South of Fort William that morning, the traffic had backed up for five kilometres in either direction when the ambulance sped back to Belford Hospital, the activist securely braced to restrain movement of his neck and spine.
A police recovery vehicle removed the battered Ducati and the litter of possessions that lay scattered over the road. That he had been travelling alone, not in a biker group, was quickly confirmed, and the police gave immediate priority to establishing identity. Three passports were found under different names. Within minutes the local Chief Inspector had put in a call to Counter Terrorist Intelligence Section at Strathclyde (Special Branch renamed) followed by electronic transmission of every passport page, and photographs of the biker, full face and profile, neck brace and all. These began to circulate in quiet offices accompanied by a ‘?’.
“Caught a proper tartar; need the Chief in on this, too,” a constable said, staring at the pistol butt protruding from a holster, “biker boy was tooled up. Not short on ammo either.”
“Shit, we’ve left prints all over the fucking bike,” his sergeant cursed. “Never mind, get the fingerprint crowd to take off every fucking print and start eliminating. Who is this guy? No way is he here on fucking holiday.”
“I’ll go down to the hospital to ink his fingers,” the constable said, “that always upsets the docs. They don’t treat criminals, just people, they told me last time this happened.”
“Just get his prints,” the sergeant barked. “He’s probably unconscious, for Christ’s sake.”
Studied thoroughness now attended examination of every item presumed to belong to the supine figure being scanned in the intensive care unit at Belford Hospital. An urgent enquiry was also sent to all west Highland Constabularies regarding recent sightings of a rider on a black Ducati.
One of several responses came that afternoon from young Fergus. He had admired the Ducati outside Johnny Mac’s house where its rider had taken bed and breakfast the previous Friday.