Dead game, p.16
Dead Game, page 16
part #1 of Keith Calder Series
‘They’ll still be around somewhere.’
‘But where? That’s where all the buries were.’ He pointed into a prairie of ploughland. ‘We’ll try the whins.’
They paced slowly through the gorse and broom, but not a rabbit bolted. So, being who they were, they sat down beside the loch, close together despite the encumbering gun and cameras, and watched the dawn grow into a cold, colourless light that promised snow to come. Small divers bobbed in the advancing tide, and further out a fish jumped.
Suddenly Keith stood up. ‘Duck,’ he said.
Obediently, Molly ducked.
Keith swung his gun up and fired. High overhead a lone mallard staggered and died. As its wings folded the wind caught it.
‘Damnation!’ Keith said with feeling. ‘It’s in the water.’
‘Shall I run for the dogs?’
‘Too late. The wind’s taking it out. By the time they got here it’d be too dangerous.’
‘I’ll go.’
The phrase had no meaning for Keith, who was watching his duck drift away. He was very fond of a roasted mallard. Then Molly ran into the water, splashing white droplets into the air. She had stripped to a couple of scraps of white nylon, and Keith thought she was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen.
‘For Christ’s sake be careful,’ he called.
‘You don’t want to lose me?’
‘I’d rather lose the duck.’
‘Much rather?’
‘Much rather.’
‘That’s good. Brrr.’
She waded and then swam, arching her back to keep her hair out of the water so that her buttocks made twin islands that came and went. She reached the duck and turned. Keith felt his breath come again as she dog-paddled back.
When she was only knee-deep, he picked up one of her cameras. ‘A good retriever carries the bird in her mouth,’ he said.
Molly giggled between her shivers, but she took the neck of the bird between her jaws.
‘Now retrieve it properly to hand, and I’ll try to warm you up again,’ Keith said. He took off his quilted jacket.
Five minutes later, arm-in-arm, they were heading back to the van. Their thoughts were on bacon and eggs and toast and coffee and walking the dogs, and, in Molly’s case, dry underwear.
From the very moment that they crested the last rise and saw the van below them it was obvious that something was wrong.
*
It may be that Keith’s life was saved by his habit of never unloading his gun until the very last moment permitted by the etiquette of safety. He had been caught out too often by that inspired bird that waits until all the guns are empty and then takes off to live and die another day. Be that as it may, Keith walked with his gun open but with cartridges in the chambers.
Beside the big van there was a man’s figure, and stealth was written in his every movement. When they first saw him, he was putting down a square four-gallon drum, very gently, about ten yards from the van. Then he walked, easing his weight slowly onto each foot in turn, towards the van, feeling in his pockets as he went.
‘Try to get a shot of him,’ Keith said urgently. Then, as he realised the man’s intentions, he broke into a run. He tried to shout but his vocal chords seemed to have turned to wool. Then it was too late. He saw a match leave the man’s hand, a tiny spark that curved through the air. As it touched down, the ground under and around the van erupted with a soft explosion that was followed by a roar of flame towering up, the only splash of colour in the white light of that day. An area around the van’s door had received particular treatment, for there the flames bulged out and roared higher into the great billows of black smoke that formed above.
Keith’s recollection of the next few seconds was to remain forever patchy. He remembered running and trying to shout, and he remembered the figure, black against the flames in the shadow of the smoke, turning with something in its hands. He remembered the man staggering and falling into the edge of the flames just as the van’s petrol tank blew up. Of the firing of shots he had no recollection at all. He just remembered standing, weeping, where the heat of the blaze kept him back, hearing the roar as his possessions went up and the screaming of the two dogs.
Chapter Twelve
It was very late that night before Mr Enterkin reached Inverness, and later still before he was admitted to the office of Superintendent Mellish. In that austere room he found his client confronting, with a certain exhausted truculence, no less than four senior police officers plus a sergeant who was staring gloomily at a nearly empty shorthand book.
Mr Enterkin had had a long day. So had the others. But the solicitor bounced into the room with a twinkle and a cheerful nod to each of the tired faces. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Enterkin and I represent Mr Calder.’
