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Karushi fed Dave Indian takeaway on the train up to Perth. There were lots of lentils. ‘To get things moving, like.'

An ancient castle crouched atop an outcrop above Stirling. It had clung there for centuries, a piece of historic tenacity that Dave found alarming. Each bump and roll of the train brought aftertastes of the Indian food. Dave sweated. Dave winced. Dave tried not to think about anything, especially when the train entered tunnels.

On another day Dave might have been quite interested to discover that there was another place called Perth in the world. He might have relished the ancient stone wall the taxi drove through and the ivy-covered battlements and lush grounds of Scone Castle. But today he had more immediate concerns. There were tourist buses in the car park and a line of old people winding towards four portable loos not quite hidden behind a screen of bushes. They were frail people easily pushed aside by a driven younger man.

‘I gotta go,' said Dave.

‘No' yet,' said Campbell.

They led Dave, who walked with a stoop, towards a small church on a small hill in front of the castle.

A ruddy man in his mid-fifties sat on a worn sandstone block. ‘Angus, or should ah say Ken,' he said in the thick Scottish accent Dave had heard on random telephones across the globe. The man stood and raised his arms to encompass all that they could see. ‘Welcome tae centre of Scotland, laddie. Home tae oor true government for at least thirteen hundred years.'

‘Uh, huh.'

‘Ah'm James Dewar and this hill is Boot Hill because t'lords of every kingdom would regularly arrive here and empty their boots of dirt. Dirt from their own dear lands tae swear fealty tae their king. And over centuries they made this hill.'

‘Yup,' said Dave, when Dewar paused.

‘And noo ye've brought a little of yir own land here, and ah need ye tae empty yir boots, so tae speak.'

‘Gladly.' Dave looked hopefully towards the tourist line at the toilets down the hill.

‘This stone is a copy.' Dewar was pointing to the sandstone block he'd been sitting on. ‘T'Stone of Scone is where oor kings were made, but fookin' Edward ripped it off. Held it, and Scotland, tae ransom in fookin' Westminster Abbey.'

‘Ah, about emptying my, ah, boots.'

‘Oi. Ah huvnae finished. Ye see t'Scots heard Edward was a coomin', so ye think they let him get t'real stone?' Dewar tapped the side of his nose and grinned like an insane person. ‘It's somewhere, but no' in Westminster and no' in Edinburgh.' He tapped his nose again, leering at Dave. ‘T'Scottish huv nivver given up on oor fight wi' England.'

‘Good for you.'

Dewar looked at Dave with clear disappointment. He looked at Campbell and Karushi and then back at Dave. ‘Ah wis led tae believe Australians are noo friend tae English.'

‘Um, well, you know. I think we got a lot of it out of our system when we made
Breaker Morant
and started winning at the cricket. And we didn't let them get the real Rolf Harris.'

Dewar looked confused.

Dave said, ‘I'm more a mercenary than a revolutionary. Sorry.'

Dewar threw his hands up in disgust. ‘Aye.' He said to Karushi, ‘Over t'graveyard.'

Dave turned and started trotting down the hill, like a hobbled prisoner, towards where Dewar had pointed. On consideration, he'd take the graveyard. Two young hikers who had been taking photographs of the chapel scrambled back away from them.

Karushi caught up with Dave and directed him under an arch and around into the old much-breached wall of the cemetery. He handed Dave a plastic shopping bag and pointed to some particularly high moss-covered headstones.

‘You're kidding.'

‘Hurry up before the tourists come.'

‘No peeking.'

Karushi turned away.

Dave got behind the largest headstone and took down his pants and felt a surge of relief. But then the relief was replaced by pain, the pain of attempting to squeeze particularly large, non-viscous...

‘Aye, thankyou, Ken. You don't need to explain this part in quite so much detail,' said Colley.

‘We have photographs,' said Bruce.

‘I thought I heard a camera shutter.'

‘I had to give the camera to Bruce ... I mean Sergeant Roberts, ma'am. I couldn't...'

‘Focus?' offered Dave. ‘Have you ever fallen off your push bike and used your knees as the primary means of slowing? Well the inside of my arse felt a bit like that.'

‘Internally abraded,' offered Van Shooten.

‘Quite. Move on please, Ken.'

Dave and Karushi headed back, Karushi holding the plastic bag out in front of him, as far as his arm would allow.

