Whether or not Special Branch was experiencing disappointment at the general disinterest being shown in him, the local blue at Lochaber HQ found it impossible to tell. Chummie’s condition was clinically reported as ‘stable’ or ‘unchanged’, these statements being neither edifying nor particularly helpful.
Special Branch was disinclined towards any needless exposure to sandy haired consultants and sat in the space allotted to him, drinking tea and fiddling with the files on his desk. No reports had yet materialised from the trawl of planters’ National Insurance and other records. It was a time of waiting.
The Chief Inspector approached. “I hear you found evidence related to the Munro accident that seems not to have been an accident at all,” he said. “There’s a team examining the area. They’ll be there for a day or two but I don’t hold out much hope of finding anything more.”
“I said much the same to your local sergeant,” Special Branch answered. “I’m assuming it was set up specially for Munro and wasn’t just a bloody vandal spiking the road for the sheer joy of killing the first poor bastard who happened along, although that scenario is possible.”
“And your biker boy is an amnesiac, I believe,” the Chief Inspector said. “ I can’t count how many I’ve met professionally.”
“That’s how the ginger doctor tells it,” Special Branch grunted. “Sharp sod, heavy on acerbics. You know him?”
“Matter of fact, I know him quite well,” the Chief Inspector said. “Bright young fellow, he’s engaged to be married to my daughter.”
Special Branch bowed his head. For a moment it sounded as though he was gargling. “I just knew he had it in for the police,” he managed.
“He does,” the Chief Inspector said. “I have a terrible time with him but my wife and daughter seem to think he’s wonderful. I have checked him out, of course, and regrettably there are no previous convictions against him anywhere covered by Interpol. My guess is that I am stuck with him and a possibility of red haired grandchildren. I would put in a good word for you, but he never listens to a word I say.”
With that, the Chief Inspector turned away and Special Branch drained his cup. He had been drinking quite decent tea all morning, he suddenly realised. Ten minutes later he was in sunshine, admiring the pile of ‘The Ben’ as he made his way along narrow pavements. He would look in on the damaged biker after all, ginger headed consultant notwithstanding.
Anticlimax ended the little sequence. The biker was fast asleep, the duty policemen nodding off, and the acerbic medical professional in absentia. “Gone fishing, the sister thinks,” the officer on duty tried unsuccessfully to sound alert from his bedside chair. He cleared his throat and repeated, “the consultant’s away fishing, sir.”
Special Branch looked bleakly down upon the constable. “Don’t bother getting up,” he said. He paused, “Gone fishing? I hope the bailiffs catch him.”