The Purple Contract (29 page)

Continuing his circuit he stopped for a few minutes behind the chain-link fence to gaze with interest into the empty dry-dock. The bottom littered with large baulks of timber, presumably for use as temporary props. Hull supports in the shape of hydraulic rams lined the sides of the concrete silo. The watertight doors at the far end were presently closed.

From this vantage point Hollis could see that a small industrial estate had been created on the far side of the shipyard. A scattered group of small, uniformly-styled buildings with blue corrugated-steel roofs. It figured: any large industry always spawned smaller ones in its wake. He could also see that there was no through route from where he stood. The dry-dock and the fenced-off shipyard effectively cut the site in two. So far so good. Hollis retraced his steps back to the corner.

What appeared to be the main road though the village ran past the Lyness Centre, where Hollis had left the car, behind the large hanger and on northwards into the depths of Hoy. Hollis followed it to where a miniature roundabout heralded the access into the new industrial estate.

The first thing he saw, standing at the corner with the chilly wind cutting into him, was the NorthTek site. It was rather smaller than he had imagined from the computer-simulation he had toyed with at the SECC in Glasgow. Two long buildings, standing side-by-side and joined down the long axis, stood immediately adjacent to the shipyard's hanger. They were quite clearly just elongated versions of the standard factory units forming the rest of the site, but two-storey instead of one.

Hollis set off again, no-one appeared to be taking the slightest interest in him. Just another nosey tourist. He followed the chain-link fence bordering the shipyard. On the opposite side of the road, to his left, he passed four small groups of factory units, three to a group. Some of them were obviously unoccupied, while others were a hive of activity. Back at the dry-dock, the road turned left and ended a hundred metres or so further on in another small pier. A solitary workboat sat forlornly in the oily water.

At the entrance to the pier, the road again turned left, paralleling its own course back towards the main road and forming a natural perimeter to the industrial estate, which was effectively U-shaped, with the NorthTek facility partly closing the open end. Three small lanes crossed the "U", breaking the estate into four distinct groups of buildings.

Hollis circumnavigated the estate, arriving back practically where he had started. It was frustrating. He badly needed to pay close attention to NorthTek but he couldn’t stand here and stare for very long without someone finally noticing him The two buildings were surrounded by a security fence, more of the chain-link stuff. Two and a half metres high but without the usual overhanging barbed-wire top. Hollis smiled to himself.

This is Orkney. Where do you run to when you steal something on an island?

Yes, indeed. And where do you run to when you have just assassinated the heir to the throne?

Hollis ran a quick but thorough eye over the place. An odd-looking small wooden hut had been erected inside the compound, close to the building’s front door, and facing the large double entrance gate. It took a few seconds to dawn on him that it was in fact
half
of a standard PortaCabin. God alone knew what had happened to the rest of it. By the look of things the cabin hadn't been there very long, even the gravel on which it stood appeared to be suspiciously clean and new.

Assume additional security precautions for The Visit.

A narrow lane ran round the outside of the wire fence, giving every indication that it continued right round. Well that might be useful. It was encouraging that NorthTek hadn't designed their premises with tight security in mind. Why should they? So whatever extra measures had been put in place were unavoidably handicapped by that fact.

All the better.

A uniformed security guard appeared in the window of the cabin, picking up a telephone and holding it wedged between his ear and shoulder while he linked his fingers and stretched his arms luxuriously out in front. He looked bored out of his mind.

Hollis would have given a lot to inspect that perimeter path, particularly round the back, but there was no way he could be seen going near it. Indeed he had been here long enough.

His feet took him back to the car without conscious direction, the autopilot taking over without fuss because the forebrain was already busily analysing the possibilities.

The presenter waved an arm in acknowledgment and shrugged out of her cardigan. She checked her appearance, for the ninth time, and stepped in front of the tripod-mounted camera. The director shoved his cellphone into a pocket, turning to glare at the two young technicians still fiddling with the satellite uplink. Finally one of them raised a thumb in his direction, seeing the Geneva studio test card blink onto the monitor screen. Communications had been established. Better late than never.

