Brutal Revenge (15 page)

Fortunately,
it wasn't serious, she said. The swelling was the colour of a rotten apple and
twice the size, but the skin had not split and there was no blood. It was
painful, though, that she could see for herself from the expression on his face
when he tried to move his head to look around the room. But he'd live, she
assured him, which was more than she could say for those other poor devils.

He
asked her what had happened to the man who'd done it and she said he'd got away
by outrunning those who were chasing him. But it was known he had come around
to this side of the hill and since it was naturally assumed he would head for
the wood near the lochan that's where they were going to concentrate the
search.

After
plumping up his pillows and helping him to sit up straight, she said, “Tis a
terrible thing that's going on. I can't see why you don't leave 'em for the police
to catch. Already three good men have been killed. Dear God, how many more have
got to die before you stupid menfolk come to realize that this is not the right
way to go about it?”

He
saw tears in her eyes then and one dropped on to her left cheek. She must have
felt it because she wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand. Then, as
if to save face, she turned away from him and waddled duck-like to the door.

“Bella
Macleod is outside asking after yer health,” she said, looking back. “D'yer
want me say that she can come on in?”

“Yes.
I'd like to see her. And thanks.”

“Ach,
it was nothing.”

Bella
was relieved to see him sitting up. She rushed across to the bed and buried her
head against his chest, weeping softly in slight convulsive shudders. He ran
his fingers gently through her hair, enjoying the softness of it.

She
looked up at him, red-eyed and beautiful, and said, “It's a sure sign the Lord
was with you, Andrew.”

He
assumed she was referring to the fact that Parker's rifle had been empty when he'd
pulled the trigger.

“Then
you know what happened?” he said.

“Angus
told me. They saw it all as they were running to get to you. He said you shot
one of them and the other tried to shoot you but his gun was empty so he hit
you instead.”

“That's
about it.”

“Who
was the one who got away?” she asked.

He
lowered his voice so that if anyone was eaves-dropping outside the door they
wouldn't hear him.

“His
name’s Parker,” he said, and an image of the man starring down at him
malignantly flashed in his mind.

“So
why did they try to kill you?”

“It
was a mistake of sorts,” he said. “They appeared out of nowhere and saw me with
the rifle. They didn't give me a chance to explain why I had it and obviously
assumed I intended using it on them.”

“You
mean they thought you were trying to save yourself by going after them?”

He
nodded.

“The
fools,” she said.

He
nodded again and shrugged. “Talk about a bloody cock up.”

He
put his finger under her chin and lifted her head. “Look, Bella, I've got to
get away from here before they catch Parker. He might tell them about me. About
us.”

“But
they’ll probably kill him before he talks.”

“Even
so, the ferry will be here tomorrow and an investigation will be mounted. It
won't take the police long to sus me out.” He stared into her face searchingly
for a few seconds. “I want you to come with me, Bella. Tonight.”

She
spoke without hesitation. “Of course. I said I would. Nothing has changed in
that respect.”

“That’s
my girl. Have you had any luck with a boat?”

“Not
much, but I’ve found out that there’s an outboard motor in the tackle shed at
the harbour. It can be fitted to any of the small craft down there.”

“I'll
get it after dark then,” he said. “We’ll load as much of the treasure on board
as we can. I’ll need another van, though. Can you find one?”

“I’ll
try.”

Bella
got up suddenly and went across to the window, looking down. Her voice was
soft, a whisper. “From now on we'll always be running, won't we? Living in fear
of being found out for the rest of our lives.”

The
statement surprised him and he groped for the right words. “Not always, love.
We'll go far away, use other names. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

She
turned to face him and the tears were back in her eyes. “I didn't think it
would be like this. You said there would be no killing. You promised. And
already three men have been murdered. Three men I've known all my life. And
then there’s Anna.”

“I
know how you feel and I'm sorry. What more can I say? It wasn't my doing. If
all had gone to plan we'd be back in England by now.”

“But
I feel partly to blame for their deaths.”

“The
one person who is to blame is dead himself,” he cut in. “And killing him was
the biggest act of charity I've ever done in my life.”

“But
that doesn't change what's happened,” she said.

She
broke down then in a paroxysm of tears and he forced himself up from the bed
and went to her despite the pain that exploded in his head. He put his arms
around her and squeezed her, hoping his own strength would pour into her, make
her feel more secure and less vulnerable.

Voices
outside drew his attention to the window and he turned to look out. What he saw
caused him to loosen his grip on Bella. He stepped closer to the window for a
better view and the scene on the street below brought a lump to his throat.

The
bodies of the two dead islanders were being carried into a house opposite and
alongside them were two hysterical women. One of them was trying to shake her
husband back to life, screaming, crying, stumbling over herself to keep up with
the two men bearing the body. The other woman was yelling at the sky, her face
pleading, her hands clenched into tight fists.

Maclean
shuddered when he realized that he was ultimately responsible for making them
widows. This and the events of the past few hours cut deep into his conscience.
He felt ashamed of himself. After all, these had once been his people, some
were even distantly related to him by blood, and yet his carefully constructed
plan had so far succeeded only in bringing misery and disaster into their
lives.

At
that moment there was a knock at the door and, without waiting for an answer,
Angus Campbell came in wearing a lugubrious expression and looking very tired.

He
showed no surprise at seeing Bella, for their relationship had always been an
open one. He came in and closed the door behind him.

