On Dangerous Ground (15 page)

Two Shoguns braked to a halt. Fergus Munro was driving the first one and Murdoch was sitting next to him. As Munro got out, the factor came round from the other side clutching a shotgun. Carl Morgan was at the wheel of the second one and got out, an enormously powerful-looking figure in his sheepskin coat.

Murdoch said something to Munro and clicked back the hammers on the shotgun. Munro opened the door of the Shogun and Murdoch whistled softly. There was a sudden scramble inside and a black shadow materialized from the darkness to stand beside him.

“Flush him out, boy.”

As the dog came forward with a rush, Dillon saw that it was a Doberman pinscher, one of the most deadly fighting dogs in the world. He went forward to meet it.

“Good boy,” he said and extended a hand.

The dog froze, a growl starting somewhere at the back of the throat, and Munro said, “That’s him, Mr. Morgan. That’s the bastard who attacked me and his fancy woman still inside, no doubt.”

Morgan said, “Private property, my friend, you should have stayed out.”

The dog growled again, full of menace, and Dillon whistled softly, an eerie sound that set the teeth on edge. The dog’s ears went back and Dillon fondled his muzzle and stroked him.

“Good God!” Murdoch said.

“Easy when you know how,” Dillon told him. “I learned that from a man who was once my friend.” He smiled. “Later, he regretted teaching me anything, but that’s life.”

Morgan said calmly, “Who in the hell are you?”

It was then that Asta joined the scene. “Carl, is that you? Thank God you’re here.”

She stumbled from the doorway and Morgan, astonishment on his face, moved fast to catch her in his arms. “Asta, for God’s sake, what is this?”

He helped her inside and Fergus Munro said to Murdoch, “Asta? Who in the hell is Asta?”

“Something tells me you’re in for a very unpleasant surprise, my old son,” Dillon told him, and he turned and followed them in, the Doberman at his heels.

Asta was back in the chair and Morgan knelt beside her, holding a hand. “It was horrible, Carl. I left the train at Lochailort and came over the mountain, turned my ankle and was feeling absolutely foul when I found the lodge and got in through the kitchen window. And then this man came, the man out there. He was horrible.”

Morgan stood up. “The man out there?” he said and his face was very pale.

“Yes, Carl, he threatened me.” Her hand went to the torn blouse. “In fact, he was thoroughly unpleasant, and then Mr. Dillon here came and there was a struggle and he threw him out.”

Morgan had murder in his eyes. He turned to Murdoch, who stood in the doorway. “Do you realize who this is? My daughter Asta. Where’s that bastard who brought us here, Fergus?”

The roar of an engine breaking into life answered him and he pushed Murdoch to one side and ran out to see one of the Shoguns drive away.

“Shall I go after him?” Murdoch said.

“No.” Morgan shook his head, hands unclenching. “We’ll deal with him later.” He turned to Dillon and held out a hand. “I’m Carl Morgan and I would seem to be considerably in your debt.”

“Dillon — Sean Dillon.”

Morgan turned to Asta. “Are you trying to tell me you walked over that damn mountain this afternoon?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought I’d just walk in on you. Surprise you.”

Morgan turned to Dillon, who, lighting a cigarette, forestalled him. “I’m on my way to join my uncle, Brigadier Charles Ferguson, for the shooting. He’s leased a place called Ardmurchan Lodge.”

There was something in Morgan’s eyes straight away, but he simply said, “That makes us neighbors then. I presume you also thought it was a good idea to walk over the mountain?”

“Not at all. I thought it was a lousy idea and so did the ticket collector when she left the train. To be frank, I’d noticed her destination from her luggage labels. I got out to stretch my legs and saw her make off. When I asked the ticket collector what was going on, he told me she was going to walk over the mountain. As I said, he didn’t think much of the idea and neither did I, so I decided to follow. Unfortunately I chose another route and was delayed by the mist, so I didn’t catch up with her until she reached the lodge.”

Asta said weakly, “I’m afraid I’ve made something of a fool of myself. Could we go now, Carl?”

She was acting up to the hilt and Dillon, an actor himself, saw that, but not Morgan, who put an arm round her, instant concern there. “Of course we will.” He glanced at Dillon. “We’ll drop you off on the way.”

“That would be fine,” Dillon said.

