Country of the Blind (41 page)

"Sarge, can you take this call? It's some bloke asking to talk to the desk sergeant on duty. Says it's 'a local matter'."

A local matter. He growled to himself, lifted the receiver and pressed the blinking pink light.

"Hello, Sergeant John Shearer speaking," he said tiredly. "Fit can I do for you?"

"Are you the desk sergeant on duty?" asked a male voice. Sounded like a Glasgow accent. Definitely not local.

"I'm the
only
sergeant in a radius of aboot forty miles. . . well, usually." He thought of the trenchcoated legions. Grrr.

"Right," said the man. "So are you anythin' to do with this, eh, manhunt cairry-on?"

"
Don't
talk aboot that," he couldn't help but mutter. "Dinnae get me started. Just tell me what I can help you with. Fit's your name?"

"You're definitely not involved, then?"

"No, I think it would be pretty bloody safe to say I'm not bloody involved,"

he replied, starting to lose it.

"Good," said the man.

"Weeeyyyaaaiiiaaaaw," said the cat, propelled through the doorway by Shearer's boot.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Stress-relieving office toy. Look, fit is it that you want, sir? I believe you said it was a local matter."

234

"Aye, sort of," said the man. "Would you be interested in knowin' where you could find two of the gang that killed Roland Voss?"

"Are you trying to take the piss?"

"Not at all. I know where they are, and I also know that they're not in much shape to resist arrest. They'd a wee accident, I think."

"Who is this? You'll have to give me your name."

"I cannae give you ma name. This is kinna an anonymous tip, you know. But it's legit. I swear it."

"That's okay," said Shearer, reaching for a pen. "So where are they?"

"I need your word that you'll come alone."

"I'm afraid I couldn't possibly come alone. For procedural reasons I'd need to bring at least two of my men."

"Aye, fair enough," agreed the man. "But can you give me your word you won't tell the other cops, the folk on the manhunt, until you've made the arrests?"

Shearer grinned, beaming until the corners of his mouth felt the strain.

"Oh, I can certainly promise you that. How many members of my extended family would you like me to swear on the lives of?"

It took almost two hours to reach the spot. Shearer had listened to the description of the place and been sure of where the man was talking about right away. His "two men" had been Morag (WPC McLeod) and her brother, Andrew, who wasn't actually on the force, but needs must and all that. Andrew was a solicitor, so that almost counted, even if he was usually in the station to represent the toerags Shearer arrested. The only other candidate who lived locally was PC Ross, but he was still suffering from the flu that had kept him off for a couple of days, so he was only fit to mind the station while the rest of them were out in the hills.

"Keep a close eye on that bus," Shearer said to him before leaving, to Ross's obvious and entertaining puzzlement.

Shearer wasn't able to drive the Land Rover as near as he would have liked, which was why it took so long to get there. The moon was bright enough, and there were few clouds, but he still couldn't risk leaving the roads and tracks in such poor light. Buggered axles and squashed sheep were but two of the potential hazards.

"Over 'ere!" Shearer heard, as the beams of their torches thrust ahead of them through the trees and bushes, swinging to and fro as if slicing through the vegetation.

"Oi! Over 'ere!" came the shout again. Shearer picked out the waving shape first, and led his company into the wee clearing, a quarter of a mile down from the ridge. He indicated to Morag and Andrew to stay behind him as he 235

surveyed the situation. Shearer swept the torchlight around the scene, taking in its constituent parts and quickly building up a very interesting picture. He beckoned his assistants forward.

"Thank fuck for that. Get us out of this, mate. Thought we was gonna be here all night," said one of the men. They were both lying against trees, thoroughly trussed, like you could put a pole through the ropes and carry the pair of them home swinging. Even in the darkness, Shearer could tell that the man who was speaking didn't look at all well, while the other one was inert, doing little more than breathing and moaning. He shone his torch over the moaning man's face and noticed with a start that it didn't quite fit together the way faces normally do. It looked like it had been jaw versus train, and the clash had run to form. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put this numpty together again.