‘Now perhaps we can get on,’ said a voice, and Enterkin looked again and recognised Munro’s long face.
‘You got my message, then?’ said Mellish.
‘No. It’s probably waiting at my office. I had a phone call from my client’s wife and set off at once. I’m sorry to have taken so long. I could have flown from Turnhouse, but I thought it better to come by car and visit the scene before coming here, and there’s snow on the high ground just to make things difficult. The ploughs are out.’
‘Where’s Molly?’ Keith asked. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Right as rain, my boy, and waiting downstairs. You’ve a good girl there. She seems to have kept her head admirably while, if I may say so, all about her were losing theirs and most women would have been running round in hysterical little circles. And who are all these gentlemen? Acting Chief Inspector Munro I know, of course.’
The man in the uniform of a superintendent, standing behind the paper-stacked desk, smiled and nodded. ‘I’m Mellish. Local. You say you know Chief Inspector Munro,’ and in his voice there was the faintest possible suggestion that this might not be wholly a privilege. He indicated the two men in plain clothes, and his manner suggested a degree of professional respect. ‘Superintendent Gilchrist and Chief Inspector Turner are from the Serious Crimes Squad in Strathclyde. They only preceded you by a few minutes.’ Mellish was a big man, grey and square as a lump of granite. His accent was Aberdeenshire, the pure Doric of the farms of Buchan, tempered slightly by years of exposure to other tongues, although his words were correct and precise.
‘And what serious crime brings them all this way?’ Enterkin asked.
‘That will no doubt be revealed to us in due course,’ said Mellish, and the words sat so oddly on his accent that Enterkin nearly smiled. ‘It can hardly be that an isolated death out here would fetch them this distance. They’re here to observe for the moment – as is Chief Inspector Munro,’ he added firmly.
Superintendent Gilchrist, a slim man, ramrod-straight which gave him a military look, smiled faintly. ‘At the moment, I’m afraid I know as little as you do,’ he said.
‘Less,’ said Enterkin. ‘Much less.’ He sat down beside Keith and there was a general rumble of chairs. ‘I’ve agreed to act for you in this one matter.’
‘That’s understood,’ said Keith.
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Several,’ Keith said. ‘There was a doctor came out with the ambulance. He put a patch on me. Then I was taken to the local station, and they called another doctor who replaced the bandage and examined me for shock. He said I’d do. Then they took me to Fort William and did it all over again. And then I was brought through here and they called yet another doctor, and he said that I had been shocked and needed a rest, so they made me lie down in a cell for most of the afternoon.’ Keith sounded indignant. There were smiles.
‘Good,’ said Enterkin. ‘Now, what have you said so far?’
‘Very little,’ Keith said. ‘I was trying to tell Mr Mellish all about it when Munro arrived. He wanted me cautioned, and when Mr Mellish said that there was no call for that just yet awhile Munro cautioned me himself.’
Munro turned a dull red.
‘Aye,’ said Mellish. ‘Well. I was just wanting to find out what happened. Time enough for cautions before taking a proper statement.’
‘Let’s assume,’ said Enterkin smoothly, ‘that Chief Inspector Munro felt that a caution was in your best interests.’
‘Maybe,’ said Keith. ‘After that, I said that I was saying nothing until you were here.’
‘Very wise. But you can tell your story now.’
‘Don’t you want to hear it first?’
‘Not in the least.’
Keith shrugged. ‘I already referred Mr Mellish to my earlier statement, and he’s got it there.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Enterkin, ‘the two gentlemen from Strathclyde might be permitted to read it while we talk, but just give us a brief summary of it.’
‘It says how I was present at the shoot when Ronald McLure died, for which my brother-in-law (as he is now) was arrested. McLure was found burned but there was a bullet in him, and I was asked by the defence, being a gunsmith, to investigate. And I was investigating. And two men came and offered me money to leave it alone, and when I wouldn’t they started to beat me up. And I knocked seven colours of shit out of them,’ Keith added reflectively. ‘You’ve still got one of them in custody – that’s the man Paisley. The other got away and went down to Newton Lauder, where he beat up a constable. He was trying to get at my wife, either to intimidate her or possibly to snatch her. I caught up with him and thumped him again.’
