The sun continued to shine upon the two days that followed. Occasional light breezes from the west refreshed the air by driving away the smart of woodsmoke drifting in from the blazing forest to the northeast. A surfeit of vehicles busied themselves along the long shield of firebreak beyond Strontian while the grey black canopy above the fire crept closer. From time to time light aircraft passed overhead to drop an orange concoction ahead of flames that advanced regardless.
Media stalwarts having moved to scrum down elsewhere, hotel regulars were reinforced by sightseers and ghouls hoping to picking up anecdotal experience of danger and death. The local hotels buzzed with excitement and the Argyll bar continued to collect much passing trade.
Special Branch came to mingle. It seemed to be a reasonable way to pass the time while London dug deeply into those who had been domiciled at Polloch. He had requested that priority be given to three members of the planting squad. The biker boy’s memory disobligingly remained locked in, or so it seemed. Special Branch’s boss had for the moment no further information to impart and police were still seeking a forensic connection that would dish the killer of Munro.
Detective Inspector Smith was rather a student of human frailty than the human condition and joined a garrulous group who apparently regarded forest fires as an amusement for the promotion of tourism. Allowing the casual shirts to presume that he was, like them, a holidaymaker, he was discomfited to hear, “Detective Inspector, so good to see you”, from the off-duty sergeant and watched the fat cannons he was serving recoil on their broad trunnions.
The greeting was overheard by Baby-face, with his colleague lowering a pint at a wall seat, and both regarded Special Branch with interest.
“Doesn’t look like a Sherlock, does he?” Baby-face said nastily.
“You are right,” the photographer responded. “He is not wearing a tweed deerstalker or peering through a magnifying glass.”
“You know what I mean,” Baby-face said. “The mysterious wandering suit, I wonder what brings him here?”
“Why don’t you go and ask him?” the photographer cocked a wizened head to the side. “Save a lot of time.”
Baby-face arose, pint glass in hand, and walked directly to his quarry.
“Daily News,” he said by way of introduction, “covering the planet.”
Special Branch eyed him squarely. “With what?” he queried.
Baby-face grimaced but drove on, “Can I ask you, Inspector, how your enquiries are progressing?”
“And what enquiries would these be?” Special Branch responded.
“We see the fire as an obvious result of arson,” Baby-face confided. “We are in pursuit of the arsonist.”
“When you catch him do let me know,” Special Branch said.
“Went well,” the photographer nodded as Baby-face resumed his seat.