The Director fumbled with an untidy clipboard for a time and then nudged the cameraman with his elbow. The girl straightened up, switched on the professional smile and began to deliver her piece, framed in the doorway of the Royal College of Physicians.

Frank Wedderman lost interest in their antics. He crossed the road and walked through the gate into Regent's Park. It never failed to astonish him how, just a few steps past the entrance, the teeming city surrounding the park could fade into the background. Long ago, he had heard Regent's Park described as "an oasis of peace" and thought it crass. Now, rather later in life, he understood exactly what had been meant.

When he reached Chester Road, he turned left along the tree-lined avenue. The cherry trees were long past the glory of their spring display. A few minutes walk brought him to the Inner Circle where he paused uncertainly opposite the wrought iron gates leading to Queen Mary's Gardens. He was a few minutes early: would that matter? It was the
fourth
bench wasn't it? Not the
fifth?
Jesus, if there was someone on
both
seats wearing a sports jacket and reading the New York Times then he was off home, sod this for a lark. He remembered his superior officer's sardonic comment and scowled darkly.
All right for you sat back there drinking tea while I make a bloody fool of myself!

Inside the gates he took the path leading left round the circular boundary, meandering through endless beds of roses and azaleas. Muttering to himself, he pulled his own copy of that august publication from his jacket pocket and started counting seats.

Alison Basker eyed the elegant, blue-hulled ship with some apprehension. Had they really come across from Scotland on that? It seemed so
small
from up here. She had to admit the journey hadn't been as bad as she had expected. Indeed after the initial nervousness had passed she had quite enjoyed the two-hour sail, although she had refused to eat anything at all on board. No point in pushing your luck.

The
Hamnavoe
moved sedately past on her way to Stromness, the rail lined as usual with cameras and binoculars trained on the towering heights of the Old Man.

Close up, on the clifftop, the stack seemed strangely less impressive. More awe-inspiring, to Alison at least, was the appalling drop that fell away practically at her feet. A small group had gathered at the viewpoint right opposite the Old Man. Some of them seated on handy rocks admiring the view, others perched on the edge of infinity, absorbed in the gyrating antics of the seabirds. Alison shuddered and moved another pace back. She was surrounded by dangerous lunatics.

One of the lunatics lay on a sparse patch of grass, his head overhanging empty space, filming the birds sweeping back and forth across the face of the Old Man. The
Hamnavoe
had moved on now, out of shot, which was a shame, but this piece of video would be a classic for sure. Ken lifted his finger from the button and scrambled to his feet. 'Joanne, Eric, come on!'  The miniature replica of his wife placed a hand on her hip and regarded him with her head tilted to one side, stating as clearly as any words:
we've
been waiting for
you!

'Where are we going now?' Joanne wanted to know.

Alison saw that her daughter still maintained a firm grip on Eric's hand. She hadn't let him go, much to his displeasure, since the path had led the family to the cliff edge viewpoint. 'Back to Rackwick for lunch, the sandwiches are in the car, remember?'

'Yes, because daddy wouldn't carry them!' stated Joanne archly.

'What am I being accused of now?' said Ken.

'Time we were getting back for lunch, I think.' Alison reminded him. When he got involved with that camera, insignificant things like eating tended to slip his mind. He called it the video-diet.

Just over an hour later they arrived back at the small car park in the hamlet of Rackwick, a scattering of cottages at the end of a sheltered glen under the towering presence of Ward Hill: at 479 metres, the highest piece of ground anywhere in the Orkney Islands.

Ken chewed busily. 'This used to be a thriving crofting and fishing community, you know,' he said between bites. 'Wonder what happened?'

'Times change, people change.' Alison answered. 'Not many folk want that kind of life these days.'

'No, I suppose not.' Ken knew he certainly didn't fancy scrubbing a living from shellfish and driftwood. 'Imagine what it must be like in the winter!'

