sir? If you've just had the odd half pint you've nothing to worry about." He held the breathalyser up so that Roberts took it almost involuntarily. He was a big, heavily built man, but when he looked into the constable's implacable face he hesitated only a moment before doing as he was bid.

The PC took the machine back and held it so that he and Murdo could read the scale in the harsh, deeply shadowed light of the floods. With a quick stab of satisfaction Murdo saw that the reading was well into the illegal zone. He would have arrested Roberts anyway but this way he could have the static inverter examined before he showed his hand. The constable returned to Roberts. "I'm sorry, Sir, the reading is positive so I am arresting you for driving whilst under the influence of alcohol. You must accompany me to the Station for further tests. If you will just get in the police car, my colleague will bring your Range Rover."

Roberts looked for a moment as if he would protest, then his jaw clamped shut and, with surly ill grace, he got in the back of the car.

At the other side of town Jaffery had been picked up in exactly the same way. A Sergeant was in charge of the team but Carol was one of the three. She made no mention of it to either of the others but, carrying out Murdo's instructions to the letter, she noted that Jaffery was wearing his watch, and then stuck close to him to ensure that he didn't try to get rid of it.

The two men were kept well apart, blood samples were taken and tested. Both were charged with drunken driving and were immured for the night in separate cells. Neither was aware that the other had been arrested. Before being locked away, there valuables were removed and signed for - including their watches ... .

It was well past midnight when Murdo put a call through to West-Samual’s home number. "A clean sweep, Sir, we've got Jaffery's watch and an electrical inverter and cables that could have been used to electrocute Murchison."

"Good. Take them to the Lab yourself, right away - and have a care, the roads down here are treacherous tonight and we don't want anything happening to that evidence."

Murdo grimaced at West-Samual's lack of concern about his own neck in the event of an accident, but the feeling that the case was at last beginning to open up made him grin quietly to himself as he went to his car, set the watch, inverter and cables carefully on the back seat, got in and drove off. The roads were deserted and that more than compensated for the covering of frost so it was little after four am when he drew up in front of the Police Laboratory in Inverness. The door was opened for him by a frail old wisp of a man who banged the door shut after them and shivered noticeably as the cold night air penetrated his white lab coat. "Right, Sergeant, bring them in here."

Murdo followed Doctor Sommers along the dim corridor and into the brightly lit lab. The scientist had been contacted shortly after the plan had been hatched and had been only too eager to catch the evening train from Glasgow to Inverness. Now, after only a few hours nap, he was as bright as a button. He tackled the watch first, doing all the work himself, fashioning short pieces of wire, fitting them in the watch strap and pulling until they bent and pulled free. Then he took them to the comparison microscope and compared them with the one found on Jamie's body. Not a word was spoken by either of them and, despite his interest, Murdo's head was nodding by the time the scientist exclaimed his satisfaction. "You were right! They match exactly, the piece of wire found on young Jamison's body had previously been used as a makeshift strap pin in this watch."

Murdo's grin matched the old scientist's, but it quickly faded and his eyes became blank, black holes. "So we've got the bastard! Thanks to you, Sir, that's one who will be spending a long time inside - and I don't think that will set well with his fastidious, roaming ways."

"Now, now, Sergeant!" The old man chided. "Your job is to catch them, and mine is to provide the forensic evidence - the punishing we leave to the courts." He gave a dry chuckle. "But, as you say, this one is likely to go down for a long time - and a good thing too." He carefully put the pieces of evidence into their little plastic bags, sealed them and wrote their identification numbers on the outside. Then he reached for the static inverter. "One down, one to go."

The first part of the investigation served only to determine whether the inverter could transform the 12 volts DC from a car battery into a potentially lethal voltage and current. It didn't take long. "Right, there's no doubt that this thing could kill someone. The question is, did it?"

Murdo watched with interest whilst the scientist took the various wires from their plastic bags and unrolled them along the bench. He examined them all carefully, then stood back to get a general view. "How far do you think it was from the suspect's car to Murchison's body?"

"Och well, let's see now. Sammy's body was against one car so there was a gap of, say, three or four feet, then a Ford Sierra, then another gap, then Roberts' Range Rover. Say, a minimum of twelve feet and a maximum of fifteen."

"Yes ... the input wire to this thing has a cigar lighter plug on it so it would have been plugged into the middle of the dash board. The wire is just about long enough to get the box on the ground right by the drivers door." He measured the other wires with a practice eye. "Then the output lead plugs into the box and is about six feet long. Then the jumper leads are about eight feet long. Yes, all together they'd just about do it, for length anyway." He picked up one of the jumper leads and looked at it critically. It had a large spring-loaded clamp with insulated handles at each end. "Well, the back of the jaws on this thing are about three quarters of an inch by two inches, that would be ample area to kill without marking the skin - especially since the victim would likely have been sweating from the dancing."

Murdo sat and watched intently as the scientist examined each clamp minutely, first by eye and then with the aid of a microscope. At length he sighed, pushed his spectacles up and rubbed his eyes. "The join of the copper cable to the steel clamp is a bit damaged on one of them and the end of one strand of the wire is bent outwards enough to scratch. The end looks stained but it will need better tests than I can do here to prove it's blood - and I doubt there'll be enough to prove who's blood it was." He set his spectacles back on his nose. "But we'll try, Sergeant, we'll try."

Murdo left the old man gathering up his bits and pieces in preparation for catching the morning train back to Glasgow and went to telephone West-Samual. The Superintendent's satisfaction at the news was clear in his voice. "Good man! Right, it looks as if it's all coming to a head so I'll see you in Inkrock before lunchtime and I'll take Mowatt from the Crime Team with me."

Murdo smiled wryly, unsure whether to be annoyed at West-Samual taking over at this stage, or to be relieved that any potential diplomatic incidents between himself and the Inkrock Force would be over before they could begin. He shook his head and smiled again. At least the Super still wanted to be where the action was, and that was something to be profoundly grateful for these days. He wasn't bringing Charlie Charles either, and that was something to be even more grateful for.

He spent what was left of the night in his own bed but was well on his way to Inkrock before the winter's sun rose far enough to light his way. Nothing had changed since he had left the night before, and Roberts and Jaffery had had their breakfast but no other communication. After passing on the news of West-Samual's imminent arrival and his requirements for a meeting, he found a quiet corner and made some notes on the line of questioning he'd thought through as he drove north.

It was typical of West-Samual that he wasted no time on the civilities when he arrived. He simply marched in the door with his briefcase in his hand and demanded to be shown to the Briefing Room. He had just got his coat off when the Inkrock Superintendent and Murdo entered. "Morning, you'll be Daniels, I'm West-Samual and this is Inspector Mowatt." He shook hands perfunctorily.

"Aye, I'm Billy Daniels, and I know the Inspector well." The elderly Inkrock Superintendent was not in the least in awe of the city CID man.

