During this period Polloch had visitors. Police vehicles parked together at the hutment hardstandings and having first paid the resident logistics ganger a courtesy visit in the Commission office, a sergeant led a group of constables and a casually attired man up the incline to a row of eight mute ruins. They reached what had been home to imported Commission labour for many decades, and stopped on the roadway. Four uniformed police officers donned protective boots and clambered about the debris, hesitantly poking with pointed metal prods, as though apprehensive of what they might encounter. From the Commission office, the logistics ganger watched. He sighed and turned from the window to resume his audit of non-mechanical plant.
Special Branch walked gingerly on the scorched earth between blackened remains of wooden dwellings, each collapsed in its own space to become a rectangle of charred beams and burnt things. Only fireplaces still stood. The sunshine tasted sourly and grey ash layered these remnants of human occupation.
“What a bloody mess,” Special Branch muttered, watching the policemen prodding at the ruins from a few yards away. He raised his voice, “Look particularly in these two houses there. That is Numbers 3 and 4 Polloch.”
“What are we looking for, sir?” one paused to ask.
“You’ll know when you find it,” Special Branch answered. “Investigate, use your suspicious mind. You’re a policeman.”
The uniformed officer stared at his steel toecaps then silently resumed a gentle poking at burned rubbish around his feet. Ash speckled polished boots and smartly creased trouser legs.
Special Branch looked back at the hutments, creosoted, weathered, and saved. Close beside them a solitary stand of pine stood silently facing a black wasteland of woodland death that stretched away to a distant grey curtain draping the north and east. He was astonished that working men had troubled to prevent the fire from consuming these few huts. It was a gesture, he rationalised, and a measure of defiance. There was dignity in the simple wooden structures that remained.
Turning back to the bothies, he reflected that the fanatic who created this shambles must surely have burrowed into the fabric of life here. Special Branch had obtained from the Commission a list of Polloch’s inhabitants with scant details of their backgrounds, but most importantly their Social Security numbers, and records were already being trawled. He had taken stock of the candidates and fancied that one or two of the planters would turn out to be of interest. They were a transient lot and attracted nobody’s attention. A dedicated nutter would be invisible amongst them.
He walked among the ruins for a time, noting their proximity to the black tangle of seared trees that stretched away to the tree line high on a distant ridge above Loch Shiel. Close by, constables continued to search through the debris.
Later he drove to Strontian where he introduced himself to both Rattray and Euan Mackinnon. He explained the ongoing police search at Polloch and formally requested permission to interview Commission employees at his sole discretion. Rattray gave permission, made an excuse, and left. Special Branch eyed Mackinnon.
“I understand that you suspect arson,” he said. “Why is that?”
“You’re not on the local force,” Mackinnon said. “Who are you exactly, Detective Inspector?”
“Special Branch, although we have a fancy new name these days. It’s long winded but they tried to shorten it to CTC,” he said after a pause. “I’ve been vetted by your local blue. Check with the Chief Inspector if you are in any doubt.”
“The fire started at three or four in the morning, a quiet Sunday morning, with dew forming, in a remote location – what else but arson, eh?”
“You think it’s one of your workers?”
“Yes, unfortunately, I’m bloody certain of it, one of the planting squad.”
Special Branch looked at the lean forester. “ Did anyone at Polloch have a bicycle?”
“There was an old one kicking around. Somebody left it there years ago. You think this bicycle is significant?”
“The arsonist must have used a bicycle. He had to get from Polloch to his spot, carrying accelerant. Get there and get back quietly,” Special Branch was unusually confiding. There was something about this forester.
Mackinnon nodded. “Nobody has seen it lately. We also thought the bike may have been deliberately hidden.”
“Yes,” Special Branch said,” that is a likely scenario.”
“Something else,” Mackinnon said, “we had an accident a few weeks ago that was no accident.” He outlined his suspicions of Munro’s death.
“What sort of man was Munro?” Special Branch asked, and for a time listened to a character sketch of the one chosen for the region, ordained in the Commission priesthood but destined never to wear the mitre. He probed Munro’s relationship with the men, frowning at petty flauntings of authority. This Regional Chief had clearly been a pretentious little prick whose unpopularity was understandable. Lack of enthusiasm for someone’s personality traits was, however, a bizarre motive for murder.
“So in this area of few roads, police traffic enquiries led nowhere. And the bicycle had disappeared some time before?”
“Yes,” Mackinnon said. “What if a bicycle was used for a short distance, dumped, then a motor bike…eh?”
“The bicycle could be picked up at any time, of course.” Special Branch sighed. “Ok, Mr Mackinnon, keep everything to yourself. I already have a line on this. Someone we know may be involved. I will be in touch.”
He drove towards Fort William, puzzled. The murder of this functionary shortly before a well planned arson attack on the Commission made little sense. The two events jarred and were surely disparate. Yet co-incidence also sat uneasily with him. Could the death of Munro have indeed been an accident? Come to think of it, he had not seen where Munro’s car had left the road. On impulse he u-turned towards Strontian’s police station.
In the last hour of daylight he surveyed the fatal section of highway, the local police sergeant at his side. “Happened here, sir, and at this time of evening, too,” the sergeant unnecessarily indicated a smashed fence, yet to be repaired, and lingered at the grassy verge as Special Branch paced up and down. Time passed. The sun had sunk below the western skyline and the blue of cloudless sky was swiftly deepening.
“It’s beginning to get dark, sir,” the sergeant remarked.
“Bear with me,” Special Branch said. “If you were to watch the road and conceal yourself and a bicycle at the same time, where would you go?”
They found themselves focusing on the same spot and together walked towards a little rise. There, in the dry bracken, they found a bedraggled towel to which a staple still clung by its barb.
“Well, well,” the sergeant muttered, bending to peer at the crumpled piece of cloth. “There’s marks on this that could be dried blood.” He straightened. “The light’s going. We’ll search here come morning. It won’t rain overnight, that’s for sure.”
“Bingo! You can come back to bag the evidence, sergeant, and have a proper look around, although I doubt you’ll find anything of interest,” Special Branch said. “Did anyone see a cyclist around the time of the accident?”