The Purple Contract (28 page)

'Well, which would
you
choose, sir?'

Durrant ran both hands through his thinning hair, peering up at his junior officer over the top of his spectacles. The discussion was going round in circles again, not really surprising considering the circumstances. He thought it wise to side-step the direct challenge. 'I can't put myself in a contract killer’s place any easier than you can, Frank,' he said mildly. 'The fact is, there has never been any genuine threat made against the Monarch or any of her immediate family––' He held up a hand to stifle the immediate protest. 'Yes, yes. I haven't forgotten the Mountbatten incident! But that wasn't a planned strike against a member of the Royal Family as such. It's generally accepted that it was more of an expedient move by the IRA when a God-sent opportunity was presented to them on a plate.' He picked up a silver-barrelled pen and tapped it on the blotter for emphasis. 'Very different thing.'

'Yes, sir, I know. But the Crown is distinctly less popular than it once was. You saw the commotion just last week when one of the tabloids claimed the Palace was deliberately reneging on the agreements to reduce the cost of the monarchy. Directly accused them of laundering public money to finance the lesser Royals by the back door so to speak.'

'That's enough, Frank.’ Durrant frowned across the desk. ‘We, of all people, know better than to believe everything that appears in the national Press.'

'Of course, sir. I just meant––'

'When Tony Blair was Prime Minister, his various governments continued to dismantle virtually all the remaining nationalised industries. Not to mention the multitude of changes to employment legislation, taxes, the National Health Service, Social Security benefits and a dozen other things. Hundreds of thousands of people were put out of work. Many of them facing the prospect of never working again and being denied any government-supplied income.’

Wedderman nodded in agreement.

‘And to add insult to injury, those new jobs that
were
created appeared to be specifically designed for young people, with older workers simply thrown on the scrapheap. That’s a large percentage of the working population, Frank, a lot of them used to trade union members, too, and those unions aren’t exactly happy being castrated. Nothing more than talking-shops now.’

‘But, sir––’

‘And as if that wasn’t enough,’ Durrant ploughed on, ‘he has a great deal to answer for over his part the Iraq War. Him
and
his government! There are still a lot of people out to get him on that score.’

'Yes, sir,' responded Wedderman dutifully. Although he didn't totally agree with everything he had heard.

'Then of course there were the thousands of businesses which went under, large and small. Many of those proprietors lost everything they owned; everything, in some cases, that their families had built up over generations.

'Rightly or wrongly, Blair left Office as one of the most unpopular politicians this century––not least because of the successor he foisted on the country. My gut feeling is that someone may just have decided that it's payback time.'

The two men were silent for time, each occupied with his own thoughts. Wedderman could see his superior’s point, however, the bottom line was that they knew of no-one likely to have a big enough grudge against the monarchy to set an international assassin onto the future king.

'I agree, sir,' he said at last. 'It looks like Blair could well be Hollis' objective. Unless something else shows up, we really have no choice but to work on that basis.'

Chief Inspector Durrant flipped through the pages in the slim folder until he found the appropriate sheet of yellow paper. 'Projected journey time from Dyce Airport to the official reception at the hotel: 35 minutes,' he muttered.

'I've already organised two extra unmarked cars to cover his progress. That's in addition to the local lads with the blue light going. He doesn't know about the supplementary protection of course.'

'No,' grunted his boss. There was nothing to gain by stirring things up more than necessary.

Wedderman knew that there was a strong argument in favour of no fuss at all: just an ordinary car with an anonymous passenger disappearing into the city traffic. One among thousands. Even the police themselves would have trouble finding one vehicle amid the city crush. But it was too much of a risk, politically. If anything happened to the man, anything at all––even a trivial road accident––the police force would be crucified, particularly the local constabulary.

Police ignore ex-prime minister!

Blair told: You're on your own!

Chief Constable snubs VIP!

It didn't bear thinking about.

'Mind yourself, laddie!'