Murdoch took the wheel on the way down the glen and Dillon and Morgan sat on the large bench seat, Asta between them, the Doberman on the floor at their feet. Dillon fondled its ears.

“Guard dog, they said.” Morgan shook his head. “With you he’s more like a big pussy cat.”

“An emotional thing between me and him, Mr. Morgan. He likes me.”

“Loves you, more like,” Asta said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I still wouldn’t like to be the intruder who comes over the wall and finds him there.”

“So Brigadier Ferguson is your uncle?” Morgan said. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet, but then I only arrived at Loch Dhu Castle myself yesterday.”

“Yes,” Dillon said, “so I understand.”

“Is the Brigadier retired or in business or what?”

“Oh, he was in the army for years, but now he’s a consultant to a number of businesses worldwide.”

“And you?”

“I help out. A sort of middleman, you might say. I’ve got this thing for languages, so he finds me useful.”

“I’m sure he does.”

Murdoch changed down and swung in through gates following a narrow drive to the house beyond, lights at the window. He braked to a halt. “Ardmurchan Lodge.”

It was raining again, rattling against the windscreen. Morgan said, “It does that a lot, six days out of seven, driving in from the Atlantic.”

“Just think,” Asta said, “we could be in Barbados.”

“Oh, it has its points, I’m sure,” Dillon said.

She took his hand. “I hope to get a chance to thank you properly. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Morgan said, “Plenty of time for that, I’ll fix something up. You both need a chance to settle in.”

As Dillon got out, Morgan followed him. “I’ll see you to the door.”

At that moment it opened and Ferguson appeared. “Good God, Sean, is that you? We got your message at Arisaig, but I was beginning to get worried. What happened?”

“A long story, I’ll tell you later. Can I introduce our neighbor, Carl Morgan?”

“What a pleasure.” Ferguson took Morgan’s hand. “Your reputation precedes you. Will you have a drink before you go?”

“No, I must get my daughter home,” Morgan said. “Another time.”

“I believe we’ll be sharing the shooting,” Ferguson said genially.

“Yes, they didn’t tell me that when I took the lease,” Morgan told him.

“Dear me, I trust there won’t be a problem.”

“Oh, I don’t see why there should be as long as we’re not shooting from opposite sides.” Morgan smiled. “Good night.” He got back in the Shogun and it drove away.

“He knows,” Dillon said.

“Of course he does,” Ferguson told him. “Now come in out of this appalling rain and tell me what you’ve been up to.”

When the Shogun arrived at Loch Dhu Castle, Morgan helped Asta out and said to Murdoch, “You come too, we need to talk.”

“Very well, Mr. Morgan.”

The great iron-banded oak door was opened by Marco Russo wearing a black alpaca jacket and striped trousers. “My God, Marco,” Asta said. “I can’t believe it, a butler now?”

She was probably the only human being he ever smiled for, and he did now. “A short engagement only, Miss Asta.”

“Tell the maid to run a bath,” Morgan said and turned to Murdoch. “You wait in the study.”

He took Asta through the magnificent baronial hall and placed her in the great oak chair beside the log fire that crackled in the open hearth.

“Right,” he said, “Dillon. He followed you over the mountain. Why?”

“He told you.”

“That’s a load of tripe.”

“Well, he knew who I was and where I was going, but not because of my luggage labels.”

“Explain.”

Which she did — the Brazilian Embassy Ball, the write-up in the
Daily Mail
’s social column, everything.

“I might have known,” Morgan said when she finished.

“Why do you say that?”

“As soon as I heard about the new tenant at Ardmurchan Lodge I had him checked. Brigadier Charles Ferguson, Asta, is head of a very elite section of British Intelligence, usually involved with anti-terrorism and responsible to the Prime Minister only.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“They know,” he said. “The Chungking Covenant.”

“My God!” she said. “And Dillon works for him?” She nodded. “It makes sense now.”

“What does?”

“Well, I told you Dillon saved me from that beast Hamish Hunt at the ball. What I didn’t tell you was that Hunt grabbed me in Park Lane afterwards. He was terribly drunk, Carl, and pretty foul.”

His face was pale again. “And?”

“Dillon appeared and beat him up. I’ve never seen anything like it. He was so economical.”

“He would be, a real pro. I thought so.” Morgan smiled. “So I owe him not once, but twice.” He helped her up. “Off you go and get your bath, we’ll have some supper later.” As he walked away, he called, “Marco?”