‘Did you hear cameras?' asked Karushi.

‘Nothing but.'

Dewar and Campbell met them on the path near the entrance to the castle. When Karushi handed over the bag Dewar exclaimed, ‘Ye could huv washed it.'

‘Where?' Karushi wiped his hands on the stone block.

Dave, who felt bruised and abused but otherwise better, said, ‘Well, I've done my bit. More stones for Scotland and all that. Go the revolution. Now will that be cheque or cash?'

Dewar looked around in alarm. ‘No' here, man. Go wi' t'lads. There's a hire car in t'car park.'

‘What, I can poop here, but not get paid?'

‘Go wi' Campbell, Ken.' Dewar turned away, holding the bag out to his side, downwind from his nose.

Dave was pushed to a tiny jellybean of a hire car, a bright blue Ford Ka. Campbell looked at the key to the car in disgust.

Karushi said, ‘Coulda got us a man's car.'

‘Ah hope naw one sees us in this thing,' said Campbell unlocking the driver's door. ‘In t'back, Angus.'

‘Look, I'm sure you fellas need to get on with things. So, here's fine.
It doesn't have to be exactly twenty thousand pounds. A tip for your troubles is only fair.'

‘Shut up,' said Campbell pulling back his jacket to reveal the gun Dave had always suspected he had.

‘How about this. You keep everything and I'll chalk it up to experience.'

‘Get in the back.'

They drove. They didn't talk. Campbell put on the radio. ABBA. Dave's luck was turning from very bad to worse. Karushi changed the station. Bono. Cruel and unusual. Campbell turned the radio off. They passed a sign. Birnam Wood.

‘Like in Macbeth?' asked Dave.

‘No idea,' said Karushi.

They turned down a narrow road and passed four quaint houses before it ended at a walking track leading into the wood. Ancient trees and leaf-covered ground sloped down towards the railway track.

Campell and Karushi got out. Campbell pushed forward the driver's seat so Dave could squeeze past.

‘I'll stay here.'

‘Act like a man.'

‘As opposed to acting like a body you mean?'

‘Ah wahnt tae talk tae ye, man. Dewar wis clear. Find oot aboot t'woman in Amsterdam before ye pay this wee dick. But if ye like, ah can drag ye oot and shoot ye.'

Dave didn't like the way that oot and shoot rhymed so well.

Campbell signalled with the gun and Dave climbed out. They skittered down the slope towards the railway tracks.

‘The woman in Amsterdam. Convince me ye wirnae working on this taegither.'

‘I think I've pretty much established I'm a poor judge of character. And impulsive – compulsively.'

The leaves crunched as they walked. Perhaps there was too much crunching for three sets of feet. Moss covered the rocks and fallen branches.

Dave tried to think of something that might delay his death so that he could buy some time to think of something that might save his life.

‘This'll dae,' said Campbell.

‘Wait,' said Dave. He reached for his own arse, hoping to save it. ‘I think I've still got another package.'

Campbell looked to Karushi, who shrugged.

‘Ye dinae count them?' accused Campbell.

‘No, I didn't watch them come out. I didn't count them and I didn't wash them. I forgot my scales too and I didn't weigh them.'

‘I didn't count them either,' said Dave.

Karushi produced a knife.

‘Don't move. Police,' called a familiar male Australian voice.

Dave turned to see two backpackers walking towards them through the trees; a pretty young woman and a tall young man with a familiar tanned face.

‘Yes, you, Bruce, but I didn't know that then.'

‘But you've known it since the airport in Perth.'

‘Nope.'

‘I told you,' said Mal. ‘No idea, not from the start.'

‘Gentlemen, nearly there. Ken, please.'

‘Certainly, Inspector.'

The girl backpacker said, ‘Come along then. Put your weapons down.' She was blonde with slender long pale legs. She pulled a wallet from her pocket and flashed a badge. ‘PC Rowntree.'

The male backpacker grinned at the forest like a new party guest.

‘The Bill?' said Karushi.

‘Fook,' said Campbell.

They both dropped their weapons.

The police kept coming forward, trying not to slip on the loose leaves as they edged down the slope.

PC Rowntree said, ‘Graeme Campbell and Rafi Karushi, you're under arrest.'

‘Graeme?'

‘Oi, whit's wrong wi' it?'

‘I just didn't know your name, like.' Karushi smiled and bent to pick up his knife.

