Country of the Blind (40 page)

They stepped away and waited.

Paul stood holding the portable phone, glancing occasionally at the lifeless figure of the Wee Shite slumped against a different tree. Tam crouched on the ground next to the other prisoner as Spammy knelt by the fire, looking his captive closely in the face.

The man made an involuntary gasping noise, upon which Spammy's eyes lit up.

"We're away," he said delightedly, and began to dance spastically in front of him, waving his arms and legs and making "wooooo" noises. 228

Tam closed his eyes and shook his head.

Bowman watched the shapes swim, the light and darkness weave before him, the figures draw in and out of not-quite focus. He felt pain, nausea, asphyxia, disorientation. The haze, the amorphous mass seemed to pull together, sounds warped and stretching, his thoughts and memories returning, but in an equally contorted form.

Then fear.

He remembered what had done this to him, saw it loom before him. It had been the octopus-thing. It had reached out and crushed his neck, lashed at him with its self-elongating tentacles. It was floating there, those long protuberances feeling their way towards him, extending out from its body, and its body was made of fire. The fire blinked and flickered in its middle as the octopus-thing swam in the air, while beside it the telephone man stood and stared, and the question master demanded answers.

But he couldn't answer. He couldn't talk. You never talk. If you talk, they'll send Harcourt for you. Harcourt and his knives, the stainless steel. Never talk. Can't talk. But if you don't, the octopus-thing will put its tentacle through your neck and down your throat and open your stomach and burn its fire into your guts and the octopus-thing is here and is moving and is coming and. . . The man's eyes widened and bulged and he started hyperventilating, trembling and sweating.

"Who are you? Who sent you?" Tam asked.

"Don't know," he said, throat wheezing. "Don't know. Can't talk. Can't tell."

"Who's behind this?" Tam said, louder, more aggressive. "Who are you working for? Tell me."

"Don't know. Won't tell." His eyes flitted randomly around, never seeming to focus. "Don't know. No-one ever knows. . . client."

"Client? Who's the client? Who are you working for?"

"Never know. . . client's name. . . never know. . . someone. . . government."

"Who killed Voss? Who killed Voss?" Tam grabbed him by the lapels, shaking him, growling the questions. "Did you kill Voss?"

The man gasped again, as if surfacing after having his head forced underwater.

"No. . .

not me. . .

Knight killed Voss. . .

White Knight. . .

Chaaarge!"

He giggled, then wheezed again. "Knight kill Voss. . . Knight takes Voss. . . Check. . . Knight and Harcourt. . . Harcourt. . . big hard-on. . . killing a billion. . . billionaire. . . doesn't make you any. . . any richer. . . fucking cunt. . . cock like gra. . . granite."

229

"RIGHT!" came a voice from behind, suddenly shaking and silencing them all. "Party's over, cunts."

It was the Wee Shite, standing unsteadily, untied, supporting his injured knee with one hand, pointing a gun at them with the other. Paterson had come round quietly, without any moaning and groaning, and when he opened one eye, he had surveyed what was before him and quickly remembered, despite his throbbing skull, why and how he had got there. Fortunately, they were all busy looking at Bowman at the time, so he closed his eye again and tested his bonds. They were tight, and the pressure ached against his right wrist, the one knackered by the lanky cunt, fucking jammy lanky cunt and his fucking lucky kick. But these guys were no experts, and he could already feel his pinky finding its way into a loop and working a section of the rope loose.

Then he had rocked back slightly slowly and gently to avoid detection, partially opening one eye to check they were still looking elsewhere - so that he could get more purchase to strain against the knots. And that was when he felt it. The hard wee lump, pressing insistently into his back where it rested against the tree. His spare gun, still taped there. His back-up. He redoubled his efforts to loosen the ropes, summoning all his will-power not to grimace or wince too obviously as he twisted his wrists and the right one screamed its howl of protest around his nervous system. Then he was free.

He pointed the gun at the lanky cunt, who was nearest, while the others stood by, unable to take their eyes off him for the space of a blink. Aye. They weren't fucking smiling now. He backed away a few more feet from Lanky and his elastic legs, unlatching the safety catch and glancing down at the pistol tucked into the skinny bastard's belt.

