Special Branch had driven through the night, stopping at a café outside Gretna then napping in the car. Somewhat wearily, at eight o’clock that morning he introduced himself to the Chief Inspector at Fort William. Their discussion lasted for an hour at the end of which Special Branch retired to a spare desk with a thick file on the injured biker. From time to time a uniformed officer would quietly approach, deposit more paper on the desk and withdraw while Special Branch, impervious to interruption, continued to read.
An hour passed before he leant back with a sigh and lifted the cup of tea materialised beside his elbow. It was lukewarm. He pushed his chair from the desk, rose to his feet and stretched. The Chief Inspector happened to be passing, noticed and walked over to him, eyebrows raised quizzically.
“Already had enough?”
“Yes, Chief,” Special Branch said, “that’s enough reading for now. Mind if I start riding the range, checking fences?”
“Please do,” the Chief Inspector said. “My vaqueros are expecting you.”
Special Branch drove into Strontian fifteen minutes before a convoy of ambulances swept past the police station where he had begun to question Fergus about a man and his Ducati. Through a partially opened venetian blind, blue lights flashed and sirens blared.
“What’s happening now?” he asked, as the wail of sirens diminished with distance.
“There’s an incident at a farm they’ve been trying to save,” Fergus said. “They called it in nearly an hour ago. We couldn’t do anything from here. I believe it’s bad but I don’t know any more than that. The sergeant is there now, sir, with the inspector.”
“The fire, of course,” Special Branch said. “The Chief Inspector told me about it. Sounds like a heavy response to whatever is going on.”
“As I said, sir,” Fergus sounded wary, “the first reports indicate a serious incident.”
Special Branch stepped over to a map pinned against the plastered wall. He noticed the addition of pencilled notations and rough sketching of a barrier of some kind. He peered more closely. “A revetment is it?” he queried, turning to the young constable.
“Yes sir,” Fergus said. “They are constructing one along a high section of road between here and Polloch. You know, clearing away vegetation and dressing the roadside with a ramp of scorched logs. Commission bosses were here late last night planning how to contain the fire and protect the farmhouse.”
“I see,” Special Branch said, continuing to examine the wall map with a renewed interest. Fergus remained attentive but Special Branch offered no further questions, returning to his line of questioning. He showed the constable a photograph as a further sirens howled past the building.
“You recognise this man?”
“Yes, sir, I had just been admiring the bike and saw him as he was about to leave on Saturday morning,” Fergus said carefully. “He hadn’t yet put on his helmet, but he was dressed in full leathers. Powerfully built under all his biker gear. Above average height.”
“You reported that you saw him on another occasion.”
“Yes, I also saw him the evening before in the Argyll bar, a local hotel,” Fergus said. “I didn’t realise then that he had the Ducati, don’t think he brought it to the hotel. Makes sense, he was drinking beer.”
“And in the bar?” Special Branch prompted.
“Difficult, sir, but I’ve thought about it and I’m sure he was on his own.”
“So you didn’t see him speak to anyone.”
“No,” Fergus said, “but that was the night some idiot chalked a strange message in the toilet. ‘Go Andrew’ it said. It worried me a little. Funny, but none of the regulars are called Andrew.”
“You didn’t mention this when you reported in. Can you tell me more? How was it done?”
“I remember the chalk must have been wetted. The writing was really bold. And the message had been repeated several times.”
“Anything else?”
“I went into the gents toilet later and noticed that somebody had rubbed out the word go, and left the name Andrew. This had happened to every chalked message.”
Special Branch regarded the young policeman. “Anything else unusual about that night? Who all were in the bar, for instance. Any strangers or oddball behaviour beyond the messages in the toilet?”
“The bar was packed at the time,” Fergus answered. “That’s normal on a Friday night. A few tourists were in, so it was mainly locals and the usual squad of Commission men, all tree planters I believe. Most Commission workers go to the Sunart Hotel. Beyond chalk in the gents, I saw nothing unusual. There was no-one called Andrew in the hotel bar, unless one of the tourists…” The phone interrupted and Fergus picked it up.
“For you, sir,” he said, handing over an old-fashioned receiver.
Special Branch listened briefly. “Ok, I’m on my way,” he said. He handed the phone to Fergus who replaced it on its stand.
“Right, constable…Fergus isn’t it? Fergus, I want you to carefully write down everything you’ve told me; add anything you can remember about that Friday, however insignificant you may think it. This is not an official report or anything like that, just a detailed personal account. Put it in an ordinary envelope, police franked, and send it with tonight’s mail to this address.” He scribbled on a piece of notepaper. “Try to get it done before the incident at the farm buries you in paperwork. Judging by the number of ambulances I heard, you are going to be busy. It sounded like a major incident, just as you said.”
Special Branch left and sniffed. No doubt about it, the air carried a smell of wood smoke. He hurried to his car. Staying as bold as brass in a hotel a few hundred metres from police headquarters in Fort William? Cocky bastard, he thought, must have been pretty bloody sure of himself. Then again, multiple identities often lowered one’s guard. They tended to give a false sense of security.
Within an hour, police had begun a forensic examination of the activist’s hotel room while the manager desperately fielded the curiosity of elderly customers sensing sensation and a story to enliven bridge evenings back at Chalfont St Giles.
Special Branch paid the unconscious activist a visit at the intensive care unit of Belford Hospital and a uniformed constable scrupulously phoned his headquarters before permitting his further access. As he leaned over the supine figure, a white coat ghosted into the room.
“And you are?” the white coat asked sweetly.
“Police,” Special Branch used his minimalist tone. “What can you tell me about our friend here?”
“No change in condition,” the young doctor advised, “and no prognosis yet – still analysing the scans. Yesterday we had to relieve some pressure from a minor bleed. No surgery planned at present but he’s being closely monitored. With severe brain trauma, general cognition, memory and so on, may be compromised. There may also be problems with the ability to retain full visual recognition. We have still to determine the extent of his injuries, particularly time consuming when the patient is unconscious. I am sure you understand. Much too early to give you anything definite.”
“Hmm,” Special Branch said, and aimed a sarcasm at the doctor’s youth. “I guess you’ve seen a lot of this type of accident? During your career, I mean.”
“Regrettably, yes,” the ward doctor replied, disregarding the attempted jibe. “The consultant will be in touch.” He smiled, a subtly dismissive gesture, then moved off, signalling to a blonde nurse who immediately fell into step beside him, hip touching hip.
“Some life these lads have,” Special Branch remarked to the unconscious biker. “I wonder they can spare you much time.”