On the Sunday morning, middle aged Comb-over communicated with the unimaginatively named Smith. Their telephone conversation was relaxed. “I’m in Pictland, arrived early yesterday to meet your biker boy’s contact after the northern team picked him up,” Comb-over explained. “The arsonist is a Commission employee, by the way. Silas by name. I expect you already know him.”
“He was joint favourite, was Silas,” Special Branch said. “The quiet man. You know I never liked that name. Too Dickensian.”
“This numbskull calling himself ‘Control’ thinks biker boy is a ‘green’, a conservationist of high moral principle,” the thought amused Comb-over. “Control stays in-house until the inquisition are done with him. A couple of them will soon wring him dry. He won’t stop talking.”
“What an asshole,” Special Branch grunted, defining Control by the same epithet as his departed girlfriend. “Are you going to keep him wrapped in our embrace for long?”
“The spooks also want to chat with this Control idiot. I don’t really know why. After they have had their evil way with the poor bastard, then we’ll see. He’s probably iron pyrites, but there could be a speck of gold dust in him, it’s hard to tell. Careless phone calls from Chummie the biker to this silly sod doesn’t tell us a great deal. Have you got anything on Chummie? Anything at all?”
“Our multi-passported friend is a Liverpudlian. He talks Scouser in his twilight hours, apparently, according to a local uniform that happens to have some family connection to Bootle.
“I’ll have someone look into that,” Comb-over said. “Anything else?”
“Not yet,” Special Branch paused. “What do you want me to do with Chummie?”
“As soon as he is fit for it, I want biker boy transferred to some facility nearer home where we can help him gain total recall. Believe it or not, I am having problems finding out how he became ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’. Whole thing smells of garbage. The other one, our fire raiser, don’t pick him up yet. He’s probably just a nutter. He has no pedigree other than a riotous assembly charge that doesn’t mean he was riotously assembling. Just the Met being the Met. Silly twat was caught in a kettle protesting about something or other. You might check on what that was. He has no known political affiliation.”
“There was an incident up here very recently. A queer road accident. An unpopular Commission honcho died. I hate co-incidences like this. First thought was private enterprise, but there is a sniff of connection.”
“Oh Christ,” Comb-over sighed. “By all means have a look but remember that at the moment, publicity is quite unwelcome.”
“I gathered that,” Special Branch said. “I’ll be circumspection itself.”
“Toodle-pip then,” Comb-over replied. “You should go for a walk along the glen and contemplate your immortal soul. That’s what they do in the wild Celtic lands come the Sabbath, which is, of course, today.”
“They don’t do that stuff any more,” Special Branch advise. “Tourism got in the way.”
—————————————————————————————-
They breakfasted late before Mackinnon’s good lady bustled the children into cleanliness and Sunday best, for Sunday School began at eleven. Ten minutes before that deadline mother and child departed in a fluster of sound, leaving a hush in their wake.
Rattray sank into a well cushioned chair and closed his eyes. The sun was sparking in Loch Sunart and Mackinnon went for a stroll along the shore. Above still glistening threads of seaweed left by the recent tide, stood the Fire Chief. He turned on hearing footfalls disturb the pebbles behind him and recognised the forester.
“Fine day again,” the Fire Chief remarked. “Where’s the top man?”
“Rattray? He’s nodding in a chair – family went to the Sunday School,” Mackinnon replied. “I’m hearing that the service today will be centred around what happened last week. Would you like to come with Rattray and myself?”
“Just out of curiosity,” the Fire Chief skimmed a flat stone away from the shoreline, “what denomination is it?”
“This particular church is Presbyterian, Church of Scotland. But at least you’ll be listening to English, the morning service is in Gaelic.”
The Commission Fire Chief accompanied Rattray and Mackinnon to the grey stone church on Sunday afternoon, where the minister’s sermon on the infinite powers of Our Lord dominated an austere service punctuated by gloomy hymns. Reproving glances from the pulpit acknowledged the consistent non-attendance of Mackinnon, whose wife carried the family hopes of a paradise to come (God being particularly vengeful when non-attendees came to Judgement).
An usher had guided the Commission men into front pews where Robbie and the other gangers had already taken places. Before the service ended Rattray read a short passage from the Book of Psalms, and the minister’s benediction settled on the worshippers like a shroud.
Liturgy embarrassed the planting squad who were variously indifferent to solemn observances, sceptical of organised religion, or atheistic. Sundays for them were days of rest and this Sunday no different. Noel’s nightmare had been recurring and had broken their slumber. Morning saw them dull and irritable. Lethargy governed every movement. Breakfast at the Argyll was taken in silence.
They returned to the Centre and lay reading on mattresses and sleeping bags, avoiding the cheap slatted chairs and collapsible table grouped at the back of the hall. Lunch was delivered and the day wore on. Several dozed restlessly. It was late in the afternoon when their ganger arrived.
“This place needs improvement,” Robbie remarked to the litter of bodies on the floor. “Mackinnon will sort something out. Anyway, I just came by to see how you all are.”
“We’re fine,” Roland raised himself on both elbows.
The ganger grunted and looked along the islands of bedding and folded clothes. He approached the recumbent figures of Noel and Alex, each of whom sat up with no particular sign of enthusiasm.
“Torlundy,” the ganger inclined his head. Noel stared. Alex rubbed at an upper arm. “Torlundy,” the ganger repeated, “the saw course at Torlundy. Do you two still want to go?” There was no immediate reply and Robbie continued, “I’ll speak to Mackinnon and remind him. Soon we’ll finish with this fire, and when that’s done I’m sure you’ll be able to take your saw courses. There will be no need to wait until the end of the summer.”
Alex and Noel exchanged a brief glance. “Thanks for that,” Noel said. “Took me a bit by surprise there.”
“And me,” Alex added. “Hadn’t thought about Torlundy since the fire started.”
“Well, things will get back to normal soon enough,” the burly ganger nodded positively, his voice carrying through the hall.
“That was the old soldier talking,” Noel said when the ganger had gone. “You’re not supposed to think about casualties.”