Gilchrist looked up from the copy of Keith’s earlier statement. ‘And was that the same man who set fire to your van this morning?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Keith said helplessly. ‘How could I tell, in that light? But it would make sense – either as revenge, or because it would wreck his reputation to fail, or even because his client still wanted me to stop. He meant to burn Molly and me alive. He listened outside the van, and he heard the breathing of the two dogs . . .’
‘Just tell us what happened,’ Enterkin said.
‘We were coming back from an early morning walk.’ Keith rubbed his face.
‘Are you all right?’ Enterkin asked. He produced a large hip-flask.
Keith waved it away. ‘I’ll do for a bit yet. I’d shot a duck. I wonder what ever happened to that duck.’
‘Molly was most concerned about it,’ Enterkin said. ‘She thought a fox had probably carried it off from where you dropped it. She wanted to go back again and look for it. She said you’d be wanting that duck.’
‘It was a good fat one. It weighed like a ton. I was carrying it and my gun as we walked back to the van.’
‘Was the gun loaded?’ Mellish asked.
‘It was open for safety, but there were cartridges in it. If you unload before you have to, sure as hell you’ll have birds around your head like midges and rabbits running between your feet.’ Somebody gave a short chuckle. ‘Anyway, as soon as we could see the van, at about sixty yards, we could see a fellow at it and he seemed to be moving about on tip-toe, so I knew that he was up to no good.’
‘Do you remember what you said to your wife?’ asked Enterkin.
‘No,’ said Keith. ‘Probably something that’d not bear repeating.’
‘Oh, it would bear repeating all right, but not just yet. Go on.’
‘I knew something was far wrong. Maybe it was just the way he was acting, but I’d seen him put down a can and the wind was towards me, so maybe I smelled the petrol or maybe that was later. I started to run. I meant to shout but my voice would only make a croak. He threw a match and – Boom! – the whole caboodle went roaring up in flames.’
‘Tell us about the exchange of shots,’ Mellish said gently.
Keith rubbed his mouth. ‘The only way I know that I fired at him is because I found that one of my cartridges was spent. And I know that he shot at me because I’ve two holes in my jacket and a groove in the flesh under my left armpit, but I never felt it at the time. I just don’t remember anything about it – my mind was too taken up with the horror of it all. I’d taken years to build up my business and the van, and I could hear the dogs yelling. But I can tell you this – I’d not have shot unless he shot first. I’m often asked to give safety instructions to young pupils, or to speak to clubs about it. I seem to spend half my life impressing on people that you must never ever let a gun be pointed at anybody, loaded or not. It’d be against my nature.’
‘Then how would you not remember doing such a thing?’ Munro asked.
‘I don’t know that I did,’ Keith said. ‘But if I did, then I could easily not remember. Everybody knows how patchy your memory can get in an emergency. It’s as if your mind’s too taken up with doing the right thing to spare any time for recording it.’
‘Do you have to concentrate, to shoot straight?’ Enterkin asked.
‘No more than you would, to kick a ball. After all these years it’s as instinctive to me as knocking in a nail is to a joiner.’
‘But,’ said Munro, ‘you can’t swear from your own memory that you didn’t shoot first?’
Mellish looked quickly at Enterkin, but the solicitor shrugged. ‘That question’s already covered by Mr Calder’s earlier remarks, so he may as well answer it.’
‘No,’ Keith said. ‘I can’t swear it from my memory. I just know that it can’t be so.’
‘It seems to me,’ Munro began, looking at Mellish, ‘that you have no option –’
‘And it seems to me,’ Mellish broke in, ‘that it is not for you to tell me what options are open to me.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Enterkin said quickly into the crackling silence, ‘if you’ll bear with me for a few minutes I think I can clarify this aspect of the case.’
