Blood Hunt (42 page)

Reeve had a lot of planning to do. He wasn’t too happy about returning to Jim’s Saab, which he had parked in a long-term parking lot only a courtesy bus ride away from the Heathrow terminals. He didn’t know how clever the police would be; he didn’t think they would trace him as far as the Saab, but he couldn’t be sure. To add to this, the car was a liability, and might break down at any minute. But he had very little alternative. He didn’t want to rent a new car. That would mean handing over his credit card, and he guessed the police would be tracking its use. (They probably didn’t know about his secret bank account, and even if they did they might not want to freeze it: if he accessed cash or wrote a check they’d have another way of tracking his movements.)

The people at the parking lot, on the other hand, knew only the false name he’d given them. He’d paid cash up front—so probably there wouldn’t be a problem. But Reeve didn’t enter the single-story office straightaway. First he took a look around the lot. He could see the Saab. It wasn’t hard for him to spot among the shiny new Jags and BMWs and Rovers. The company had hemmed it in behind more expensive cars, reckoning them a better ad to potential customers. Reeve didn’t blame them—he was actually relieved the Saab had been hidden from view during his time away.

He walked into the office.

“Had a good trip?” the girl behind the desk asked.

“Yes, thanks,” he said. There was complimentary coffee on a table nearby, and he helped himself to a cup. There was powdered milk only, so he took it black. It was bitter, but it woke him up a bit.

“Now, Mr. Fleming, you didn’t specify a return date, so we’ve not been able to valet your car.”

“No problem. The dirt is the only thing holding it together.”

She smiled and filled in the rest of the form, which he had to sign at the bottom. He couldn’t recall what first name he’d given, but saw it printed at the head of the sheet. Jay. He’d called himself Jay Fleming.

“And here are your keys,” the receptionist said, handing them over.

“I think you’ll need to move a few of the other cars.”

“Oh, you’re blocked in. I’ll get Tom to see to it.”

Tom was outside, drinking tea from a flask. He wore overalls, a slicker, and Wellingtons, and was without doubt the valet. Reeve watched as he started up and moved a gleaming red BMW 635 and a silver Rover 200. He thanked him and trundled the Saab out of the parking lot and into the lanes of traffic. It was the start of what was going to be a long twenty-four hours.

He headed north, stopping only for gas and coffee and to read all the newspapers. He cursed the Saab’s lack of a radio—he needed to know whether the police had connected him to the Marie Villambard killing. McCluskey had mentioned Interpol interest, but that could have been a bluff. But when he stopped near the border and bought some Scottish newspapers, he caught his first mention of the story, relegated to an inside page. Police, it said, were “anxious to contact Scots climbing instructor Gordon Reeve.” There was no description, but they could have published one in a previous day’s edition. He stopped at a Little Chef to replenish his caffeine level, and telephoned Joan’s sister. Joan herself answered the phone.

“Joan, it’s Bob Plant here, any sign of Gordon?”

She recognized his voice immediately. There was a slight pause as she came to understand what was going on. (She’d had a crush on Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin at one time.) “Bob,” she said, “sorry, I’m not thinking straight.”

“Are you all right, Joan?”

“I’m fine. It’s just been a shock, with the police and everything.”

“They’ve been asking you questions?” He sounded like a solicitous friend.

“Well, they just want to know where Gordon is. You know they found his car in France, near where three bodies were found, one of them a woman’s.”

“Gracious.”

“They’re keeping watch on the house here, just in case he shows up.”

“They think he had something to do with the murders?”

“Well, Bob, what would you think if you were them? Gordon’s Land Rover burned out and no trace of him anywhere.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Bob, I’m worried about him.”

“Gordon can take care of himself, Joan.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“Might he go back to the island?”

“I don’t know. There are police watching the ferries.”

“A real manhunt, eh?”

“They may even be watching the house.”

“Ach, unlikely he’d head back there.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But where else would he be? Where could he go?”

“You know him better than I do, Joan.”

“Well, I thought I knew him, Bob.”

Silence on the line.

“Joan,” Reeve said, looking in at the diners—families mostly, “he’ll be all right. I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong.”

“Try telling the police that.”

“Maybe he needs evidence first, I mean before he can come back.”

“Evidence?”