The Sicilian appeared from the shadows. “Signore?”

“Listen to this.” Very quickly Morgan gave him a résumé of events in Italian.

When he was finished, Marco said, “He sounds hot stuff, this Dillon.”

“Get on to London now. I want answers and they’ve only got an hour, make that clear.”

“As you say, Signore.”

He walked away and Morgan went and opened the study door. It was a pleasant room, lined with books, French windows to a terrace, and as in the hall, a fire burned on the hearth. Murdoch was standing staring down into it and smoking a cigarette.

Morgan sat at the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a check book. “Over here.”

“Yes, Mr. Morgan.” Murdoch crossed the room and Morgan wrote a check and handed it to him. The factor looked at it in astonishment. “Twenty-five thousand pounds. But what’s this for, Mr. Morgan?”

“Loyalty, Murdoch, I like greedy people and I’ve formed the opinion that that’s what you are.”

Murdoch was stunned. “If you say so, sir.”

“Oh, but I do, and here’s the good news, Murdoch. When I leave, you get the same amount, for services rendered, naturally.”

Murdoch had control of himself now, a slight smile on his face. “Of course, sir, anything you say.”

Morgan said, “For several hundred years the Lairds of Loch Dhu took a silver Bible into battle. It was always recovered, even when they died. It was with the old Laird when his plane crashed in India in nineteen forty-four. I’ve reason to believe it was returned to the castle, but where is it, Murdoch, that’s the thing?”

“Lady Katherine, sir . . .”

“Knows nothing, hasn’t seen it in years. It’s here, Murdoch, tucked away somewhere, and we’re going to find it. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Discuss it with the servants. Just tell them it’s a valuable family heirloom and there’s a reward for whoever finds it.”

“I will, sir.”

“You can go now.” Murdoch had the door open when Morgan called, “And Murdoch?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Brigadier Ferguson and Dillon, they’re not on our side.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good and don’t forget. I want to know where that bastard Fergus Munro is to be found, preferably tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One more thing. Is there anyone on the estate staff who works at Ardmurchan Lodge?”

“Ferguson has his own man, sir, this Ghurka body servant. There’s Lady Katherine’s gardener, Angus. He sees to the garden and the daily wood supply.”

“Can he be bought?”

Murdoch nodded. “I’d say so.”

“Good. Eyes and ears is what I want. See to it, and find Fergus.”

“I will, sir.” Murdoch went out, closing the door.

Morgan sat there for a while, then noticed a library ladder. On impulse he got up, pushed it to one end of the shelves on one of the walls, and mounted. He climbed to the top and started to remove the books a few at a time, peering behind.

EIGHT

DILLON, HAVING BATHED AND CHANGED INTO a comfortable track suit, sprawled in front of the fire, Hannah Bernstein in the chair opposite. He had just finished his account of the day’s events and Ferguson was pouring drinks at the cabinet in the corner.

“Anything for you, Chief Inspector?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“Well, the boy here could do with a brandy, I’m sure.”

“It was rather a long walk,” Dillon said and accepted the glass. “What do you think?”

“About Morgan? Oh, he knows, that was totally apparent from our little exchange.”

“So what will his next move be?” Hannah asked.

“I’m not sure, we’ll see what tomorrow brings.” Ferguson sat down. “It’s an interesting situation, by the way, the shooting rights and the fishing. Kim tells me he was fishing in Loch Dhu on the day before we arrived when some damn rascals who work for this Murdoch fellow as keepers turned up and suggested he leave and not too pleasantly.”

“Who are they?”

“I’ve made inquiries. Tinkers — the last remnants of a broken clan. You know, a touch of all that Scottish romantic nonsense. They’ve wandered the Highlands since Culloden and all that sort of tosh. Old Hector Munro and his brood. I saw them in Ardmurchan Village yesterday and there’s nothing romantic about them. Bunch of ragged, foul-smelling rogues. There’s old Hector, Fergus . . .”

“He’ll be the one I had the run-in with.”

“Then there’s the other brother, Rory, big, rough-looking lout, hair tied in a pony tail. I mean, why do they do that, Dillon? Earrings as well. After all, it’s not the seventeenth century.”

Hannah burst out laughing and Dillon said, “They broke the mould with you, Brigadier. And you say they ran Kim off the place?”