‘Very well,’ said Mellish.
‘Thank you,’ Enterkin said, beaming. ‘You will recall that I asked Mr Calder what he said to his wife when they first saw the man at the vehicle, and he didn’t remember. He might have been forgiven if he had uttered some expletive, or an expression of surprise, or even called upon his maker. But instead, with rare presence of mind, he said “Try to get a shot of him”. So his wife assures me. In this context, of course, the word “shot” was used to mean a photograph.’
‘And did she?’ asked Gilchrist quickly.
‘She photographed the whole series of events, and very good they are too. This, I must admit, surprised me. At the risk of being called a male chauvinist, which perhaps I am, I’ll say that in my experience a woman’s instinct in an emergency is to freeze – which instinct, in that half of the human race that is more likely to be “minding the baby”, is probably the right one. But Mrs Calder explained this to me. She said that when she first took up wildlife photography she missed a number of unrepeatable shots because she was too interested in watching the event to pay attention to her photography. So she trained herself so that, whatever the fascination of the subject – be it a fight between robins, a mating of deer or a rabbit hypnotising a stoat (or possibly the other way around, for I know little of these matters) – she has learned to concentrate her mind on her camera. And this self-training took over, with the result that we have an excellent record of those few seconds.
‘Very sensibly, after telephoning me on her husband’s behalf, she took herself into Fort William, and by the time when, by arrangement, I picked her up there, she had persuaded a local photographer to develop and print her shots.’
In a dead silence, Enterkin produced a box bearing the label of a much-used photographic manufacturer, and opened it.
‘While much credit goes to Mrs Calder for her discipline and photographic ability, it must be admitted that luck was with her. This first shot shows Mr Calder already running. You can see that his gun is still open, but he has dropped the duck which you can see on the track behind him. The man by the van is in the act of turning and he has something in his hands which could be a Sten gun. Was there a Sten found near the body?’
‘Never mind asking questions,’ Munro said.
‘I think,’ said Mellish, ‘that Mr Enterkin is entitled to know the answer. Yes, a Sten was recovered.’
‘It could have come out of Calder’s van when it blew up,’ Munro said.
‘I never had a Sten,’ said Keith.
‘In any case,’ Mellish said, ‘the floor of the van was metal and remained more or less in one piece. The gun clearly arrived from outside.’ He studied the photograph through a glass. ‘Without prejudice, I’m prepared to accept for the moment that this is the same gun or similar.’
‘This,’ said Enterkin, ‘is also the only photograph with any kind of a picture of the man’s face, so here is a greater enlargement of that part of it. A poor but recognisable likeness, I think you’ll find.’ He passed the second print to Keith.
‘That’s him,’ Keith said. ‘The intermediary. The man with all the names.’
‘May I?’ Gilchrist stretched out and took the print.
‘The third print, from the second negative,’ said Enterkin, ‘shows Mr Calder about ten yards nearer to the van. It has actually caught a muzzle-flash from the Sten, which is pointed almost in the direction of the camera. It’s almost a miracle that Mrs Calder wasn’t hit.’ Keith drew in his breath at that. ‘You’ll see that Mr Calder still hasn’t closed his own gun.’ He passed the photograph across the desk.
‘In the fourth print, from the third negative, the Sten has swung past Mr Calder, who is another ten yards forward, still running, and perhaps thirty to forty yards from the other man. The tear in Mr Calder’s jacket is visible, so he had already been hit. And he has closed his gun and is aiming from the hip – indeed, the gun is somewhat blurred compared to the rest of the photograph, so I think we have caught the gun in the moment of recoiling. The last print shows the man falling backwards into the flames.’
Mellish lined up the four photographs on his desk. ‘Mrs Calder is to be congratulated,’ he said. ‘It would be next to impossible to get a conviction for culpable homicide in the face of these.’
‘With all due respect,’ Munro said bitterly, ‘you have to hold him. It may prove to be justifiable homicide at the end of the day. It’s not a matter that the fiscal has power to settle or to recommend bail. A man’s died in a shooting.’
