Heavily sedated, the activist disappeared into the back of an ambulance watched by Special Branch and a freckle faced doctor whose expression of disdain did little to hide his fury.
“He will be well looked after,” Special Branch said, unwisely conferring a right of reply on the physician.
“He’s not fit to be moved,” the doctor said. “I know he’s political. Major criminals are afforded better protection than this. He voted for the wrong party, is that it, you bastard?”
The doctor stamped off, his sandy hair flushed at the roots. Several ward nurses stood to attention as the doctor strode past. It occurred to Special Branch that had they carried rifles, they would have presented arms.
He drew a long breath. It was out of his hands now. The four paramedics were signatories to the Official Secrets Act. The biker would awake to a one sided conversation with The Power That Scowls Across The Pond.
Returning to Police Headquarters he telephoned the Commander, using a secure line. Comb-over was blunt. Special Branch should leave Lochaber immediately. Concerns had been raised about his becoming unnecessarily involved in the aftermath of the journalists’ deaths and the suicide. There must be no risk of compromising the covert nature of his association with the amnesiac. The local newspaper was taking a renewed interest. Special Branch expressed his surprise at the modest level of media activity in the area thus far. However, it was necessary that he make one further visit to Strontian.
“Newshounds kennelled, media activity low,” he summarised. “Even the red tops are showing a queer ultra delicacy, like arseholes draped in lace. A hands-off order must have gone out – no besmirching of Pressmen by the coarse reporting of details of murder. At least, I assume that’s why it has been strangely quiet. So, there you go, Boss. Oh happy day! It keeps the Lashkar Gah connection in its box.”
There was a considered silence before Comb-over questioned the status of the biker.
“He’s gone, Boss,” Special Branch said. “Ambulance left fifteen minutes ago. Doctor-patient confidentiality was stretched to the limit, but the mad Scottish medic won’t cause trouble. And I’m on my way. I’ll be sitting in the office with a cup of cocoa sometime tomorrow.”
“No, you won’t,” Comb-over said. “You need to come to the Hilton in Glasgow. Come up to the seventh floor after you check in.”
“Well, well, the Hilton is it?” Special Branch queried tiredly. “I’ll try to be with you before bedtime.” He hung up, checked the shallow drawers of the desk allotted him, then called the local police station at Strontian.
Having hung up a second time, he shook the hand of several officers with whom he had made a brief acquaintance and, suitcase stowed in the boot, drove from Fort William to the Strontian Community Centre, crossing by the Corran Ferry to Ardgour. Remaining in his car during the crossing he noticed the sky heavy with cloud. It was six o’clock and darkening early.
The hall door was open. He courteously rapped at the door frame before stepping inside. The hall lighting had not been switched on and he could dimly distinguish the members of the squad sitting at cot beds thumbing apart fused pages of books and cleaning mementos of a past existence at Polloch while awaiting their turn for a shower. A sense of purpose linked them. For a moment he thought he was being ostracised before realising that he was merely excluded.
“Detective Inspector,” Alex had looked up from his cot and was staring at him. Others paused what they were doing and glanced in his direction. A few wore only t-shirt and shorts. Charred books and burnt ornaments lay beside their cots.
“Sincere apologies, gentlemen, for the intrusion,” Special Branch said, advancing into the hall.
Just then Guy appeared, wrapped in a bath towel. He rubbed at his hair and padded to his cot. Roland, already upright, picked up his towel and sponge bag. He walked steadily towards the bathroom and disappeared inside. This arrival and departure broke a stiffness of mood.
“Mind if I have a word?” Special Branch addressed Alex, his low tone of voice circumspect.
Alex continued to stare upwards. “Sure, why not.”
Special Branch could see the others lose interest and relax back on their cots. He stooped towards Alex.
“It’s about Noel’s tour of duty in Afghanistan. I know that it affected him badly, to the extent that he gave up a career in the Army. Did he speak to you about his experiences, about what happened to him over there? Does the name Lashkar Gah mean anything to you?”
“You mean the cover-up of what happened,” Alex said conversationally, gazing squarely into the other’s face.
“Christ,” Special Branch spoke quietly, “so how many know about it?” and turned to face the sound of multiple footsteps on wooden flooring.
“Detective Inspector,” the local police inspector was swiftly approaching, a sergeant and constable immediately behind him. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but…” and he gestured to his subordinates who strode past, then hurried forward to join them. The three policemen loomed over Silas relaxing on his cot. Silas raised himself on both elbows in alarm.
“Please come with us,” the inspector said curtly, “we have questions for you. Now, if you don’t mind, sir,” his voice carried through the hall.
Every reclining figure in the hall scrambled upright. “Questions?” Silas asked, the voice hoarse. He sat up and cleared his throat. “What is this about?”
“We think you can assist us in our enquiries into the death of Mr. Munro some weeks ago,” the inspector said pedantically, articulating with great care. His voice rang clearly.
There was a moment of stillness, the uniformed police officers very erect, distilled into officialdom. The inspector reached down and touched Silas’ arm. “Come with us,” he ordered.
“It’s getting cold outside, you’ll have to put on something warmer,” the sergeant said without humour. Silas looked at his thin legs, bare beneath a pair of shorts. He pulled on jeans and a lumberjack shirt then allowed himself to be helped into an anorak. In a tight little group they marched awkwardly past chalk marks and bloodstained flooring and were gone.
Special Branch remained facing Alex who stared through the doorway at the heavy greyness outside, the policemen had not troubled to close the door behind them. “So who knows about Lashkar Gah?” he repeated.
Alex, who had just watched the Establishment perform it’s impersonal routine in dealing with human transgression, ignored the question and stepped around him. Special Branch turned as Alex went to the others, already mustering around the old fashioned seating. There, the men sat down. A murmur eddied from the group and rippled through the hall.
Clad only in shorts, wet towel draped around his neck, a glowing Roland bounded lightly out of the bathroom. He saw the squad hunched forward on sofas and chairs, heads together, and halted abruptly.
“What’s going on?” he asked, holding either end of his towel. “What is going on, Guy?”
“Man down,” Guy said. “It’s Silas.”
Ruairidh left his seat and walked past Special Branch without a word. He went to the hall door, closed it, then returned to the others. Roland pulled on a woollen polo neck and came to sit next Guy.
“The police came and took Silas away,” Special Branch heard Guy say. “Something to do with Munro’s accident. God, that seems so long ago.”
The voices quietened and words became indistinct.
They were united by shared experiences. Memorabilia of the fire lay on their cots. Special Branch knew that they had forgotten him entirely. He walked outside. An early evening sky was threatening as he opened the car door and eased into the driver seat. For a time he sat, staring ahead, allowing his thoughts to drain away. A three hour journey lay ahead.
As he engaged the automatic gear shift it began to rain.