“Bloody hell,” Special Branch muttered, staring at matching images on his laptop. He reached for his secure line. “Boss,” he said, “We just ran a query fingerprint from the ever scenic Highlands of bonnie Scotland and turned up a ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’. Accident victim. Came off his bike in darkest Caledonia. And there is a Spooky tick on chummie’s file. Not to mention a trio of passports and a firearm.”
One hour later, he was in his London flat packing a suitcase.
In Fort William, the Chief Inspector’s gaze panned a small office. With a cynical cough he immediately gained the undivided attention of the team he had selected.
“Special Branch is on his way,” he said. “We will be very old fashioned and call these folk by their old name. This Counter Terrorism Command title is way too dramatic and CTC is a terrible acronym. Just remember that although he is entitled to use the word ‘detective’ in his title, he is not CID. He calls himself Detective Inspector Smith, incidentally. You will keep a straight face and tell everyone he is just another copper.
From this moment on, I want constant attendance on the biker, when the docs are not working on him. Take down everything he says, whether he is mumbling or raving, note it. There are already reports of sightings that may be him. I’m particularly interested in last Friday’s sighting at Strontian, near the fire that is blazing so nicely. Could be something.”
Give all the stuff we recovered highest priority, when and where it was purchased, card or cash, the works. Put a trace on everything; the Ducati, his clothing, the gun. Send his mobile and laptop, if he has one, to our hairy people. Where did he stay? Start locally, his accommodation may well have been right here. Begin with hotels and work your way down through B&Bs to hostels and campsites. Hotels must be favourite.
Take whatever for DNA, no contamination. Go to database with results when they come, and make it top priority. We need to be proactive with this. I am told that his identity is ‘Fragile’, whatever that means.
Special Branch aren’t saying more than that, but they are very interested in this guy. Keep me in the loop, I mean immediately. You start picking up threads, I get to know within the hour. Keep it strictly between those of us in this room. Questions?”
Came a hesitant query, “Sir, is this Smith not out of his jurisdiction?”
“Let us say he is an interested person giving of his time to help us poor jocks. If you like, he can even be a London copper on holiday. Anybody got a problem with that?”
His officers regarded him in silence.
“Ok,” the Chief Inspector said, “then let’s get on with it.”
As he spoke, a related enquiry was being pursued by another interested party. Baby-face had found Rattray standing beside a gaggle of parked Commission vehicles on the hillside. They stood in bright sunlight and overlooked a landscape slashed with distant flame under a dark cloud.
“Press, sir, Daily News, the paper that never sleeps,” and Rattray turned to face a fair haired youth. “Arson? What are the chances, sir?”
Rattray stared into bright eyes. Daily News had sent this stripling? Like most others who had been similarly elevated, he knew of the editor, Nic, by reputation. It quickly occurred to him that this seeming innocent had been posted north quite deliberately by an acknowledged Machiavelli of the fourth estate.
“Who can say?” Rattray spoke deliberately. “We don’t yet know how it started. I hope that your paper will give us decent coverage. We know that we are small potatoes up here, but this is big. Could be disastrous. You see the squad starting to build the firebreak over there? These boys fought the fire all day yesterday and lost nearly everything they had when the accommodation at Polloch burned down. Now that is a story for your editor.”
“Totally,” Baby-face said, and ignored the suggested lead. “I wonder how it started? It began overnight, under a clear sky, I heard it said. That does for the usual suspects of lightning or spontaneous combustion.”
“There can be other causes,” Rattray said shortly.
“Like broken glass? Come on, sir, reflective surfaces are not known to cause outdoor fires in moonlight.”
Rattray cursed under his breath.
“You’ve been reading up on forest fires, then?” Rattray asked in apparent awe of this initiative. “For our part, we cannot be certain precisely when and where this one started…what the hell is your photographer up to?”
“Oh, him? He’s trying to get a panoramic shot of the fire, probably by climbing a tree. Difficult to get scale from this distance, even with the gear that he lugs around.”
“Okay, but we are starting a controlled burn. I don’t want him hurt. Try to keep him out of harm’s way.”
“Yes Mr Rattray,” baby-blue eyes conveyed how much fun all this was. “I need to have a word then with your local forester, a Mr. Mackinnon is it? Maybe also the members of the squad that lost out. As you suggested, sir, I should get their story too. Very human. I’ll try not to be a nuisance.”
Rattray nodded and secretly cursed again, now convinced that this young scion of Machiavellian Nic was bloody dangerous. A headline screaming ‘Arson’ might already be planned for the front page. And now Baby-face was talking to a group of woodsmen who were by the roadside drinking tea from flasks, taking a brief break. God only knew what questions were being asked. Rattray glanced around as Mackinnon arrived at his side.
“My ganger tells me the young fellow is from the Daily News. That okay with you?”
“Can’t block the Press, Mac. It brings The Word to the people, like Joab. And it gets political parties elected by helping us poor people to make up our minds. Mac, tell the men to be careful what they say, and no bloody speculation about the fire. Especially speculation on how it started.”