'I'd rather not. Just you pick that up, my girl!' Alison finished, seamlessly changing tack in mid-sentence.

Joanne made a face. 'I was just
going
to, mummy!' she said in her best shrivel-up-and-die voice. The offending piece of cheese went out the car window and was snatched by a Black-Backed gull before it got anywhere near the ground. Well, now, this was interesting. Watched by her younger brother, she tore a piece from her bread roll and tossed it upwards into the air.

Another, smaller, gull swooped on it, gulped it down and turned lazily in the air looking for more. A few seconds later there were a dozen of them flapping and squawking overhead. The birds in this place obviously knew all about tourists and free meals. Joanne opened her mouth to comment on this phenomenon just as a soggy piece of tuna sandwich hit her in the right ear.
'Eric!'
she squealed.

The last, and most persistent, of the pack was still perched on the remnants of what had once been a fence when the blue Range Rover crunched on to the gravel parking area. The bird cocked a piercing eye at the now-closed windows of the food-factory and decided that discretion was the better part of hunger. He shook himself and spread his wings, allowing the wind to lift him off the ancient fence post. With his undercarriage tucked up and a parting glare, he silently glided downwind away from the intruder.

Joanne, listening to her parents discussing the rest of the week's itinerary, idly watched the sandy-haired man shrug into his waxed jacket and wander unhurriedly off towards the shoreline.

'No, North Ronaldsay is too far, I think. Let's not get
too
ambitious!'

Alison pushed her hair back behind her ears and studied the map on her knees more closely. Well, perhaps he had a point. 'Maybe you're right,' she said.

'What's so special about that one anyway. There are dozens of islands hereabouts.'

'Well, for a start the entire island is surrounded by a drystone dyke about one and a half metres high,’ explained his wife.

‘What’s that?’

‘A
wall
, you cretin!’

'Oh,’ said Ken. ‘Keeps the sheep in, does it?'

'The exact opposite. To keep them on the shore
outside
the wall. They eat a mixture of seaweed and grass apparently. Poor things!' Alison shook her head in amazement.

'They obviously thrive on it, better them than me, though.' Ken wasn't much interested in seaweed-eating sheep. 'Westray,' he pointed on the map.

'Why?'

Ken handed over the guide book he had been studying. 'Seems an ideal place to spend a day. Plenty to do, plenty to see. And we'll have the car with us, so there won't be any problem getting about.'

Alison read the Westray section and couldn’t find fault. 'All right. Let's make it Thursday, then, that will give us Friday to recover from being seasick. Ready to get seasick again going back on Saturday!'

'Very funny.'

'When are we going down to the beach?'

'What?' Ken turned his head to look at his daughter.

'You said we could go down to the beach after lunch,' accused Joanne.

Ken could have quite happily dozed off for a while. Siesta time. Fat chance with a couple of kids bouncing around, full of beans and rarin' to go. 'All right, just a quick look. Or you won't get to see the rest of the island before we have to go back.'

'I hope there are toilets around here somewhere,' muttered Alison darkly.

They followed the well worn path towards the sea. Practically the first building they came to turned out to house modern public toilets, surprising Alison greatly. By the time she emerged the rest of her family had disappeared towards the stony beach. She stood for a moment, undecided, then shook her head and went back to the car.

While the children tried to skip flat stones across the lumpy waves, Ken took the opportunity to film the surf pounding against the cliff bounding the southern extremity of the bay. By the time he had made his way back, the pair of them were busy examining a torn strand of kelp cast up by the now-receding tide. Ken started filming them at a distance, adjusting the zoom lens as he came closer, walking carefully on the loose surface of the beach.

Eric yelped and dropped the slimy thing, much the amusement of his sister, who was responsible for persuading him to pick it up. Glaring at her, he industriously wiped his hands on his backside.

Superb
.

Ken smiled to himself: one for the album as it were. Neither he nor the children actually noticed the tousle-headed figure walking through the edge of the shot, his waxed jacket blowing open in the wind as he walked along the beach, head bowed, deep in thought...