"Yes, now let's get on so please sit down." West-Samual quickly outlined the situation, ending with, "So it seems we have Jaffery on toast because of the watch, but it might be a few days before we get the blood matching results to tell us where we stand with Roberts." He turned to Murdo. "Right, Sergeant, you're the man on the spot so let's hear how you'd like to tackle it."

"I think we should concentrate on Roberts, Sir. If we try to go too far with Jaffery, he might decide to cop for the lot on both murders. He's a crafty devil and might well work on the principle that if he's hooked for one he might as well do a financial deal with old Roberts in return for keeping his son out of the nick. If we go for Roberts I think we could break him - he doesn't look very tough to me, and we'll really shake him up if we're right about the way Murchison died. With a bit of luck Roberts will try to pin the blame on Jaffery - then we'll see where that leads."

West-Samual nodded immediately and turned to Mowatt. "That's pretty much the conclusion we came to in the car. Do you have anything else to add?"

"No, Sir."

"Right. Start with Roberts and put the fear of God into him. If necessary, tell him about how he electrocuted Murchison, but don't say a word about Jamison's murder - unless we can prove he was inside the Plant that day we haven't a cat in hell's chance of pinning that one on him. Keep me informed about how you're getting on."

The Inspector and Sergeant were both seasoned professionals on familiar ground so it took only a brief chat to arrange their roles. Murdo, with his forbidding bulk and local knowledge would be the stick, and the Inspector, with his open, fatherly features and soft voice would be the carrot. Murdo would push and pry, whilst Mowatt would be the nice outsider who could hardly believe that the prisoner could possibly be guilty. They instructed a constable to bring the prisoner to them in the interrogation room.

Roberts entered with a smile on his face. "Well, that's the first time I've spent a night in a police cell but it wasn't bad at all, and the breakfast was first class. Now what? Some paperwork and off home until the court case?"

"No, Sir, we have decided not to proceed with the drunken driving charge. However", Murdo fixed him with a glacial eye, "there is a much more serious charge to answer. Nelson Roberts, I hereby arrest you for the wilful murder of Samual Murchison." He read him his rights with scrupulous attention to detail and then guided the ashen-faced prisoner to the interview table. "Sit down, we have some questions to ask you." Murdo sat down opposite, his massive bulk hunched over the table as if about to reach over and maul the prisoner. The Inspector pulled a chair well back at one side and sat straddle-legged on it, his forearms resting comfortably on the chair back. The Constable sat down at another table and prepared to take notes.

Murdo slowly and deliberately pulled his notebook and pen from his breast pocket and spread them on the table in front of him. Never once did he take his blank stare from the prisoner and he observed with satisfaction that the tension was beginning to build. "Right, you are charged with murdering Samual Murchison in the back car park of the Plough public house on the night of 22 August. What have you got to say for yourself?"

Roberts looked wildly from one to the other before fixing his eyes on the less menacing Inspector. "No! I didn't. It was Jamie Jamison who hit him. I was in the pub but I didn't go out to the car park with them." He was sweating visibly and his eyes were staring.

Murdo's harsh voice brought the prisoner's eyes reluctantly to the front. "He didn't die from Jamison's punch. That only knocked him out. You murdered him in cold blood whilst he was still unconscious."

"No! No! The papers said he died from some weakness brought on by the punch. I had nothing to do with it." Roberts' voice was a whine and his eyes were back on the Inspector.

Mowatt shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid they know you did it. They got the static inverter from your Range Rover, and Forensic have found Murchison's blood on one of the jump leads. You'd really be better to co-operate with the Sergeant, you know."

The mention of the inverter froze Roberts in the paralysis of a rabbit facing a stoat. His mouth worked soundlessly, and the movement was enough to loosen the droplets of sweat from the end of his chin so that they spattered on the table. He was in a blue funk but it wasn't in his nature to admit his guilt. "No, it wasn't me, it must have been Josh Jaffery! Yes, it must have been him, he has a spare set of keys for the Range Rover, he likes to drive expensive cars. He disappeared around about the time that Murchison and Jamison went outside to fight. He knew I had an inverter in my car and he knew how to use it."

Murdo's eyes were black and dead. "Why would Jaffery want to kill Murchison?"

"I don't know. Maybe Murchison knew something about him. Yes, that's it. Josh sometimes smokes pot and Murchison probably found out." He was babbling now. Drugs! The fact that drugs had come to Roberts' mind at a time like this made the possibility of espionage that much less probable - or was it a blind?

"Why would he kill someone for knowing he smoked pot?"

"I ... I ... Maybe he didn't know what he was doing. He'd probably gone out to his car for a quick drag and saw the fight and was so jazzed up he just killed him."

"Come on, now, Roberts! Cannabis makes you euphoric, not murderous - and it doesn't make you cunning enough to see a young man lying unconscious, and go through all the palaver of setting up the static inverter, joining together leads to reach from the Range Rover to Murchison, and then carrying out the murder. Besides," Murdo suddenly pictured the scene, "he couldn't have done it by himself. He'd have had to half strip the victim, then turn on the power, and then apply the leads - and that would have made scorch marks on the skin. No, somebody had to hold the leads in place whilst the other switched the power on. So it was you and Jaffery!"

"No! Well, yes, but it wasn't like that. Josh had gone out to the car park and I wondered what had become of him so I went out to look. He had just got all the wires out to Sammy when I arrived and he said that Sammy's heart had stopped and that he was going to give him a jolt to try to start it again. I wanted to call a doctor but he said there wasn't time and that every second counted. Well, I knew that this was what they did in hospitals, and that it was possible to do it from mains voltage - I'd seen it done in a film. So, when he shouted at me to get back to the Range Rover and put in the plug, well, he seemed to know what he was doing so I did it. I was going to go and try to help but he shouted at me to stay where I was. Then, it seemed like an age but it can only have been ten, twenty seconds, he shouted to switch off - and I did. Then I went to see what had happened and he said that it hadn't worked, that Sammy was dead. I wanted to go and report it but he grabbed me and shook me about until I would listen to him. He said that we should say nothing because all we had done was try to help. That although we knew that we'd done no wrong, others might blame us for Sammy's death. So he said we should keep quiet and just quietly mourn Sammy."

"But you know now that the electric shock wasn't intended to save Murchison - it was intended to murder him. Isn't that so?"

"I ... I don't know. I wanted to believe Josh but I did wonder. I asked Josh afterwards but he swore that he was telling the truth ... then the results of the post-mortem became common knowledge and I thought that Josh must have been telling the truth. I swear that's how it happened!"

It was good, very good for a man who was stinking with fright, so Murdo changed tack to give himself time to think. "On the Tuesday evening before Murchison died you met him on the road beside his Grandfather's house. What did you talk about?"

Roberts was fully into his helpful confession now and he didn't stop to think. "Yes, Josh and me had been out shooting rabbits and were on our way back to my car when we met Sammy. He was on his way home from his Grandfather's house."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing much. Just general chat. Where we had been, where he had been, things like that. Nothing important."