"Drap that," he ordered. "Slowly. An' haud it by the barrel."

Elastic man delicately withdrew the gun from his belt and let it fall to the ground at his side. Paterson smiled.

"Thought you were so fuckin' smart, ya cunt," he said. "Well we'll see how smart you are in a minute. Yous are aw fuckin' deid. All o'yous. But you, Skinnymalinky, I'm gaunny make
you
fuckin' suffer before I finish you."

"Aye, you're a real hard man wi' a gun in your haun," said the old cunt, McInnes. The other boy just stood there, frozen, holding on to the portable phone like he could use it to ask Scotty to beam him up. He'd be fucking lucky.

"Why don't you put it doon, then you an' Spammy here can have a square go," the old cunt continued.

"Save it, Faither," Paterson spat. "This isnae the fuckin' movies. I don't need to prove to masel' that I can waste any o'yous cunts." He shook his head 230

derisively. "You think this gangly yin wasnae just lucky back there? Yous think yous were fuckin' geniuses 'cause the polis never found you? Listen, Faither, an' you listen as well, Daddy Long Legs. The only reason yous cunts made it this far is because they were followin' orders to look in the wrang places, an' because they knew
we
had yous in oor sights the whole fuckin' time. Wan phone call, wan order, and yous three were dropped. And the phone call's came, by the way."

With that thought he looked again at the other one, McInnes Junior, holding
his
phone.

"Put that doon. On the floor. Gently," he ordered. He didn't want it to smash when he shot him, and he certainly didn't want to put a slug in the phone by accident.

As Junior bent down, he noticed Faither had his hand in his pocket. Wary of the danger of attack from different sides, especially with Bowman in some fucking psychedelic trance, he shouted "EVERY CUNT FREEZE" and pointed the gun at the oldest of the fugitives.

"Whit you daein'? Take your haun oot your pocket. Slowly."

The old cunt's hand withdrew from his trousers, his fist balled tight around something.

Paterson was getting nervous. He should have dropped them a minute ago. He should drop them now, but he had to check what Faither had in case it meant trouble.

'Drap it. Open your haun," he commanded.

He glanced cautiously at Skinnymalink to make sure he wasn't planning anything, cast a brief eye over Junior, still crouched on the floor by the phone, and looked at the fist. Faither's hand rotated gently so that his forearm faced upwards, and his fingers opened out.

Paterson saw a glint of something gold, reflecting the flames of the small fire, then saw a brief cascade of metal objects falling from the old man's palm to the ground.

Bullets.

Fuck.

He pulled frantically at the trigger, again and again and again, only to hear the hollow, impotent click of the hammer against an empty barrel.

"What, have you never seen
Die Hard
, ya stupit prick?" said Junior with a withering look.

The old cunt smiled. "Well," he said. "Looks like it's gaunny be a square go after all. Get him, Spammy."

"I've got to hand it to you, Spammy," said Tam. "I had ma doubts, but we got mair information daein' it your way."

231

Spammy was crouched behind the Wee Shite, who was on his knees, tears leaking from his eyes after a second assault on his testides. Spammy was tying him up - properly this time - fastening his wrists together behind his back and then looping the rope around his ankles.

"Aye," he said, "but I've got to admit, your way was fun too."

Tam stared. Fun? Spammy still wasn't getting this.

"Yous've got fuck-all," grunted the Wee Shite.

"I'm no so sure aboot that," countered Paul. "Polis lookin' in the wrang places, was that it? And. . . .. Knight and Harker, Harcourt, somethin' like that. They killed Voss, I believe the man said."

The Wee Shite snorted, a mixture of indignation, tears and snotters.

"Dream on. As if any cunt's gaunny believe yous."

Paul allowed himself a smile. "True enough," he said. "But they might believe you."

"Whit?"

"Oh, nothing."

Paul glanced down with satisfaction at the portable phone, with which he had dialled his flat, where Spammy's answering machine had recorded every word the Wee Shite and Mushroom Man said.

Spammy stood away from the Wee Shite, who was secured in a kneeling position, eyeing his captors with contempt and spitting occasionally. He moved across to check the bonds restraining the Mushroom Man, who had vomited and then passed out a few moments previously.

Tam stood a few feet away from the Wee Shite, staring him intently in the face.