Morag made to move towards the man who was doing the talking. Shearer put out a hand to her arm, stopping her. He gestured with his head and swung his torchbeam towards a pile of shapes on the ground, past the ashes and embers of a recent-looking fire. Morag's eyes bulged. Then he pointed it above the moaning man, six feet up the tree trunk. Morag craned her neck, directing her own beam at it and staring. Golly gosh.

"I was told I could find two of the men who killed Roland Voss up here,"

Shearer announced loudly. "An anonymous tip."

The man shook his head. "That's who got us, mate. That's who did this to us. They're still on the run. They're armed and dangerous. We're on the search team. I don't even know why they let us live."

"No," said Shearer, "that does seem inconsistent with their recent record. But I wonder if you could tell me why these armed and dangerous men would leave a big pile of guns just lying on the ground here?"

The man gawped for a moment, then shook his head. "It's a setup. These bastards have set us up, and they're settin' you up as well. They took our portable phone. Probably them that gave you the tip."

"Probably," said Shearer, reflectively.

"Look, mate, this isn't exactly comfortable. My fuckin' arm's broken. And me mate's in a right mess. Are you gonna untie us then, or what."

"No. I think I'm going to place you under arrest, actually."

"
What?
What for?"

Shearer walked over to the tree where the moaning man lay, then reached up and removed the large sheet of paper that was fixed above, out of both the restrained men's sights. Training his torch on it, he turned the sheet around so that the man could read what it said, the Ordnance Survey map it was scrawled on the reverse of facing towards himself.

236

WE ARE INNOCENT.

THE GUNS ON THE GROUND ARE THE ONES TAKEN FROM THE BUS. THESE MEN KILLED THE POLICEMAN AND THE DRIVER.

THIS WEE SHITE WAS ON THE BUS DISGUISED AS A PRISONER. YOU'LL FIND HIS FINGERPRINTS ALL OVER THE HANDRAILS ON THE

LEFT-HAND BACK SEAT.

WE KNOW WHO REALLY KILLED VOSS.

"Sorry," said Shearer, mock-absently. "Fit was that you were saying a wee minute ago, aboot a set-up?"

Tam looked back once more, and this time ordered them to stop. Turning around, they could all see the headlights in the glen, a motile glow at first, occasionally splitting into distinct shafts as the vehicle negotiated twists in its course. Tam felt himself hold his breath, as if the sound could carry so far. He breathed out again, finding comfort in their distance from the lights, impressed that they had made such progress. It was dark and they were dogtired and sore, but hope had granted them purpose, and purpose had granted them one more extension on their energy overdrafts. It was another mercifully clear night - well for fuck's sake, they were due
one
break - which not only assisted their journey, but now allowed them to measure it. He couldn't be sure yet if this was
the
vehicle, and not some farmer perhaps. But what it wasn't was a parade of vehicles, of dozens of polismen and soldiers hurriedly pursuing their quarry. So for that moment it was still in the balance. The vehicle stopped, and the headlamps went out. Then they could see separate beams, bobbing individually, progressing slowly away from where the headlights had disappeared and moving towards the trees. Soon afterwards, the beams became intermittent, broken up as the torchbearers moved into the forest.

Tam exhaled slowly with relief, and Paul couldn't help but laugh as his own tension eased.

They'd
had
to give it a go. Obviously, if the information had fallen into the wrong hands, not only would what they had revealed be covered up, but the MM would have a good idea of where to send his next seek-and-destroy party. But that was why Tam had rung directories and got the number of the local station in Strathgair, not just dialled 999 and asked for the police

- especially as someone with a lot to hide might recognise the number the caller was ringing from. The man had given his word, for what that might be worth, but Tam's real trust had been placed in the accent, and in the attitude. He was local - Christ, with a name like Shearer - which meant he wasn't up from Edinburgh or Perth or London, and he sounded genuinely hacked off 237

with those who were. If he acted on the information, went to the clearing, he'd pursue the matter properly, not just report it to someone further up the chain then keep his mouth shut as they wiped the Wee Shite's prints from the bus.