"Why did you not come forward when the police were making inquiries about Murchison's death?" Murdo sprang his trap.

"I .. I ... well, we didn't know anything of any use. We'd seen Sammy and chatted, but plenty of others had seen Sammy after that so we'd just have been wasting police time."

"Why was Sammy looking for his Grandfather?"

"I don't know, he just said he was visiting. He said that he and his Granda were great mates and he often dropped in if he was out for a walk."

"Did you ask him why he was there?"

"No, why should we?"

"Come off it, Roberts. Why would he have told you something like that if you hadn't asked? Why did you want to know what Sammy was doing? Was it because you were wondering if he was going to spill the beans to his Grandfather?"

Roberts looked thoroughly confused, as if he didn't know which way to turn next. "No! No, we were just talking and he seemed worried so we sort of asked what he was doing. That's all. Honest."

Murdo caught the Inspector's eye and received a barely perceptible nod, so he turned to the Constable and ordered, "Take the prisoner back to his cell and get that typed up. Bring me a copy as soon as you've finished" To the prisoner he said, "When your statement has been typed you will be asked to sign it."

When Roberts had been led away, Murdo and the Inspector looked at each other and Moffat sighed. "Crafty bastard, eh? Lies, but plausible ones, Sergeant."

"Och, chust so, Sir, but Jaffery will maybe not agree with him. I'm thinking we'd better ask Forensic whether the electric shock was administered before or after death."

"Huh, I doubt they'll be able to tell us that - and, in any case, if we're going to get them for anything more than misplaced zeal we'll have to prove that they knowingly applied the shock to a man who was only unconscious. That might not be easy if they have a good lawyer - and they will have if what I've heard about Roberts senior is anything to go by."

The coffee arrived and they discussed Roberts' statement as best they could, dealing as they were purely from memory. Then the Constable came in with copies of the statement. "It's just rough, Sir, but I thought you'd want it right away. I'll go and put it into better English now, if that's alright with you, Sir."

When he had gone, the Inspector and Sergeant spent an intense half hour poring over the statement and planning their attack on Jaffery. By the time they'd finished, the constable had returned with Roberts' signed statement. Moffatt got up to stretch and said, "Okay, Constable, let's have Jaffery in."

Jaffery entered in much the same frame of mind as Roberts had, but with distinctly less good humour. He was civil, but it was apparent that he was annoyed at his incarceration. "I hope this won't take long, I've got something arranged for this afternoon."

"Ah, what would that be, Sir?"

"Just some rabbit shooting with a friend." He dropped in the name casually. "With Nelson Roberts, the Laird's son."

Murdo ignored that. "Joshua Jaffery, I hereby charge you with the wilful murder of Samual Murchison on the night of 22 August."

Only by a brief flicker of his eyes did Jaffery show his surprise, and he betrayed not a jot of apprehension. "Murder of Sammy? You must be joking. Sure, I was at the Plough that night but I didn't even try to go outside with Sammy and Jamie so what are you trying to pull?"

Murdo finished reading him his rights and then told him to sit down. Again he slowly and deliberately pulled his notebook and pen from his breast pocket and spread them on the table in front of him, holding his stare on the prisoner as he did so. This time, however, he saw no sign of tension, Jaffery simply stared expressionlessly back at him. "Right, you are charged with murdering Samual Murchison in the back car park of the Plough public house on the night of 22 August. What have you got to say for yourself?"

"What should I say? This is all a load of balls, and you know it. What are you trying to do, find a fall guy to make up for your own incompetence in not being able to find the real murderer?" He sneered.

"Ah, so you agree that Samual Murchison was murdered, do you?"

"I agree nothing of the kind. You said he'd been murdered and I supposed that you knew what you were talking about."

"What time did you arrive at the Plough that night?"

"You already have all this in the statement I made at the time, but I suppose I have to humour you. I arrived at about quarter to eight."

"Did anyone see you arrive?"

"I've no idea. I didn't notice anybody until I got inside. Nelson Roberts was at the bar ordering drinks so I went straight to him to get included in the round." He grinned mirthlessly. "He can afford it."

"When did you next leave the building?"

"Not until after the police had finished questioning us all - by that time it was in the early hours of the morning."

"We have an eyewitness who will testify that you were out in the car park in Nelson Roberts' Range Rover before Murchison and Jamison went out to fight."

"Really? And who would this hallucinating idiot be?"

"Do you deny it?"

"Of course I do. You ask Nelson, he'll tell you I was in the pub with him all the time."

Murdo sighed and shook his head as if from sadness. The Inspector cleared his throat diffidently. "I'm afraid not, son. You see, we've asked him and have his signed statement saying not only that you were out in the car park but that the pair of you killed Murchison."

"Don't talk rubbish! Why would Nelson say a thing like that?" Jaffery's voice was loud with derision.

"Oh he goes further than that. He has described exactly how you used a static inverter plugged into the Range Rover's cigar lighter socket to electrocute the unconscious Sammy Murchison. And he describes how you used his jump leads as an extension cable to do it. Our Forensic experts have identified the blood on one of the jump leads as coming from a small scratch under Sammy's armpit." The Inspector's voice rang with certainty. "So you see, there's no point in denying it.

Jaffery was silent, and the policemen could see his agile brain trying to assimilate what he'd been told. They waited until his face started to clear, then Murdo stepped in to forestall him. "I think it would be a good idea if you made a statement now."

But Jaffery wasn't finished yet. "You must think I'm a kid or something! You make up a cock and bull story about Nelson and think I'll fall over myself to confess to something I didn't do. You've got nothing on me, and you know it."

The Inspector caught Murdo's eye for a moment, then said smoothly, "You don't believe us? Well, would you like to see Roberts' signed statement?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I would. It should be good for a laugh."

Murdo reached over to take the document held out to him by the constable, then asked Jaffery, "You would recognize Roberts' signature, would you?"

"Course I would."

"Very well, here you are." He handed over the statement and waited impassively whilst Jaffery read it through.

It had been a long shot, and both questioners had expected it to do no more than perhaps cause Jaffery to mouth some indiscretions that might lead somewhere. They were therefore quite taken aback at Jaffery's reaction. "The yellow bellied bastard! Try to pass the blame onto me would he? Well, he won't get away with it!" His face was twisted with fury. "Oh yes, it was just like he said alright - except that he got the names mixed up. I never had a set of keys to his Range Rover - like hell I did! I've hardly even driven it with him there, let alone borrowed it. No, when Sammy and Jamie went out to fight, everybody was watching them at the back door, and Nelson pulled me out of the crowd towards the front door, saying that we should nip round the back and see the fight. Well, there was nothing wrong or illegal in that, it's not often you see a good scrap these days. We went through between the cars so that they wouldn't see us coming and then got into the dark bit in the back car park by Nelson's Range Rover. When we got there, there was only the two lads and they were arguing but we couldn't hear what they were saying. Then Jamie hit Sammy a real crack on the jaw and almost ran back into the pub, leaving Sammy lying there. We went closer and saw that Sammy was lying flat on his back. I was going to go and see that Sammy was okay - he was a bit of a Mammy's boy but a decent enough bloke so I was just going to get him on his feet and back to the bar. Nelson rushed over and I thought he had the same idea as me - he even knelt down and put his ear to Sammy's chest. It was him that said that Sammy's heart had stopped and that we had to do something immediately. It was him that got the inverter, and joined up the cables. I never examined Sammy, I just took Nelson's word for it and switched on the power."