“Of his innocence.”

Joan sniffed. He could tell she was crying.

“I’ll phone again,” he told her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her nose.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

“No, I’m glad you did. It’s been a while, Bob.”

“Yes, it has. Is Allan all right?”

“Missing his dad. But at the same time—I know this is wrong—he seems to quite like the idea of having a father who’s a wanted man.” She laughed.

Reeve smiled, and blinked back tears. At one table, a father was admonishing his son, who still had a full plate of food in front of him. The kid was nine, maybe ten. The man spoke in a low voice, but his eyes were blazing.

“Bye, Joan,” he said.

“Good-bye, Bob.”

He kept the receiver to his ear after she’d put down the phone, and heard a double click and what sounded like a stifled sneeze. The bastards were listening in, just as he’d suspected. Not Jay or Kosigin this time, but the police. He ran through the conversation again, satisfied he hadn’t given anything away. And he’d learned so much.

“Thanks, love,” he said quietly, heading back to his table and a refill of coffee.

If they were watching the ferries, they’d be watching Oban and Tarbert on the mainland, both of which had direct sailings: Oban to South Uist and Tarbert to North Uist. The two islands were separated by the smaller island of Benbecula, and all three were linked by bridges. They might also be watching Uig, a small port on Skye. But to get to Skye he would have to take a short ferry ride from Kyle of Lochalsh, the bridge to Kylerhea, or the much longer ferry crossing from Mallaig. Unless there was manpower to spare, Reeve doubted anyone would be watching Mallaig.

Which was precisely why he ignored Oban and drove instead to Fort William and from there to Mallaig on the coast. There were no direct ferries from Mallaig to the Outer Hebrides.

At the same time, he couldn’t afford to relax. His face was known in the town, and a few people even knew him by name. There would be police in the vicinity, maybe not in Mallaig itself, but nearby. And if his description had been in the papers…

He was there to seek out one of the people who knew him by name, an old rogue called Kenneth Creech. “Creech short for creature,” Kenneth sometimes said in introduction—and he had a point. He reminded Reeve in particular of a lizard; all he was missing was the green skin.

Kenneth Creech had a narrow, jagged face that fell to two distinct points—his chin and the extruding tip of his nose. When you looked at him face-on, his nostrils couldn’t be seen at all. His eyes bugged from his face, and his tongue, which slid an inch or two from his mouth between utterances, was thin and pointed like his face. He was known to cheat at cards, siphon gas from any unlocked fuel tank (to which end he sometimes carried a gallon drum with him, empty at the start of the evening), and be foulmouthed in front of the opposite sex, while nary a curse passed his lips in the company of his fellow men.

People steered clear of Kenneth Creech. Reeve had got to know him when Creech had tricked him out of some money which was to pay for the transportation of some stuff between North Uist and the mainland. Creech owned a couple of small boats and some creels and lobster pots. He never actually used these, but somehow managed to be the recipient of a European Community “Business Expansion Grant,” which had paid for the second boat and kept Creech well-enough off besides.

In the summer, Creech sometimes tricked tourists into going with him on one of the boats for what was supposed to be an all-day pleasure cruise around “the beautiful Hebrides.” In fact, he’d head straight for the choppiest waters and most dangerous wind-torn straits, after which the tourists would beg to return to land. At this point, they’d be told there were no refunds. If they argued for their money back, Creech would pay them, then would drop them off somewhere on the far side of Skye, pretending they were a mile or so south of Mallaig.

Reeve liked Creech. He liked him so much he had eventually let Creech keep the money he’d been cheated of.

Creech hated mankind, but he surely did love money. Reeve was counting on this fact.

Kenneth Creech had a boathouse just north of the town. It was six in the evening when Reeve got there, having driven through town without stopping. The sky to the west, out over Skye and the Minch, was a palette of pinks and grays, thin threads of silver and softly glowing red. Reeve gave it all of a second of his time then kicked at the boathouse door, which rattled on its hinges.

The door was locked, but that didn’t mean Creech wasn’t inside. At last a bolt slid back and the door opened.

“You’ll pay for any damage,” Creech snapped, examining his door first and his visitor second. His mouth made an O when he recognized Reeve.

“Well now, Gordon,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“Money,” Reeve said, holding up a thickish fold of notes. “To wit, my desire to give you some.”