Hollis ceased his admiring scrutiny of the immaculate Kirkwall lifeboat and stepped aside. It could have left the builders yard yesterday by the look of it: there wasn't so much as a blemish on the paintwork. He understood the pride the crew must feel when they stepped aboard this impressive machine. Pride, too, in their ability to deal with just about anything the sea could throw at them.

A middle-aged man in blue overalls stepped up onto the lifeboat's foredeck and turned to take hold of a portable oscilloscope passed to him by a younger version of himself. A couple of cardboard boxes, clearly containing marine radio equipment, followed. The two then disappeared into the wheelhouse.

Hollis left them to it and wandered back down the short west pier to watch the latest in a continuous stream of orange-coloured tenders disembark its load of passengers onto the floating pontoons alongside the harbour wall. On the way into town he had noted the gleaming white cruise liner anchored offshore. Presumably she had too great a draught to risk approaching the main pier. A torrent of excited Italian poured into his ear as he was engulfed in the crowd. Behind him, the line of buses rapidly began to fill.

Five minutes walk took Hollis to the building which housed the Visit Scotland tourist centre, and he stood in line behind two of his own countrymen asking about diving facilities in Scapa Flow. When the girl dressed in a green tartan outfit turned to him and smiled, he said: 'I'm looking to hire a small boat for a few days. Do you know of anyone I can talk to?'

'We don't keep a list, I'm afraid. But you'll find some business cards and brochures on the wall over there.' She pointed daintily over her shoulder, indicating the other half of the room, on the far side of the central reception area. Hollis went across and scanned the place in question. There were two possibilities: he jotted the details down in a notebook and walked back out onto the street.

Just a short distance along from the Tourist office stands St Magnus Cathedral, built in the 12th century as a memorial to Earl Magnus, who was murdered by kinsmen on the small island of Egilsay, in 1115 AD. Across from the cathedral, beside a newsagent's shop, Hollis found a pair of telephone boxes.

Neither of his two numbers produced a response.

'Shit!' Then he remembered there was a telephone box just a couple of miles from his rented house. Fair enough, he could call again later before he left town. If that didn't work he would try in the evening and come into town again later in the week. There was no immediate panic.

'On
Saturday?
' Durrant looked suitably astonished. He had organised some coffee and the two men were munching biscuits.

'Yes. I thought it was rather unlikely myself!' Wedderman agreed. 'His secretary telephoned with the appointment late Friday afternoon. She made it sound like some sort of royal command.'

'What did he want?'

'Well, at first I thought he had just cracked this problem for us. But on reflection I'm not so sure,' said Wedderman, folding and refolding the wrapper from his caramel log. Greenside’s visit had occupied his mind all weekend. 'You know what he's like, makes everything sound so terribly important. As if he'd just condescended to explain the meaning of life!'

'To a six-year-old!'

'That's exactly what I mean. Bugger should have been a schoolmaster.'

'I understand he used to be a history teacher at a certain extremely expensive Public School.' Durrant said diffidently. 'Um...some time ago, of course.'

'Jesus. They must have had fun doing his security clearances!' Wedderman laughed, thinking of Public School successes like Philby and Blunt.

His boss grinned in return. 'Maybe so. What did he promise us this time?'

'He says he knows someone who can identify Hollis.'

'Christ!
'

'Yes, that's what I thought. Let's hope it's true.'

'You don't sound very hopeful.' Durrant leaned across the desk and fixed his junior officer with a cold eye.

'Well, these cloak-and-dagger merchants are all the same
. I know something you don't
, that sort of thing. Like kids in a school playground.' Wedderman shook his head in disgust. 'It could be nothing more than talk. One-upmanship.’

Durrant thought it over. 'So what's happening?'

'I'm playing spooks tomorrow afternoon!'

'Eh?' grunted Durrant, looking suitably puzzled.

'The whole silly game: Anonymous RV in Regent's Park, specific bench, specific time; contact will be reading the New York Times.'

'You're joking!'

'I am not. Bloody man wouldn't take no for an answer. I'm going to feel like a damned fool. What if I go to the wrong bench and start talking to the wrong person?'