"So why didn't you tell us all this instead of trying to cover things up? A fine, public-spirited thing like that could have got you both medals."

Jaffery's voice was coldly contemptuous. "Don't be stupid! How could we prove that he had been dead before we gave him the shock, and that we were trying to revive him?"

"Okay, so Sammy's death was at worst a tragic accident, eh? Now, what about young Jamison's death out at the Plant. Was that a mere accident too?"

"How would I know? I had nothing to do with that."

"Come now, Mr Jaffery," the Inspector's voice was reason itself, "surely you're not saying that Sammy and Jamie, two life-long pals, died within days of each other and the incidents weren't connected? We know that you murdered Jamie, dumped his body in a drum, and left him to be buried in the low-active pit."

"No! Everybody knows that whoever welded up that drum wasn't a welder."

"Tch, tch." The Inspector clicked his tongue dolefully. "We did think that at first - but then we did some tests and found that only a very good welder could have welded like that. And you are a very good welder, aren't you, Mr Jaffery?"

Jaffery was visibly fighting to regain his cool. "And I suppose you're going to say you have another witness, are you?"

"Gosh no. Much better than that. We've got evidence that can't lie, Forensic evidence." Mowatt paused to let the tension build again. "Remember how you broke your watch strap and replaced the pin with a bit of wire. And remember how, as you bundled the battered body of young Jamie into the drum you snagged your watch and broke it again. Well, we found that bit of wire and matched it to your watch. So you see, we've got you for certain on this one."

In the stunned silence that followed, Murdo took over again. "I'm thinking you should chust start at the beginning and tell us the whole story, don't you?"

It was a shaking and sweating Jaffery who nodded his head without raising his eyes from the table. "Yeah, yeah, I suppose so." Something of his old arrogance came back and he raised his head and flicked his eyes rapidly between the two big men in front of him. "And if I do, do I get credit for turning Queen's evidence?"

"It will count in your favour, but we can make no promises." The Inspector's voice was firmly uncompromising.

"Okay, okay." For a brief instant a crafty look flitted across his face. "Young Jamison had been out at the Laird's place doing something to Nelson's Range Rover - I'm not sure exactly what, something to do with fitting his Compact Disc unit, I think. Anyway, whilst he was there he found out something that made Nelson nervous. I don't know what it was, maybe Nelson made a pass at him or something. Christ knows. Nelson paid him 'way over the odds for the work on the car, buying him off, like. Nelson was dead worried about it, thinking he'd be in for blackmail for ever more. I told him not to be so daft, Jamie was a broad minded lad and as long as he was well enough paid for the work he'd done so that he could buy the car he was crazy for he wouldn't make any trouble."

His confidence was returning and Murdo could see the old calculating look returning to his face as he arrogantly waited for the Constable to catch up with his writing. "I had pretty well got him to forget all about it when we went shooting one evening out by Sammy's Grandfather's place. On the way back we bumped into Sammy as he was leaving his Grandfather's house. It was obvious that Sammy didn't want anything to do with Nelson - he was a pious young Goody-two-shoes and it would have been just like him to take any tale his mate told him and run to the Police with it. Anyway, our paths just crossed and it was obvious that Sammy was wound up about something and had been looking for the old man to tell it to. Sammy didn't say much and was obviously desperate to get away home, and Nelson and I went the other way to where the car was parked." He suddenly grinned. "I had to damn near drag Nelson with me, he was so panicky he'd have been after Sammy with his twelve bore."

Again he paused, before continuing. "I calmed him down and got him to admit that he was panicking about nothing. I thought no more about it, and thought that Nelson had got over it as well. At least, I did until the next night at the dance. When he saw Sammy and Jamie going out on their own for a fight he got all excited and sneaked out the front door. He dragged me with him, for moral support I suppose, but I only went in case he lost his head again - he's okay but he's a bit of a spoiled kid at times. I don't know whether he thought he might be able to do something that would make the lads feel in his debt - you know, childhood hero stuff, or if he was hoping they'd beat each other senseless."

He paused again, but this time he seemed to be taking the opportunity to plan what he was going to say. "Well, the fight didn't last long, Jamie thumped him and Sammy went out like a light. Then Jamie ran away and Nelson went for Sammy and I had to hold him back. He kept saying that we could get rid of Sammy by bashing his head on the ground to make it look as if he'd done it when he fell. I had a real struggle holding him off, he was like a man possessed. Then suddenly he stopped struggling and said that Sammy hadn't moved and was maybe dead already. I let him go and he went over to Sammy and checked him, then he became all agitated and said that Sammy's heart had stopped and that we had to try to restart it. He'd seen it done in some real-life film about the emergency services, or something. He dashed over to his Range Rover and started hauling stuff out the back. I went with him and at first didn't realise what he was doing. It was dark and it never occurred to me what he was up to. He pulled some wires out then handed me the plug and told me to plug it in when he shouted. I don't know why it didn't occur to me what he was doing but I swear to God I didn't - I think I just assumed he wanted to get a light out there because it was very dark in that bit of the car park. I knew that a car's twelve volt electricity couldn't hurt anybody, and I didn't even know he had an inverter in the car so it never occurred to me that he might be going to do something stupid. Anyway, I could just see him bending over Sammy but he seemed to have calmed down so I humoured him. When he said to plug the wire in, I did. Then he shouted to unplug it and I did that too. He came running back bundling up the wires and giggling like a girl. He put the stuff back in the Range Rover and we went back into the pub." He looked Murdo straight in the eye and finished, "It wasn't until the commotion started and the word got around that Sammy was dead that I put two and two together and realised what he'd done."

"Uh huh, and you didn't think of maybe mentioning this when you were questioned?"

"Thought about it, yes, but I wasn't daft enough to do it." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness and appeal. "Come on, fellas, even you must see that wouldn't have been a good idea. I hadn't knowingly done anything wrong, but if I had suggested murder there's no way I wouldn't have been dragged in as an accessory."

"And you didn't think that Roberts might kill again? Perhaps even killing you to shut your mouth next."

"Naw! He wouldn't have the guts."

"So did you and Roberts talk about it afterwards?"