Creech couldn’t take his eyes off the cash. “Well now, Gordon,” he said, the tongue darting in and out of his mouth, “you must be wanting a boat.”

“How did you guess?”

Creech didn’t say anything, just ushered him inside. The back of the boathouse opened onto the Sound of Sleat. Reeve could see the southern tip of Skye. The larger of the two boats was tied up in the water; it had bench seats both sides, and could carry a dozen passengers. In the middle of the deck stood the control console with a small steering wheel, like that of a sports car. In fact, if you looked closer, there was the MG insignia in the center of the wheel. Creech had stolen it from a crashed car south of the town. By the time the insurance investigators reached the vehicle, there hadn’t been much left but a shell.

Creech’s other boat was smaller, but boasted an outboard motor and was a lot nippier as a result. It had been hauled out of the water and now hung by winches over the wooden floor. Old newspapers were scattered beneath the hull, which Creech was in the middle of repainting.

“You’re painting over the barnacles,” Reeve told him. Creech was wiping his hands on a rag. The paint tin looked to Reeve like ordinary vinyl silk emulsion. The color, according to the lid of the tin, was taupe.

“Well, it’s a sight easier than scraping them off.”

Reeve nodded, and smiled at Creech, who looked nervier even than usual. He kept jerking his head and blinking his bulbous eyes.

“You know about me?” Reeve said.

Creech started to deny it. Denial was an instinct, like breathing. But then he broke off, knowing Reeve knew.

“I’ve heard a few stories,” he said at last, sounding like it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Reeve looked around. “You’ve no phone here, Kenneth?”

Creech shook his head slowly, then spoke carefully. “I wouldn’t turn you in, Gordon.”

“That’s unusually friendly of you, Kenneth. What’s wrong, isn’t there a reward?”

The momentary look in Creech’s eyes told Reeve he’d never considered the possibility until now.

“Don’t,” Reeve warned him.

Creech got back some mobility and went over to the boat, picking up his paintbrush. He’d left it lying on the edge of the newspaper, and some paint had dribbled onto the floor. He wiped the spot with his rag, but that just spread the stain farther.

“I’m painting this boat,” he said.

“I’d never have guessed.” Reeve paused. “But that’s the boat I want.”

Creech glanced towards him. “Now?” Reeve nodded. “Can’t it wait till I’m finished?”

“Do I look like a man who can wait?”

“No.” The word took a long time coming out. “But you surely don’t want to take a boat out at night?” Creech paused. “No wait, of course you do. There’s less chance of them spotting you at night.”

“Well done, Kenneth. How many police are there?”

Creech considered lying, but looked at the money again, the money Reeve was still holding in his hand.

“There’s more where this came from,” Reeve told him.

Creech wet his already glistening lips. “Well, there’s nobody in Mallaig,” he said, “but I’ve heard tell there are a couple of strange faces on Skye.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Oh, aye, they were in Oban yesterday.”

“And Tarbert?”

“I couldn’t tell you about Tarbert.”

“And on South Uist?”

“Well, they’ve been to your house a couple of times, that much I’ve heard. You’re big news around here, Gordon.”

“I didn’t do anything, Kenneth.”

“I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it, but the police used to have a saying in Glasgow: you don’t arrest an innocent man. If they take you in, they’ll try their damnedest to find something against you, even if it means planting the evidence.”

Reeve smiled. “You sound like you’ve been there.”

“I was in trouble enough in my early days. I’m from Partick, remember. One look at my face—I know it’s no beauty—and the polis would stop me.” Creech spat into the water.

“You’ll help me?”

Creech considered the question. The tension left his shoulders. “Ach, maybe I’m too sentimental for my own good,” he said. “Of course I’ll help you.”

And he held out his hand for the cash.

Reeve helped him move the boat back over the water and lower it in, so that its side scraped that of the larger vessel, leaving smears of paint on the wood. Creech went to check that the boathouse doors were locked. When Creech returned, Reeve was standing at the workbench, his back to him. Creech licked his lips again and moved forward quietly. When Reeve turned, Creech let out an involuntary gasp. Reeve was holding the biggest knife Creech had ever seen. He had it in his right hand, a coil of Creech’s best rope in the other.