“It's
good to see that you're well, Andrew,” he said, his voice low and ragged.

Maclean
wondered what the big islander would do to him if he discovered the truth and
the thought made his flesh crawl.

“Any
news?” Maclean asked, as he pulled away from Bella and returned to the bed.

Angus
removed his cloth cap and ran a hand through his hair. He came further into the
room and settled in a wooden chair at the foot of the bed.

“Some
of the lads are out at the wood now looking for the one who clobbered you” he
said. “There's been no sign of the fourth man, yet. We've combed this side of
the island thoroughly enough, so we can only assume he's on the other side.
We'll get him sooner or later, though, don't you worry.”

“Then
you're not going to wait for the police after what's happened?”

Angus
raised his arms in exasperation. “Not you as well, laddie. That's all I've been
hearing from the womenfolk. Leave it to the law, they say. And meanwhile those
murdering thugs roam around out there wrecking and looting our homes. No matter
that they might shoot more of us in the process. We just can't stand by and let
them get away with it. We've got to stand up for ourselves.”

“What
if you still haven't caught them by the time the ferry arrives tomorrow?”
Maclean said.

Angus
shrugged. “I don't think I'll have much say in the matter then. The women will make
sure the authorities are brought into it despite the treasure. They'll want to
get on with funeral arrangements and such. But it would be a bloody pity if the
law was to take them. They'll no suffer enough is what I'm thinking. They
deserve to die a coward's death.”

TWENTY
FIVE

Parker
couldn't see the wood from the derelict cottage in which he was holed up and
therefore didn't know they were concentrating their efforts on it. And since he
hadn't seen another human being in almost an hour, he was beginning to wonder
if they'd packed it in for the day and gone home.

His
hideaway was right out in the open on the moors and clearly visible in daylight
to anyone who came within half a mile of it. It was the isolation of the place
and the stark nakedness of the moorland around it which had drawn him to it.
For it would be impossible for anyone to get close to him during the day
without him seeing them. And in the event that they did come he could run in
any of a dozen directions.

He
was feeling cold now and lonely. He longed for the warmth and comfort of his
tiny centrally heated flat in London. How long could he sustain his will to
live he didn't know and hated to think. But gradually and inevitably the
strength in both his mind and body was being sapped and soon, he feared, he
would stop running.

He
had been reflecting on what had happened. He and Hodge had given Maclean no
chance at all to offer an explanation. Had leapt straight at the obvious
conclusion. Mightn't they have been wrong? Done Maclean an unforgivable injustice?
He thought back to the incident and recalled that Maclean had been about to say
something just as Hodge had gone for him. Was he going to tell them that they
were making a terrible mistake? That he was still on their side, fighting
against insurmountable odds to find a way out for them?

No.
It was impossible. Crap. Loaded rifle. Running with the mob. It all added up.
And even if he hadn't actually intended shooting at them himself, he was doing
precious bloody little to stop the others doing so.

But
supposing he had been looking out for them. Supposing he'd been hoping they'd
emerge from the dunes so he could give them the rifle… No, it couldn't be. He
refused to accept it. The facts spoke for themselves, didn't they?

He
slept for a couple of hours. He hadn't wanted to, but fatigue swamped him like
a thick, black cloud as he sat on the floor with his back propped up against a
wall. He dreamt of home, of the comforts he had never really appreciated.

When
he woke, a strange pinkish glow permeated the air inside the cottage. Dusk. The
sun striving to resist the onslaught of another night.

He
wondered if he had seen the sun for the last time. If by morning he'd be dead.
The oppressive gloom which coated the landscape outside enhanced his feeling of
loneliness. It was as if the whole world had turned against him.

He
got to his feet and looked through one of the window apertures. If he waited
for a while before moving off it would be pitch dark. He could move about the
island with impunity then, go to the very edge of the village without being
seen. He had no preconceived plan of action. He'd just have to play it by ear,
see what developed.

He
waited for an hour, pacing the floor and rubbing his hands together to keep the
blood circulating.

It
was a clear night. The air still, the stars bright, and no clouds to speak of.
If only he could find a boat. the sea would be his friend tonight. He was sure
of it.

There
was no door to the cottage, just an opening. He pulled up the hood of his
anorak and went out into the night. There were no lights showing anywhere and
he was thankful there was a full moon. It defined the landscape for him, making
shadows from dykes and byres.

He
headed the way he'd come, back towards the road. Once there, he'd turn north
and walk towards the village. That much he had already worked out in his mind.
Maybe he'd come across a remote farmhouse that was occupied. A woman alone,
perhaps, who would make the perfect hostage. He doubted that he would be so
lucky, though. By now everyone would be in the village, relying on the
principle of safety in numbers to keep them out of harm's way.

He
trudged across a couple of fields. Without the wind to torment the island the
place was disturbingly quiet.

Thick
mud clung to the soles of his shoes, making the going that much tougher, and it
wasn't long before he was panting and sweating. His breath clouded in the
frosty air and his nose felt as if it was about to fall off. The sleep had
revived him a little, but it had failed to replenish his store of energy which
had been drained completely that afternoon. Having walked only a few hundred
yards, he was beginning to feel the strain.

He
climbed over a low wall and rested for a few minutes. Whilst sitting there
cross-legged on the ground, he longed for a cigarette or a stiff, gut-burning
drink, anything to calm his nerves.