"Not much. Nelson boasted about it the next time I saw him but I shut him up and told him to put the whole thing out of his mind or he'd be blabbing in the wrong place."

Murdo sighed and scratched his neck thoughtfully. "So what happened between then and young Jamison's death?"

"Well, Nelson started to get it into his head that Jamie knew what had happened and even if he didn't deliberately tell it would all be dragged out of him at the inquiry or trial. Like a bloody fool, he had Jamie out to do something else to his car and tried to pump him. Of course, Jamie had never thought that Sammy's death was anything but an accident, and one caused by himself at that. Now, with Nelson prattling on with all the subtlety of a Tommy Cooper conjuring trick, Jamie began to do a bit of thinking. Obviously, he wanted to be able to put the blame on somebody else so, even if he didn't really know anything, he grabbed at the chance and came right out and asked Nelson what had happened." He shook his head with deep contempt. "Needless to say, Nelson took this for proof that Jamie had known all along, and told him to keep his mouth shut or he'd go the same way as his old mate."

He paused, watching the Constable and waiting for him to finish writing. Murdo and the Inspector exchanged glances, and the Inspector's eyebrows rose in apparent disbelief that Jaffery seemed to have forgotten that two innocent young men had been foully done to death, and seemed to be behaving as if he was a reasonable boss bemoaning the quality of his hired help.

The Constable looked up, pencil poised, and Jaffery took that as the signal to continue. "I saw Jamie at work, of course, and I could see he was pretty low. Whether it was due to Sammy's death or he was worrying about Nelson, I don't know. Anyway, on that last day he came to my table at lunch time and chatted about cars, then in the afternoon he asked if I'd come down to the Waste Disposal Plant because he wanted to ask my advice about something private. As you no doubt know, he was working down there but it's very rare for anybody to go there other than at scheduled waste handling times, so he knew we wouldn't be likely to be disturbed."

He paused, but this time he seemed to be lost in thought, his eyes unblinking and unseeing, and his brow slightly furrowed. "He told me about Nelson and about how he thought he'd maybe murdered Sammy. And he asked whether I thought he might be right, and what should he do about it. Well, I guess I kinda blew it." He shrugged philosophically. "I said he was just being ridiculous, that the word was that the post-mortem had found nothing so how could Nelson have killed him. That he just had to accept that Sammy had died from some sort of weakness. Well, we talked on about it and, to this day, I can't think what I must have said, but suddenly he accused me of being in it with Nelson. He got really wild and came at me with a hammer, we struggled and I caught his arm and swung it back towards him. It was a heavy mash and it slipped out of his hand and hit him on the head. When I realised he was dead I didn't know what to do, but I knew that if he was found it might well be pinned on me - that's a difficult place to get out of without being seen if there's anybody about."

"So you put the body in a drum and welded the lid on."

"Yeah, what else could I do. He was dead and there was nothing I could do to bring him back so I put him in a drum and sealed it up like a coffin in a crypt."

"And you dropped his pass in the box as you left that night, and stole the car and drove it to Inverness?"

Jaffery nodded. "Yes, he had the same initial as me so I just dropped both our passes into the same box." He had a faraway look in his eye and a shine of sweat on his face.

"And you broke your watch strap whilst putting Jamie in the drum?"

A mute nod.

"Answer the questions, we need them for the statement." Jaffery stirred with a visible effort. "Yes, it's a metal band and it caught on his overalls ... ." He gripped his left wrist with his right hand and massaged the place where the watch should have been. "I caught it under Jamie's armpit as I put him in the drum. I didn't think anything of it at the time, I just put the whole watch in my pocket. Later I found the pin was missing but I supposed I'd dropped it later - anyway, it was only a bit of wire. I got a new pin in town next day."

"And you drove the car to Inverness?" Casually, confident that Jaffery would know what he was talking about. "Yeah, it was the sort of car that Jamie would have fancied, so I took it and drove it to Inverness. Nelson followed me in his old man's Subaru pickup and brought me back.

The Inspector leaned forward. "Now, what was it that young Jamie found out about Roberts in the first place?"

"I tell you I don't know. I asked a few times but Nelson can be very close when he wants to be."

"Were drugs involved?" Mowatt's voice was sharp and insistent.

Just for an instant Jaffery seemed to go quite still, even his breathing seemed to pause, then he looked from one to the other with a faintly contemptuous twist to his lips. "I know nothing about drugs - and despite what Nelson says I’ve never had the habit."

They let it go at that, if espionage was involved they would need more cards before they went probing in that murky backwater. Jaffery was led away and his statement was duly typed. Whilst that was taking place, the Inspector and Murdo dissected what had transpired. Mowatt was elated with the success of the two interviews. "Man, we did it. The pair of them are as guilty as hell. We'll have Roberts back in later and open him up a bit further but they're each as guilty as the other."

"Aye, chust so, but what about what that lad saw or heard in the first place?"

"God knows! But unless it was a mass murder we've got the main crime and whatever else Roberts was up to won't make much difference to the sentence."

"I'm thinking there's maybe more than the two of them in it, Sir."

The Inspector looked at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. "More than the two of them? What the hell do you mean, man?"

"Ould man Roberts is suspected by the Edinburgh police of being into organised crime, maybe even drugs. And young Roberts said that Jaffery had been on drugs the night Sammy was killed. I'm not saying Roberts was telling the truth, mind, but there's been a sight too many references to drugs in this case for my liking. Then again, there might be something in the espionage thing. Old man Roberts might have the sort of contacts that could turn a profit at that sort of thing. And we still haven't got to the bottom of that assault out by Ullapool and the stolen car ending up in the sea not far to the west of the Atomic Plant."

"Forget it. Drugs are the Drug Squad's problem, not ours. If we drag them in they'll take over and we won't get any credit for anything. Likewise with spying. If the MI5 lot get a sniff we'll be out in the cold."

"Och, but drugs are a terrible thing. I'm thinking we must do everything we can to put away the boogers that feed that bloody stuff to kids." Murdo's voice was stubborn and uncompromising. "Aye, and spying isn't something we can turn our backs on either."

"Huh, a crusader, eh? Well, what do you suggest?" Mowatt was scowling and clearly wished Murdo in perdition for suggesting anything other than a clean, spectacular end to a double murder.

"Well, I'm thinking we should call in the Drug Squad right away. Get them to give Roberts' and Jaffery's vehicles a going over for a start. And I think we should be having a word with Superintendent West-Samual to see if he can get any more out of the security services. We could ask him to take a turn at questioning the pair of them as well."

"What do we need West-Samual for? Are you suggesting I don't know how to question a prisoner?"

"Nut at all, Sir, nut at all." Murdo hastened to pour oil on troubled waters. "It's just that the Super has a terrible way about him when it comes to the interrogating. I've never seen the like of him, that I haven't, Sir."

"Oh very well. We'll have a break and I'll have a chat with George." He gave in with ill grace, and the casual dropping of the Super's name wasn't lost on Murdo.

