Lie of the Land (8 page)

He got back in the car and drove the last mile or so down and around the bay towards the hotel, followed the sign into the car park, parked, and made his way round to the front door. Inside, he waited in the reception lobby, all dark wood panelling and claret carpet. There was no one around. A button on the counter told him to ‘Ring For Attention'. He did, heard distant bleeps within. He waited, and was just about to press again, when a man in his sixties, wearing a navy-blue fleece with the RNLI logo in red, came through a fire door.

‘Yes?'

‘Hi. I'd like a room, please. A single, if you have one.'

‘A room?'

‘If you have one, yes. I should've phoned, but I assumed . . .'

For a second the man, who spoke with the faint trace of an American accent, seemed unsure of what was taking place.

‘Sure,' he said at last, narrowing his eyes at Carl. He went behind the reception desk. ‘The ID machine's broken, I'm afraid. We've been trying to get a technician out for weeks.' He smiled and slid a ledger across the counter. ‘You'll have to do it the old-fashioned way.'

Carl signed his name, scanning the rest of the entries as he did so. The previous signature was dated two months before.

‘Did you drive here?'

‘Yes.'

There was a glint in the man's eye. When Carl looked up from the ledger he saw it fade. There was a stag's head mounted over the reception desk. That's enough information for you, you nosey old bugger.

‘You don't get many tourists here then?'

The man raised his bushy eyebrows, amused. ‘Not by car, no.
We still get the odd busload and even a few by boat, but the last tourists to arrive here under their own steam was nearly a month ago, a party of Canadians in the bunkhouse, backpackers, and a German couple staying in one of the holiday homes.' His mouth drooped. ‘That's been more or less our season.'

He looked at the name in the book. ‘Mr Shewan,' he said. ‘I'm George Cutler, the owner.' He handed Carl the key to Room 14. ‘Come on and I'll show you up.'

The hallway of the hotel had a musty smell. Paintings of old soldiers – the braid-and-wig brigade – hung on the walls. A fat fish mounted in a glass case. A shiny brass handbell stood on a dark-wood side table. A stained-glass panel lit the staircase to the first-floor landing.

Cutler opened the door of Room 14. ‘Coffee over there,' he said, pointing to a kettle and basket of sachets. ‘It's old stuff but it should be okay.' He pointed at the TV. ‘We've got satellite, broadband that works, just about. Would you like breakfast?'

Carl nodded, inspecting a tatty brochure that listed local attractions: walks, heritage centres and archaeological sites. Half-eight was the time agreed for breakfast.

‘You can have something to eat now, if you want?'

‘Sounds good. What is there?'

Cutler smiled, his soft colourless face cracking. ‘Plenty of fish. Potatoes and veg. I think there's some venison pie left as well. It's good stuff.'

Not exactly the seaweed gruel that Carl had been expecting.

‘Venison pie it is. I'll be down in ten minutes, if that's okay?'

Cutler said that was fine. As he made his way out, he stopped, reached into the pocket of his fleece.

‘Oh, this was left for you at reception yesterday.' He handed over an envelope which had CARL SHEWAN printed on the front, nothing else. Carl turned it over a few times. There was something inside.

‘Thanks,' he said absently.

Cutler closed the door and Carl ripped open the envelope to see what was inside. It was a memory stick, and nothing else.

He unzipped his bag and took out his palmpod, and inserted the stick. At the password prompt he thought for a second.

He typed ‘SCOPE'.

Bingo. There were two video files. He played the first one.

On his palmpod screen, inside what looked like a tent, a bald man in his fifties sat cross-legged, his tightly muscled face sombre, downcast. He cleared his throat, adjusted the camera.

‘Hello, Mr Shewan. If you've come this far, then I thank you for that. I hope to Christ I'm wrong, but . . . anyway, my name is Howard Brindley and I am – was – senior head of research at GeoByte Support Services. You probably haven't heard of us, we did some work on SCOPE, just the GPS telemetry.'

Howard Brindley shifted position. He clearly wasn't used to sitting cross-legged on the ground inside a tent. He rubbed his stubbled face, clearly exhausted.

