Brutal Revenge (12 page)

He
cupped his bare hands and blew warm air into his palms. Then he zipped his
anorak all the way up to his chin and as he walked on he began to wonder
detachedly what had happened to Stewart.

Had
he been killed or taken hostage? If he was still alive would he talk and
identify his accomplices? Maclean still could not fully grasp what had
happened. What a fucking mess.

First
that stupid prick Hodge had beaten the girl to death. Then the frigging wind
had smashed up the boat. Followed by another bout of madness from The Cowboy.

Jesus.

It
was meant to be a doddle. A raid that even a bunch of amateurs could have
pulled off. But instead it had all gone horribly wrong and God only knew how it
was going to play out.

He
halted fifty yards from the croft and climbed onto a low wall. The lights were
on in the house and he knew that Bella would be waiting for him. He had told
her they would pick her up on their way back to the boat with the treasure. And
he had assured her that nothing could go wrong and nobody would get hurt.

He
thought about Hodge again, and immediately wished it had been that bastard
who'd been left behind on the pier instead of Stewart. Hodge was a crazy man. A
bloody psycho, and he, Maclean, should have known better than to have recruited
him for the blag.

He
pushed from his mind thoughts about what had happened and why it had happened
and jumped down off the wall. He had a job to do and there wasn't much time
left in which to do it. He guessed that someone would shortly be arriving with
news from the village.

He
trudged across the next field, plodded through a potato patch and across the
back-yard.

Bella
heard him enter the kitchen and appeared from the bedroom. She was wearing a
coat and shoes and there was a suitcase on the floor next to her. As soon as
she saw his face she realized that something was wrong. Her facial muscles tightened

Without
preamble, he said, “Things didn’t work out. We have the treasure but some
people have been killed.”

Her
hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God!”

He
crossed the room and took hold of her hands. They were cold and trembling.

“I
wasn't to blame,” he said in a shaky voice. “It was one of the others. It was a
fucking mess. And to top it all we’ve lost the boat. It came away from the
jetty and was smashed up on the rocks.”

Before
he was through telling her the whole story she was crying her heart out, her
body racked with sobs. He pulled her to him, held her tight and felt a sense of
shame so deep it made him sweat.

“This
is awful,” Bella said through a cascade of tears. “Anna was a friend. And her
father was a good man. They didn’t deserve to die. My God I can’t believe it.”

“Neither
can I,” Maclean said. “And I saw it with my own fucking eyes.”

Bella
managed to stop crying after about a minute. She took out a hanky and wiped
away the tears. Her eyes were red and swollen.
 
She pushed out her lower lip and said, “Where are the others?”

Maclean
passed a hand over his face, pressed his own eyes shut. “They’re hiding out in
a derelict house. They want me to find a way off the island. And to do that I
need your help.”

She
swallowed hard and wiped an arm across her mouth. “What can I do?”

“We
need a boat. Any boat. So long as it’s got an engine or an outboard. So think
carefully. Where can we lay our hands on something?”

At
that moment, Bella's face was struck by the lights of a vehicle showing through
the window. It had turned on to the track leading to the front of the house.

“Now,
keep calm,” Maclean told her. “Take off your coat and hide the case. Tell them
I’ve been with you here all evening. They can’t know that I was involved. I’m
pretty sure they didn’t see me in the van.”

“But
what if the man who was left behind has told them?”

“Then
I’m fucked. So we just have to hope he hasn’t.”

“But…”

“Look,
you can’t let me down, Bella. My life depends on it. And for that matter so
does yours.”

SEVENTEEN

Robert
McNeil and Johnny Thompson were at the door when Bella answered it. They were
both in their late fifties and they looked scared. Bella let them in and they did
not seem surprised to see Maclean sitting in an armchair.

“We
need you, Andrew,” Thompson said. “Something has happened.”

Maclean
hauled himself to his feet. He had already removed his coat and shoes and wiped
the sweat from his face with a towel.

“What
is it?” he said.

There
followed a verbal encounter between the two islanders as to who could tell the
story quickest. Maclean tried not to flinch when they revealed Stewart’s fate. He
had been stabbed and beaten and finally killed with a pitchfork. In truth Maclean
was relieved. At least Stewart hadn’t talked.

“We’ve
got to find those bastards, Andrew,” Thompson said. “Can we count on your
help?”

“Of course,” Maclean said. “I’ll get
dressed. Wait outside and I’ll get myself sorted.”

“Okay

“We
have weapons in the car,” Thompson said. “We’re getting together in the village
to work out a plan of action.”

The
two men went back outside. As soon as they were gone Maclean took Bella in his
arms. She was shaking again and her sallow face felt cold against his.

“You
were terrific,” he said. “But you have to stay strong, and calm. If I don’t go
with them they’ll get suspicious.”

“But
what if something happens to you?”

“It
won’t. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, get ready to leave the
island. I’ll find a way off. I promise.”

She
looked up at him, her eyes searching his face.

“You
must be careful, Andrew. Don’t underestimate the men of Stack. They’re stubborn
and resourceful. They’re also unforgiving.”

“I
know how to look after myself,” he said, forcing a half-hearted smile. “Try not
to worry.”

She
shook her head. “How can I not worry? This is a disaster. You said nobody would
get hurt. You said it would be easy.”

“I
know what I said, Bella, and I’m truly sorry for what’s happened. But I’ll make
it up to you. I promise you that.”