By the time Jaffery had signed his statement and was back in his cell, the Inspector was back in the Interview room accompanied by the Superintendent. "Well, Sergeant, it looks as if we have both the bastards, eh? Have Roberts brought up and we'll give him another going over." West-Samual rubbed his hands in anticipation. Murdo nodded to the Constable who went and brought the noticeably agitated Roberts into the room and sat him at the table.

West-Samual stood at the other side of the table and leaned his weight on his knuckles. "Roberts, I am Superintended West-Samual and I have some questions to ask you. We both know that your previous statement was only half true so don't let's have any more lies. Now, you and Jaffery conspired to murder Samual Murchison and James Jamison." He held up a hand. "I know, I know. You weren't there when Jamison was killed. Nonetheless, the two murders are linked and you are both part of the conspiracy." He leant forward so that his face was only inches from Roberts'. "What did Jamison learn that made it necessary to have him killed?"

"What ... What do you mean?" Roberts' face was ashen and sweating.

"Come off it, Roberts! What was the motive for the murders? Answer me, Man!" West-Samual's voice was a whiplash and his thin face the Devil incarnate.

"I ... I don't know. If Josh murdered Sammy he must have murdered Jamie to cover up."

The Superintendent's sharp features loomed closer again. "Cut the flannel, Roberts! Jamison visited you at home to help with your car, and whilst there he saw or heard something. Now, what was it?"

Roberts was obviously scared stiff of the Super, but something even more terrifying held his courage from its final collapse. "I don't know what you're talking about! Jamie did help me with my car radio, but I paid him well and drove him home afterwards. If I had wanted to kill him surely I'd have done it there and then, not left him to talk to everybody about it."

"You knew that Jamison wasn't the sort to shoot his mouth off, especially if he was being well paid. No, you became worried when you deduced he'd told his best mate Sammy Murchison. Murchison was an honest lad and would have gone to the police - so you murdered him. Isn't that what happened?"

Roberts was almost catatonic with fear now, but something deep within his psyche was as irresistible as his instinct to breathe. It was as if his mind had shut out any memory of what had really taken place. "No! I've told you, it was Josh who did it! I was just there." He looked at his tormentors in turn, his face pasty white under its sheen of sweat. "Honest! It was Josh that killed them both. Josh is a crafty devil, maybe he had something going on at work and Sammy and Jamie caught him at it. How could anything Jamie saw at my place have made Josh kill him at work? You know that doesn't make sense." He added plaintively. Maybe espionage was back in the ring again.

West-Samual persisted for another half hour, and when Roberts was led away to his cell he was soaking with sweat and shaking with exhaustion and stress, but they'd learned nothing more. The Superintendent slumped into a chair. "By God, I detest those cowardly bastards who get into such a blue funk that their brains switch off! I very much doubt that either of them will break unless we can find something to crack them open with." Without looking at Murdo he asked. "What price your drug theory now, Sergeant?"

Murdo looked uncertain and cleared his throat carefully before speaking. Then he picked his words carefully, knowing full well that West-Samual wasn't the sort of man to have much time for subordinates who disowned their theories the moment the going got rough. "Haumph. Well, Sir, to my mind the two things that point to espionage are the fact that one murder occurred at the Atomic Plant, and that an alleged Russian sailor dumped a car near that same Plant. Against that is the fact that, if the security people are telling the truth, the Plant has no secrets worth killing for nor worth much money." He shook his head lugubriously. "I chust can't see Roberts mixed up in something that is risky but doesn't pay well. As for Jaffery, well, I can't see him having any Green ideals such as anti-nuclear beliefs, so he'd have to be in it for the money too. Murdo shook his head stubbornly. "I grant that espionage looks reasonable but I still think drugs is the most likely thing for Jaffery and the Roberts to be mixed up in, there's money there."

The Superintendent shrugged. "Well, maybe you're right. I've put a call through to the Drug Squad asking them to come here right away, and Sergeant Phillips has taken both cars to the garage ready for the Squad to go over them with a fine tooth comb. We'll stall Roberts' old man until then and hope we can mount a raid on Murie House before he has a chance to destroy the evidence. Just in case espionage is involved, I've also sent a message to our spooky friends. Now, have either of you any other suggestions?"

Mowatt shook his head, and Murdo hesitated before speaking. "Sir, If it is drugs, I'm wondering what they would be doing up here. There wouldn't be a big enough market in this area for Roberts to risk fouling his own doorstep over. So would they be taking drugs from Edinburgh to here, or from here to Edinburgh, or would they maybe chust be storing them here?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Well, Sir, I'm not knowing much about the drugs, but I'm thinking that Murie House has that fine wee beach chust down the cliff from it, and the whole coast line along there can't easily be seen from any house or the road. It would be a grand place to land small things like drugs from a boat."

"Quite possibly. All these bloody back-of-beyond places are a God-send to smugglers of any sort."

"Chust so, Sir, but I'm wondering whether we might be able to catch them at it, like."

West-Samual shook his head gloomily. "Not now, I shouldn't think. Whenever Roberts and Jaffery get a chance to talk to their solicitors - and we can only prevent that for a few more hours - they'll pass the word that we're onto the drugs line. If old man Roberts is half as smart as he's said to be, there'll be no more smuggling hereabouts."

"Well, Sir, I was chust thinking, like, that it would be a fair sized boat if it was bringing drugs from South America or Africa or whereffer. Such a boat coming inside the islands would likely be noticed by the lobster men and suchlike. If it comes at set times, or if it's always the same boat, we might be able to get it intercepted at sea somewhere."

"You're right!" West-Samual banged his fist on the table. "Let's get moving. Murdo, get some enquiries made, discreet as you can but speed's the main thing. Inspector Mowatt, get onto the Central Office and start co-ordinating the various interested parties."

Murdo went straight to the Duty Inspector's room and explained the situation. The response was immediate, and the Inspector stood up and put on his cap. "Come with me, Murdo, and I'll introduce you to the very man you need." As they left, he told the Duty Sergeant, "I'm going to see auld Gregor MacGregor - but dinna spread that around."

Most of the fisher folk lived close together in the same area of town, but old Gregor's cottage was out on the cliff overlooking the lighthouse and Life Boat shed. In his younger day he'd been a formidable Skipper of a succession of highly profitable fishing boats, ranging from the old Drifters to the modern Seine netters. Now in his seventy seventh year he still spent a lot of his time on the sea in his lobster boat the Good Harvest, although his handful of lobster pots showed he did it for a love of the sea rather than for profit - in any case, he never sold anything, but his friends dined on a good deal more lobster than they could otherwise have afforded." .

They had parked the car in the rough lay-by and walked up the path to the trim little cottage. The old man was out in the rough, door-less shed that provided winter shelter for the Good Harvest. "Ho there, Inspector, and whit brings you up here on sich a cauld day?"