‘You had some financial concerns about SCOPE, Mr Shewan,' Brindley said, looking away. ‘My concerns are more . . . technical. We were only the subcontractor, but I got hold of the full spec for the SCOPE transmitters, and ran some harmonic modelling on the crystalline microwave filters, the new ones . . .' He stopped, sat up, straight-backed. ‘Sorry for talking shop. The second file on this memory stick will tell you the rest . . . in plainer language. It is time-locked until twelve noon on Thursday, seventeenth of July.' Brindley pursed his lips, looked intently at the camera. He then leaned over and switched it off.

The video file stopped. The seventeenth was tomorrow.

Carl tried the other file. Time-locked. Why would he put a time-lock on the rest of his story?

The guy better not be another crank. But there was the plasmoid chipset to consider – no crank would have sent him
that. Carl checked the time. He was hungry and thirsty. Brindley wasn't in the hotel – he could be anywhere in the area – and there were sixteen hours until the time-lock on the second file expired. Nothing to do except relax.

9

The pool ball smacked off the baize and clacked along the bar room's tiled floor. It thumped against the counter. A scruffy collie darted over, picked the ball up in its mouth, and spat it back out onto the floor where it bounced into a metal bowl. The dog looked expectantly at the drinkers, who chuckled and clapped at the trick. Cute Collie Dog picked the cue ball up and did it again. This time, a louder cheer went up and the dog was patted and praised by its owner. All the customers were middle-aged men, the dedicated early-evening crowd, happy enough with their price-capped product and a big screen showcasing some Reformed League football. Bellies and flushed faces in the bar, a dozen or so, and the only woman in the place was pulling the pints.

Carl told her he would take his food in the dining area.

It was a big enough room, breakfast bar and French windows. He reckoned it could sit about seventy; there was only him. Peak season and here he was, the one and only cover. What did people do around here? Maybe the Canadians or the Germans would come in, give the chef a real thrill-ride of a night.

Half the dining room was a tip, with chairs and tables stacked any old how. Boxes of crockery, piles of bed linen and curtains, garden parasols standing in the corner – a bike half-buried under it all. The place was more storeroom than eating place. He supped his flat lager. It was hardly worth a second day off the wagon.

The barmaid had become a waitress. She came through with Carl's plate of food, and set it down in front of him. She was early thirties, bobbed black hair, pretty, but not exactly a customer service expert. There was no warm Highland welcome here.

‘Do you want another drink?'

‘Yeah, I might get lucky this time. Is it spot the bubble and win a prize?'

The waitress/barmaid eyed him, not even attempting to see the humour in the remark. ‘That's what we're given up here, Mr Shewan. It's take it or leave it, I'm afraid.'

‘It's the same in Glasgow. We don't get special treatment – well, most places don't.' He took a long pull on the glass to show his acceptance. She nodded curtly, cracked the faintest smile, and left him to eat.

Three hours later Carl was well on the way to being completely relaxed. In the hotel's public bar he was being harangued by a pissed old local with a scruffy white beard. A jukebox thumped out some techno and a few lads were larking around at the pool table. The pissed local persisted with tales of the good old days at the oil fabrication yard down the coast. Most of the older men had worked there, including George Cutler as a backpacking young tourist, so the barfly had slurred. The good old days, so far as Carl could tell, lasted only a few years until production was moved to the east coast, and the yard closed. But that was several drinks ago, when the man had made sense; now he was firing off in all directions. ‘Glasgow's best fuggin siddy in gundree. Always fuggin welcome there.' He shook his head. ‘Can't put a price on that.' He paused, succumbed once more to thoughts that made sense only to him. ‘Fuggers,' he spat. ‘Not a penny from them cunts after the accident, y'know?'

He was oblivious to the white pool ball smacking onto the hard floor at his feet. Some of the pool-players roared their laughter. Flying pool balls seemed to be a habit around here. One guy shouted over, ‘Hey, Frankie, you've laid another fucking egg!'

While Frankie tried to look menacing, Carl downed his drink. Time for some fresh air.