Dave looked back toward the police, noticing the same thing Karushi must have.

Karushi said, ‘They don't have guns, Graeme.'

As Campbell bent for his gun, Dave moved behind the nearest tree.

Campbell said, ‘Ye doon't have guns, ye bloody idiots.'

‘I'm giving you a chance here, Campbell,' said Rowntree.

‘And ah'm taking that chance.' Campbell took aim.

The Aussie cop stepped in front of Rowntree protectively. Rowntree said, ‘Hey,' and slapped at his back.

Dave came around the other side of the tree and screamed, ‘Ahhhhhhh!'

Campbell turned as Dave whacked down on his arm with the lump of tree branch he'd found. He dropped the gun and Karushi bent for it, but the Aussie policeman leapt into the Indian's back and Dave brought the branch down again on Campbell's arm.

‘Nice work, Ken,' said that familiar voice.

Before Dave could ask him who the hell he was, Rowntree stepped forward and said, ‘You three are under arrest.'

‘Me too?' said Dave.

Dave was led into an interview room, already full of a number of familiar if unnamed faces. A short woman with fierce eyes and an important police uniform seemed to be in charge. ‘Ken,' she said in a soft Scottish accent. ‘It is grand to finally meet you.' She indicated the only chair on the door side of the table. ‘I am Inspector Colley.'

Dave sat, beaming at them. ‘And nice to see everybody too. Can I save you some time? I confess. I'm an illegal alien and I accept I will be deported.'

‘Ha, yes. I believe you know Detective Sergeant Malcolm Kemp.'

She pointed to the big red-faced bloke from Perth who'd also appeared in the brothel. He had a black eye and didn't smile.

‘Detective Sergeant Roberts.' She indicated the tanned Aussie
who'd winked at him in Perth airport and who'd recently rescued him dressed as a hiker in the woods.

‘You're a legend, Ken,' he said. ‘Dead set. Call me Bruce.'

‘And this is our PC Rowntree, seconded from Nottingham.'

She had changed from her hiking clothes into a police uniform. She nodded, rosy-cheeked and clear-eyed.

‘Hang on,' said Dave, recalling recent events, ‘Why have I been arrested? I saved their lives.'

‘Well,' said Bruce, ‘I'd like to think the saving was mutual.'

‘Yes. Each other's lives, as things evolved,' said Rowntree.

‘I understand, Ken, that you have been working with Sergeants Kemp and Roberts since Australia.'

There was a cough. It was from the tall thin man that Dave had seen in Schiphol airport. He was wearing a different, but beautifully fitted, suit.

‘And this is our Dutch friend, Brigadier Van Shooten, who, in the spirit of a united Europe, is also along for the ride it appears.'

Van Shooten grimaced, but stood and offered his hand. ‘Amsterdam,' he said.

‘Ah, of course,' said Dave, wise yet circumspect. He felt like he'd stumbled into the official surrender ceremony at the end of a war. What was most confusing was that he seemed to be the victor.

Van Shooten said, ‘Any Serbians yet? Montenegro mentioned?'

‘And now you're in Scotland, Ken, and I inherit ye,' interrupted Colley with a glare.

‘And like I said, I surrender. You can toss me, like an old caber, out of your very fine country.'

Colley smiled again. It was a polite smile, acknowledging but not enjoying an attempted joke. ‘No, we have some more work for ye.' She was still smiling, still without humour.

‘You're still on the team, Ken,' said Bruce.

‘The pay's nonexistent, the working conditions are lousy, and I'm absolutely unsuited to it. I'm going to retire.'

‘You're being modest,' said Van Shooten. ‘I have seen you operate. Very good.' The Dutchman gave a precise little nod.

Colley cut across him again. ‘The original charge against ye is still pending, I believe.'

‘It's still that same deal, Ken,' said Mal, still studying Dave.

‘Original charge?'

‘The diamond theft from Argyle.'

‘Ah ha. It's probably time I cleared up a few things. I'm not Ken.'

Dave looked around at the room full of police. Colley was smiling her waiting smile. They were all waiting it seemed for a punchline.

‘I found these stones in the middle of the desert in Australia. Your Ken was dead. A car accident. There was a little tree. I'm a telecom worker. Dave Kelly. Innocent victim of mistaken identity. Um, well ... the rest has kind of just happened, really.'