"I've a man here who would like a word with you, Gregor."

"Oh aye? You'll be the man Murdoch I've been hearing about, are you?"

"The very same." Murdo shook hands formally whilst weighing up MacGregor. He saw a spare, upright, bearded man of the old school. The sort of man Murdo remembered among the old hill men of home. Austere, deeply religious, hard as weathered oak and totally inflexible in their beliefs, they were men whose honesty answered to a higher Being than mere human laws.

"Uh huh. And what kind of questions have you?"

"Och it's a wee helping of fishing wisdom we're after, Gregor, so where would I come but here?" said the Inspector.

The old man's weathered face cracked in a grin. "Well, well, are you thinking of taking up the fishing at last - real fishing, not that stuff with wee wands and bitty flies?"

"Och no, it was about the sea out there," Murdo waved a huge hand towards the east, "that we were wondering."

Gregor sat down on a five gallon oil drum and took his blackened old pipe from his pocket. "Sit doon and tell me."

"You'll be minding that young Sammy Murchison and Jamie Jamison were killed a whilie back."

The old man nodded and continued scraping out his pipe.

"Well, we've got the blaggards that did it, but it seems that there was maybe drugs or some such thing at the back of it all. I'm thinking that maybe folk are getting in drugs by sea, maybe frae a boat frae South America or somewhere foreign like that. I'm wondering how you'd get stuff frae a big boatie like that into maybe the wee Murie beach." Murdo stopped, knowing that Superintendent West-Samual would have the stripes off him for speaking to a civilian like this but knowing too that folk like old Gregor had no notion of gossiping .

"Ah now, that would depend. Are you thinking the blue-water ship would be coming all the way round here, or would she be transferring to a wee coaster or the like?"

Murdo shrugged. "Ah well I'm not chust sure, not being very well up on this drugs business my own self. Let's chust be imagining that the big boatie came round by here and had to get, say, a tea box amount of drugs tae Murie beach. How would they be doing that?"

The old man's pale blue eyes looked out towards the dull grey sea. "She couldn't come inside the islands, it's too shoal and dangerous, besides she'd be seen and heard. I'm thinking she'd be meeting with a smaller craft, a fishing boat maybe, out in the main channel. Ten, fifteen miles out."

"How small would that boat be?"

"In the summer, the Good Harvest here would do it fine. But in the winter you'd be needing something more seaworthy, a Seiner or a Purser, maybe."

"And could they get in to the Murie beach?"

The old man shook his head. "Naw, that wee bit of sand is a trap. There's only just sand down to the water line at low tide. From there to a hundred yards out there's a mess of rocks and rip tides that would tear the bottom out of a Seiner, even at high tide. A lobster boat would maybe manage at high tide, but it would be gie foolhardy. A rubber dingy might do it, though."

"Would a boat putting down a dingy there be noticed, do you think?"

Gregor puckered his eyes as he visualised the coast there. "It would be a terrible dangerous thing to do in the dark, and if you showed enough light to help you'd be seen from the lighthouse and the Coast Guards as well as from the end of the harbour wall. In daytime, now, you could put down a dingy without much chance of being seen - the land their is all owned by the Laird, and he has a rough way with trespassers. Of course, if the Seiner waited for the dingy to come back they'd likely be noticed on the Coast Guard's radar." He fell silent and Murdo waited patiently until he spoke again. "Aye, I think that would be the way of it. Something like a Seiner would fall in with the ship out about where they could be fishing. They could heave-to or just throw the stuff over the side, and the Seiner could pick it up. Then they'd come home through the inner channel and drop a dingy as they passed Murie."

"How dangerous would it be for the folk in the dingy?"

"If they were doing it in all weathers, barring gales and storms, it would sometimes be bad." For a man like old Gregor to say it would be bad, was be like an ordinary mortal saying it would be suicidal.

"If they had an accident, where would the wreckage be fetching up?"

"It would depend on the tide at the time, but bodies usually fetch up on this bit of coast."

Murdo nodded, there'd been no bodies washed up for a year or two so they'd either been extremely lucky or they were doing something different from what the old Skipper had suggested. "That's been a grand help, man." He stood up and the Inspector added, " I got a bottle of Lagavulin from my Jeanie a week or twa back but I haven't got around to opening it yet, Gregor." He said no more but the old man nodded his acceptance of an invitation to drop bye for a dram.

When they arrived back at the Station, Murdo found that the half dozen Constables had returned from their enquiries. None had come up with anything. West-Samual and Mowatt had them all assembled in the briefing room and Murdo sat at the end of the table, chewing reflectively at a horny thumbnail. To no one in particular, he said, "I wonder if the Murie crowd have any pals among the fisher folk."

WPC Farquer immediately said, "They often go sea fishing with Sandy Teuch in the Sea Spray."

Murdo had noticed the Sea Spray, she was a well-found, converted Seiner used for taking sport fishermen out for deep-sea rod and line fishing.

"How often?"

"Oh, I'm not sure - but they go in all weathers, or at least old man Roberts does." By way of explanation she continued. "I live at the top of Shore Street and my living room window looks out over the harbour. I love to watch the boats and the birds so I keep a pair of binoculars and a telescope by the window. I suppose I see them about once a month - in fact, old Roberts went out this morning."

"By God, did he by chove! Did you ever see him take anything back with him?"

She laughed. "Oh yes, he seems to be a real gadget fisherman and carries more gear than a trawler. He always arrives with two pieces of luggage, a wicker hamper that I assume holds a Fortnum and Mason’s sort of lunch, and a big black cylindrical thing that I suppose holds his fishing gear."

"How big and heavy is this cylinder?"

"Oh, at least six feet long and maybe a foot in diameter. It has rounded ends and carrying handles. When he arrives in the morning, Skipper Teuch and him take an end each. It seems pretty heavy." Her brow wrinkled. "Funnily enough, it seems a lot lighter when they return - I suppose he keeps his bait in it."

"Who else goes on these jaunts?"

"Sandy Teuch's son, Robbie, of course, and whiles Nelson Roberts. I've never seen anybody else go."

"When did he go out today?"

"I'm not sure, Roberts had just arrived in his car when I left for work at about ten to eight. They usually take a good while before they leave - I suppose they discuss and plan where they're going. Anyway, they don't usually leave until it is full day light so I suppose they left at about nine o'clock."

"How long do they usually stay out for?"

"Oh, all day usually, but they always arrive back before it gets full dark."