A piss first. The toilet wall told Carl that
LORNA GIVES GOOD
GOBLES
. Where the fuck was Brindley? He didn't want to ask Cutler about him. A direct question could arouse suspicions, and other people might be informed about these suspicions, and so on. Even up here that could still happen. Sidling in at an angle was the best way, nicey nice, terrible fucking weather, winkle a wee bit out of them, pull back, talk about footie or food but keep it behind your ear, then come back for another wee slice, and so bit by bit he could get what he wanted. If only that strategy had worked in other areas of his life.

He headed outside.

Jesus.

Under the clear sky the bay was quiet and dark, and in the east were stars. But to the west was a pink and red fugue under shreds of high cloud, each shade of colour luminous, unpolluted, diffusing from the red sun's vanishing core. Carl headed down towards the pier and away from the streetlights to get a better look.

Absolutely amazing. Dark arms of the narrow bay and the quiet breath of the night, with just the waves lapping and a late bird calling. Warm salt reek at the end of the pier. He stood for a while watching the world turn and the stars come out, stuff that was invisible in the city. No midges so far, maybe the breeze kept them away. George Cutler said to watch out for midges if he went for a walk, the buggers'll eat you alive on a quiet night. The fizz in Carl's mind came off the boil. There was nothing to do except absorb the slow ending of the day. He breathed deep at the end of the pier.

After about ten minutes he headed back to the hotel, none too steadily. Sea legs not what they never were. Was the pier moving? He hiccupped. Better not start with those fuckers. Pain in the arse when you think they've stopped and they start again. This place would do him for a couple of days, maybe try stretching it to three or four. Maybe he'd move here and never go back. No way. He'd go nuts within a week.

Brindley. Brindley and his state-of-the-art chipset . . . Carl cleared a shadow from his mind. Better not go there. Stick to the facts and not the fears. As he walked back towards the hotel, the streetlights went out, their filaments glowing and dying; little suns fading.

‘Ho!'

Power cut?

But no. The houselights were still on, the sign over the hotel's public bar, and even in the few houses on the other side of the bay. A minute later, his eyes had adjusted and he could see the tarmac at his feet, the fading light in the west sharper, the church a dark silhouette, and the stars overhead. Who had killed the streetlights? His watch said 11.32 p.m. Just over twelve hours until the time lock on the second video file expired. Maybe Brindley would show up at the same time. The edge of the pavement caught Carl by surprise, and he stumbled, crossed the road to the hotel path. Guys were yammering away. He heard a North American accent, a young woman, part of a group who were smoking outside a guesthouse. Six months it had taken her to get travel clearance from London, apparently. A month for each emergency zone. She said it was her birthright, this trip, part of her emigrant heritage – so she deserved it. Carl passed them by and followed the path up to the hotel.

The waitress was in the lobby. He grinned, nodded, his brain lagging behind the desire to say something. She bustled past him and locked the outside door. ‘It's chucking-out time from the bar. I wasn't sure if I could lock the door on you or not.'

‘No bother. What's with the streetlights going off and everything else staying on?'

‘It's the council, they're saving money.'

‘I suppose it causes a few accidents, not being able to see in the dark.'

The way she looked at him, straight in the eye, as if to say here's another smart-arse trying out his patter.

‘Breakfast is between eight and half-nine. There are enough eggs and toast and porridge. Night.'

‘I thought you didn't lock the doors up here?'

She snorted at him. ‘We do when there's strange men around.'

And away she went, through the fire door.

‘I just wanted to talk,' he said after her. ‘That's all.'

She stopped at the doors, half turned towards him.

‘It's just my cack-handed way of starting a conversation.' He looked mournfully at the floor, hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘I'm not trying to be funny . . .' He grinned. ‘Well, I was trying to be funny, if you know what I mean.'

A woman laughing at your jokes was a good first step. You were on your way if you could get them to laugh, not overdoing it, but just breaking the ice, then weighing in with some well-considered remark that, depending on the woman, would prove there was depth to the man as well as a reasonably inoffensive surface. Then maybe a follow-up funny, a listening ear, a question or two. Repeat and vary until she's eating out of your trousers. That was the theory, anyway. Did the evidence back it up? His field research was ongoing, but this one didn't take the bait, he could see that straight away. She had this way of looking at him, weighing him up. He started climbing the stairs to his room.