Because this wasn't just about survival and freedom any more. This was about evening the score.

This was about vengeance.

Someone had killed Voss and gone to a lot of bother to frame them for it. There could be no greater revenge, then, than seeing the bastard's efforts thwarted, watching his face as the judge sent him down. Back at the clearing they had left proof that tey didn't murder the driver and the polisman. And on a wee cassette in Paul and Spammy's flat, they had proof that they didn't kill Roland Voss either - plus the names of who did.

The tape was too precious to take a chance on. What they had left to be found at the clearing was a card that was only useful if you played it. A first legible message to the world that they let the table see what they were holding. And they weren't going to trust
any
polisman with the location of the one piece of evidence that would not only wreck the case against them, but point the finger at - among others - the cops themselves. So the plan had changed again. They weren't going to give themselves up and sit in a jail cell waiting for justice hopefully to prevail and prove them innocent. They were going to stay hidden, stay free, as long as they could, how ever they could. And if the world figured out for itself what had really happened and decided to apologise, fine. But in the meantime they were going to get word about the tape to their lawyer.

"They'll have a tap on her phone, remember," Spammy warned. "It's a government conspiracy."

Spammy had issued the same note of caution at the suggestion they phone Sadie to let them know they were still safe. Paul had looked crestfallen, but Tam's first thought had been of those photographs, his wife naked and oblivious in her bath, and decided any action that reminded these bastards of her existence was not an option. Chances were they now knew he had a portable phone. The last thing be needed was them calling him up and saying they would kill her if the three of them didn't surrender to their executioners.

"It's all right," Tam said. "We can phone the lassie at her work and get her to ring us back from a call box, tell her aboot the tape and where to find it that way."

Then she could play their ace.

It was Paul who spotted it, and just as well, as they were running out of trees. Not the wee loch - they could hardly have missed that, as it was the reason 238

the forest was coming to an end - but the pier and its attached row of canoes. It looked like the loch had been created - or at least shaped - artificially. From their vantage point at the edge of the woods, maybe half a mile above, they could all see where two small rivers fed it from the north, flooding east and west towards unnaturally straight banks and shores, but it was Paul who appreciated the significance of the waterway that ran back out of it to the south, continuing below the looming hills as far as they could make out its moonlit glint.

There was a compound of low, one-storey buildings on the shore the pier extended from, which Paul guessed was an outdoor activities centre; the sort of place they used to send deprived city kids for a horizon-broadening holiday, but which these days was more given over to character-building and leadership courses for making executives more robustly disposed to sacking people.

"Can you both go a canoe?" Paul asked.

"Whit?"

"Look where that river goes," he said.

"I cannae
see
where it goes," Tam replied.

"Exactly. Could be miles. We could travel a lot faster an' a lot quieter than on foot, and naebody's gaunny be lookin' for us in the water." Paul glanced at his watch. "It's aboot two. By the time dawn breaks we could be miles from here. An' I mean miles from where everybody thinks we are, miles from where they're searchin'."

"That'll do me," Tam agreed.

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily," mumbled Spammy, which Paul took to be an affirmative.

They had seen no cars around the compound, but they nonetheless remained stealthy and noiseless in their approach to the pier. Paul untied three of the canoes and prodded them to shore with a paddle. Tam took hold of each boat in turn, dragging it slightly aground to ensure that it didn't float away. He and Paul were about to climb into their craft when they noticed that Spammy was scuttling around the pier on all fours like some giant mutant crustacean, bending over and untying the remaining dozen or so canoes and making every effort to ensure that they
did
float away. Spammy launched the last of the canoes and then walked softly back to where Paul and Tam were staring in familiar, what-the-fuck-are-you-doing incomprehension. He rolled his eyes indignantly.

"When they show up for work here the morra," he whispered, "how long do you think it'll take them to work oot the score if precisely three canoes are missin'? This way, they'll not know
what's
happened. These things'll have floated all over the place by mornin'. They'll no have a clue how many are away or how many's just stuck in the rushes an' shallows somewhere."