The Superintendent's eyes met Murdo's. It was wanting just a few minutes to twelve o'clock so the Sea Spray had been at sea for about three hours. At perhaps twelve knots she could be up to thirty six sea miles away, and that was a big area of sea to search. West-Samual showed how he had come to attain his senior rank at such an early age. He rapped out a string of orders, then signed for the Inspector and Murdo to follow him to his office. When the office door had shut behind them he turned to Mowatt. "Inspector, I want you to take responsibility for communications and co-ordination. Get onto the Air Force immediately and tell them we need to find that boat and anything she rendezvous with - top priority. Murdo, pick two good men and get out to Murie. I want a watch on that beach for any funny doings. If it is drugs or something like it coming in from abroad we'll maybe catch them bringing the stuff ashore. If it's stuff going out, whether from the Atomic Plant or anything else, well, I don't suppose you'll see much. Still, we've got to cover it so take binoculars and cameras with you. Keep in touch with Inspector Mowatt by radio but keep communications to a minimum. Whatever happens, I'll have a Search Warrant ready to give Murie House the once-over when the Sea Spray is in and we have our hands on Roberts senior, so stay out there and join up with the search team" As the two men turned to leave he stopped them with a chuckle. "The girl said their kit was heavier going out than coming back, so what price your drugs theory now, Murdo?"

"Well, we'll soon see, Sir." Murdo grinned suddenly, glad to be moving again. "Would you be betting a bottle of Talisker on it, Sir?"

"Ha ha, I hate to take your whisky, but you're on!"

Murdo, with the help of Inspector Pollock, selected two Constables, Lachlan Campbell, whose father was a gamekeeper out west, and Gordon Beckit, who had served five years as an infantry man in the Seaforth Highlanders. Both men knew how to move unobtrusively among the heather-clad hills, and both were good men to have with you if there was 'A wee bit of bother'. They changed into camouflaged waterproof trousers and parkas then, armed with a pair of binoculars each and two expensive cameras, they made for the door. An hour later they were spread out on the cliffs overlooking Murie beach. Murdo was in the centre, nearest the path down to the beach, with the other two a hundred yards on either side of him. They settled down for a long, cold wait in the wet heather with a bitterly cold wind, wet and salty from the sea, blowing straight into their faces.

 

Inspector Mowatt telephoned the nearest operational RAF base and gave the code that passed him straight through to the Station Commander. He explained what he wanted and waited impatiently whilst the Group Captain checked on the deployment of his forces. "I'm sorry, we don't have a Nimrod reconnaissance aircraft in that area, and the soonest we could get one there is about three quarters of an hour. We do, however, have a flight of Buccaneer attack aircraft in the vicinity and could get them to take some photographs for you."

"Anything you can do, we'd be grateful for. Can you do it without alerting the boat crews and perhaps making them dump all the evidence overboard?"

"Hmmm, not so easy, I'm afraid. The Bucks don't have the sophisticated surveillance equipment of the Nimrod. Their cameras are designed to film their targets during a low-level attack, so any pictures taken from far enough away that the boats wouldn't see or hear them wouldn't be up to much." His voice brightened. "Tell you what, though, we could do a simulated attack on them. We often do that, nothing dangerous of course, but ships are well used to having Bucks and Jaguars doing low passes over them. Will that do until we can get a Nimrod into the area?"

The Inspector hesitated, then decided that it was their only hope. "Yes, and thank you for your help. You'll keep me informed?" The Group Captain promised he would, then replaced the 'phone in its cradle and started to issue orders.

Five hundred miles north and twenty thousand feet above the sullen waters of the Iceland-Faroes gap, a flight of three Buccaneer marine attack aircraft were nuzzling up to a Lockheed Tristar tanker aircraft. Each had its refuelling probe plugged into a long hose pipe trailing behind the tanker, one midway along each wing and the other directly behind the tail. When the call came through on the radio the leader replied curtly, "Wait one, I'm prodding." Two minutes later his tanks were full and he slowed a fraction to unplug, and then retracted his probe. Only then did he radio for instructions. By the time he had finished, his two wingmen had unplugged and were formed up on his wingtips. He radioed briefly. "Red two and three, did you get that."

The calm replies, "Red two, affirmative. Red three, affirmative," came in quick sequence.

"Open up to Combat Spread at twenty thousand feet and we'll do a radar scan of the probable target area. If we see anything interesting we'll go down and take a closer look." The two wingmen turned obediently outwards and took up their positions in line abreast about two miles distant on either side. This was high altitude for the Bucks, their natural environment was less than two hundred and fifty feet above the waves at transonic speed, flashing in to fire deadly sea-skimming missiles at enemy shipping. Now they were heading south towards the fifty or so mile semi-circle that must contain the Sea Spray, and hopefully her consort.

Twenty five minutes later the Bucks had trawled the whole area and had found just five ships. Only two were close together, and apparently on a collision course. One was large and the other small. With a few brief commands the mock attack was set up. The three aircraft would howl in at mast-top height from different directions, the wartime aim being to split and overwhelm the enemy's defences. It required impeccable flying and split-second timing - but the Buccaneer crews were masters of their art.

Down they plummeted towards the surface of the grey sea, well out of sight of the two vessels. Then a split, with the three aircraft racing off to pick up their individual attack lines. A quick radio call and in three cockpits three pairs of throttles moved forward, and three pairs of Rolls Royce Spey engines spun up to combat power. Like a single well-oiled machine the three aircraft converged on their quarry at near sonic speed. Red leader took the large ship fine on her port bow, rose slightly to miss the superstructure, and then took the converted fishing boat almost square beam on. The two ships had obviously met, done their business and were now separating. Red two passed slightly to the right of the smaller vessel and then took the larger one square on her starboard side. Red three came smoking in, flashed over the boat close enough to rattle the cabin windows violently, and curved slightly to take the ship from dead astern. It was all over in seconds and the Bucks had disappeared over the horizons leaving only a criss cross of faint, smoky trails to mark their passage.

Red two turned south and headed for home with his precious film, the other two filmed the remaining three ships in the target area before following him.

Inspector Mowatt snatched up the telephone, listened briefly, mouthed his 'thank you's' and was rising to his feet before the handset was back in its cradle. He ignored the Superintendent's secretary and walked into the office he was sharing with West-Samual. "The RAF have just 'phoned, Sir. The Sea Spray rendezvoused with a Panamanian cargo ship called El Greco." His face was flushed with triumph. "We've got them, Sir!"

"Good! Did the Air Force actually see anything being passed from one vessel to the other?"

"No, Sir, they arrived just as the vessels were pulling apart - but their film clearly shows the wakes of the ships and, according to the Photographic Interpreter, there is no doubt that the vessel had been stopped or steaming very slowly."

"Good enough! Okay, get onto the Navy and see if they can intercept the El Greco and do the needful. Oh, and get everything you can on that ship, particularly her previous voyages around here." As the Inspector was leaving the office, West-Samual called him back, "John! Ask the Air Force to keep us informed about the movements of the Sea Spray, and ask the Navy if they can time their arrest of the El Greco to co-coincide with our arrest of the Sea Spray - no point in giving either of the bastards the chance to radio to the other, eh?"

Ten minutes later the Captain of the Destroyer HMS Cataclysm was reading a newly decrypted message. He raised his eyes from the paper and in his soft-spoken way said to his First Lieut