He
gave her a long, lingering kiss on the mouth and put his coat and shoes back
on. The two men were waiting for him outside next to a battered VW. He climbed
in the back and they drove Maclean to the pier. On the way they described in
more detail what had happened to Stewart. He couldn’t help thinking that he was
a whisker away from meeting the same gruesome fate himself. He said nothing,
just prayed that by some miracle a means of escape would present itself.

They
went to the village hall. Inside, all the menfolk had gathered, at least forty
of them, mostly old men. They each carried a weapon of some kind.

Angus
Campbell came bounding over, shotgun cradled at his hip. “Andrew,” he said. “Have
you been told what’s happened?”

Maclean
nodded. “Who are they?” he asked.

Angus
shook his head. “We don’t know. But they came here for the treasure.”

Maclean
gestured towards the gun Angus was carrying. “What are you planning to do with
that?” he said.

“Exact
revenge, of course. These men are killers. We have to stop them before they
claim more lives.”

“What
about the cops?”

Angus
shook his head. “We don’t need the police. We’ll handle this ourselves in our
own way and deal with the consequences afterwards.”

Maclean
cleared his throat. “Then count me in,” he said. “I’m with you all the way. But
how did they find out about the treasure?”
 

Angus
narrowed his eyes. “I wondered if you might have let word slip yourself, laddie.”

Maclean
tried to appear shocked. “I can assure you I didn't give the name of the island
to anyone.”

“What
about your dealer friends?”

“I
lied to them. I told them the treasure was from a wreck off the Shetlands.”

Angus
studied him carefully for a long moment and then shrugged. “It’s something
we’ll worry about after we find them.”

“So
where are they?”

“We
don’t know. But it won't take us long to sniff them out. They're strangers here
and they know nothing about the island.”

Angus
went to the front of the hall where he stood on the platform next to the
pulpit. He raised his shotgun to bring order to the gathering and placed the
butt-end on the floor.

“We
need to coordinate the search,” he said. “But we should hold off until dawn.
Hunting them down in the dark will be too dangerous. Meanwhile everyone on the
island has to be alerted. We need to make sure they’re all safe.”

There
was a brief discussion before everyone started to file out.

As
Angus was leaving he said to Maclean, “You come with me, Andrew. We’ll visit
homes on the north side of the island. Most of those people won’t know what’s
happened yet.”

Maclean
felt his heart sink. He followed Angus outside.

“You
need a weapon,” Angus told him. “I have a spare rifle. Will you know how to use
it?”

“I’m
sure it won’t be that hard to learn,” Maclean said.

EIGHTEEN

In
the morning there was a mist. At first, in the dawn light, it was eerily
translucent, creeping over the shadowy landscape like a clear, sticky fluid,
consuming everything in its path.

Its
density increased along with its size as the morning wore on and very soon the
whole island was wrapped in a damp, yellowish blanket. It stirred only gently,
indeed almost imperceptibly, in the absence of any wind. A great quietness
prevailed, disturbed only by the distant cry of a gull and the amplified
activities of insects in the tall, still grass.

The
two men sat amongst the depressing ruins of the old Hebridean 'black house',
their ears extra-sensitive to the slightest sound, their bodies cold and weary
from their long ordeal. Their breathing stirred the greyness around them and
their voices — on the few occasions they spoke — seemed unnaturally loud.

The
six-foot thick walls, made from large boulders and with rounded corners, stared
down at them mockingly through the swirling mist. They were inside the shell of
what would once have been the home of a large, hard-working crofting family.
But the walls no longer echoed to the sounds of laughter or of children. Now
they were merely a refuge for a multitude of climbing weeds and industrious
insects.

Naturally,
the roof was gone, the thatching having been blown into oblivion over the
years, and the inner sanctums of the place were laid naked to the sky.

The
two men were sitting with their backs against the wall opposite the narrow
opening that had been the door through which generations of a family had
passed. Just above their heads was the small shapeless hole that had been the
only window. The room itself was about eighteen feet long by fifteen feet wide
with a side door leading into the adjoining byre.

Throughout
the long night, and despite the cold which had early on worked its way inside
his clothing, Parker had been conscious of an almost palpable air of foreboding
about the place. It seemed almost as if the old house resented their very
presence there. He hadn't let it play on his mind, though, as there were more
pressing problems bearing down on him.

Maclean
hadn’t yet returned and he knew that time was running out. He suspected that
the islanders had decided to wait for daylight before mounting a full search.
And when that did get under way it would not take them long to locate the
hideout.

They
had little choice but to sit and wait and pray that Maclean wouldn’t let them
down.

Neither
Parker nor Hodge had slept. Both sat with their backs to the wall and their
knees tucked up in front of them. The silence between them had been a strained
one, taut with tension.

The
arrival of the mist had been welcome. Maybe it would make things difficult for
the hunters for one thing and give Maclean an opportunity to find a way out.

NINETEEN

It
was 9.30 a.m by Parker's watch when the first sounds reached them.

He
heard a sharp cry over to the left and then two shouts came from the right,
seemingly in answer to the first. Were there three of them? Or just two? He
couldn't be sure. But they were working their way up the hill towards the ruins
for certain and at a guess they were about a hundred yards away.

Another
shout. This time from the right and nearer. Sixty yards? Not much further.

“They're
spread out,” Hodge whispered.

Parker
nodded agreement. “They'll be here in a few minutes. Got any bright ideas?”