"What's your name, son?" he asked.

"Fuck off."

"Is that Russian?" Tam continued, but there was no humour in his voice.

"I'll be back for you cunts," the Wee Shite snarled.

"Aye, very good, look forward tae it," said Tam, almost absently. He walked forward until he was standing over their prisoner. "Listen, ya wee wank," he said quietly. "You killed ma friend today. Friend I've known since before those two there were born. Friend I worked with, drank with, did
time
with. Friend that stood by me all the way, even when I got sucked into this shite. An' you just kill't him, shot him in cold blood like he was nothin'."

"I'm really fuckin' sorry," said the Wee Shite. "In fact I'm cryin' ma fuckin'

eyes oot here."

"Let me tell you a wee bit aboot this man you killed," Tam continued, ignoring him. "This man that was worth a million o'you. Just so you know who you murdered. His name was Bob. Bob Hannah."

"I know aw your names,
McInnes
," he sneered.

232

"You see, I was workin' alangside Bob before I knew it. We only fun' oot we baith worked thegether when we got talkin' after a match. We played in the same fitba team, you see. Baith played for Renfrew Juniors back in the Seventies."

The Wee Shite made great play of yawning.

"Bob was a winger. Wee and fast; nippy, cheeky player. The boys nicknamed him Jinky, after Jinky Johnstone that played wi' the Celtic. Me? I played up front. I was less subtle, but I knew where the goals were. And I'd a nickname as well."

The Wee Shite looked up, realising that the next revelation might have a significance for himself.

"They called me Lorimer," Tam stated, purposefully pacing backwards away from the kneeling figure.

The rapid drain of all colour from the Wee Shite's face assured Tam that he was familiar with the reputation of the former Leeds and Scotland striker, renowned for being the hardest kicker of a football in the world. Sergeant Shearer had another gulp of his tea and turned back to the typewriter. Paperwork like this could sometimes have him climbing the walls and swinging his size tens at the station cat - criminal damage to a rabbit hutch, for heaven's sake; right up there with that joker last year who kept attaching rubber handle-bar grips to the ends of the horns on all Dougal McGunnigle's highland cows - but this evening it was actually helping him stay calm. If he concentrated on the report, sipped away at his brew and turned up the radio, he could ward his thoughts away from the murderous intentions he was harbouring towards just about everyone connected with this bloody manhunt. They had rolled into Strathgair
en masse
last night, like the bloody Trenchcoat Roadshow, lots of jumped-up nobodies from Edinburgh and London who had seen a few too many FBI movies. Waving all sorts of supposedly impressive IDs and orders from the Scottish Office, and letting him know, basically, that it was in the hands of the professionals now, so he could get back to minding the cornershop like a good little sheep-shagger. Then there had been that arrogant heid-the-baw from MI5 or whatever, Knight. Flew in in a helicopter, barked a load of orders, pointed his finger a lot and then buggered off again, no doubt satisfied with his brief but invaluable contribution. And after that came the Portakabins, turning the south end of Dingwall Street into what looked like a site-office.

Run along now, they had told him. We're sure you've got lots of important teuchter things to be getting on with. "Someone's still got to maintain law and order down in the village while there's all this excitement in the hills," one of them said. Patronising wee jobbie.

233

They didn't want to make any use of his local knowledge, his familiarity with every blade of grass for umpteen square miles, in the hills he had known since boyhood. Didn't want to hear where he thought the fugitives might end up if they needed water, or where the best vantage points were. Oh no, they obviously didn't need any assistance from some mutton-molesting village bobby.

Well sod them, he had thought. Neither, presumably, would they need to know where the most treacherous bogs lay, or that where they had parked their Portakabins was about ten yards downwind of Duncan Sutherland's slurry pit.

They hadn't even wanted to use the station once their wee mobile HQ was set up, and the nearest he had got to any involvement had been around lunchtime, when the bastards towed in the wrecked bus and dumped it on the shinty pitch behind his office window.

"Keep an eye on it, Sergeant. We'll be moving it down to Edinburgh later."

Aye. Like somebody's going to steal it.

He sighed, still simmering, and tapped again at the keyboard. Then Morag put her head around the door, knocking on the frame to get his attention.