Durrant showed his teeth in a wide grin. 'Knowing Regents Park, you'll probably get yourself arrested for soliciting!'

 
 
 
 
16

 
Tuesday 20 August, 2013

The Range Rover stopped at the top of the narrow road leading down to the Houton ferry terminal. Houton Bay has always presented an ideal landing place for small craft and more than one Viking fleet sheltered or landed here in bygone days. Today it is home for the roll-on, roll-off ferries to Lyness on Hoy––and the huge oil terminal on Flotta, established in the 1970's as part of the North Sea oil extraction programme.

The ground rose up sharply behind the small bay and the road, at a much higher level, presented a good view out across the astonishing expanse of Scapa Flow. Hollis looked around to check the road was clear, because he was blocking the ferry access road. It wasn’t likely to cause problems in the short term: traffic problems are rarely part of daily life in Orkney.

He spent a few minutes scanning the open waters of Scapa with binoculars. Two huge oil tankers swung round their anchor chains, great swathes of red lead showing where the unladen vessels rode high in the water: waiting their turn at the spigot of life. Apart from them the waters of the Flow were surprisingly empty. Hollis had expected much more in the way of shipping movements. Although he now knew that the visiting cruise liners inevitably came into Kirkwall Bay rather than Scapa. 'This won't be any trouble,' he muttered to himself.

Half an hour later he was walking the steel plates of the
Hoy Head
with the binoculars round his neck. Passengers have access to a narrow area above the central vehicle deck which occupies most of the available space on board. Hollis found a convenient place and defended it against all comers. The tourists, it seemed, found the rugged island of Hoy a particular attraction. Even at 9.30 in the morning.

The crossing was uneventful although Hollis found plenty to interest him, particularly once the ferry was among the tiny islets of Cava, Rysa Little and Fara. In an emergency he might find sanctuary in one of those derelict buildings. A place to hide up and regroup while the first tidal wave of reaction swept outwards from Hoy this coming Saturday. He had even carefully scrutinised the unmanned lighthouse structure on the northernmost tip of Cava through the 15x50's.

First place they would look
.

Well, yes, perhaps.

Slowly following the car in front up the sloping causeway, Hollis curiously eyed the large development alongside the old pier. He knew from his study of the guide book at the cottage the previous evening, that Lyness had been the site of the great WW2 Naval Base:
HMS Prosperine
. HQ for the thousands of Naval personnel who served in the Scapa Flow area throughout the war. For some reason Hollis recalled reading that, among other things, over 80 barrage balloons were maintained in the Balloon Centre at Ore Hill close to here. And the anti-aircraft guns had collectively been capable of throwing 300 tons of shrapnel into the air. And keeping it there. The book had also mentioned, wryly, that during the course of the war, ten civilians had been killed by falling shrapnel from shells fired by those same guns.

God alone knew what it must have been like. But of course all the wartime detritus was gone. In it's place was a ship decommissioning and repair establishment, including dry-dock facilities and plenty of berthing space. Hollis drove into the car park belonging to the Lyness Interpretation Centre––another place he intended to visit today from personal interest. He left the Range Rover parked beside the large red-painted bulb of an old sea mine and took to his feet to investigate further.

He paused in the lee of the huge hanger-like building with a bright red roof, which dominated most of the dry-dock and berthing area, the stiff breeze tugging at his clothes. The majority of the docking area was accessible, with only the ship-repair and decommissioning yard fenced off. Presumably for safety reasons, not many folk would desire to sneak inside and steal a few tons of rusting propeller shaft. Hollis smiled to himself at that thought and set off to walk down the main pier. If anyone objected to his presence, well and good, far better to find out about it now than later.

The natural arm of land pushing outwards to the north of Lyness had been artificially extended with landfill and concrete to form angular docks. The approach to which was protected by a submersible hydraulically-operated breakwater. Hollis noted a Philippines-registered container vessel moored in the outermost berth. He deliberately sauntered the length of the untidy vessel and back again, to see if anyone would challenge him. In fact he saw no-one so much as lift their head to look at him. Good.