FIFTY-TWO

'We didn't do this, Harry,' said Chipchase, looking up as he finished reading the last page of Maynard's account a few seconds after Harry. 'We didn't bloody do this.'

'I know.'

'It's a stitch-up. That's what it is.'

'I know.''

'What can have possessed Maynard to… to…'

'He didn't, Barry. This has to be a doctored version of what he actually wrote. If it was true, I'm the last person Askew would have sent it to.'

'You think… it's a pack of lies from beginning to end?'

'No. I imagine most of it's genuine. But our names have been substituted for the names of the two who really killed the Munros. It wasn't us, though. I can be sure of that.'

'The disk isn't here.' Chipchase pointed to the computer tower. 'I've checked.'

'It wouldn't be. The original was probably destroyed in the fire at Askew's flat. The copy he sent me went the same way. That leaves the altered copy this was printed from… as the only game in town.'

'And the others it says were on the island are all dead.'

'Exactly. Murdered, in several cases. The doctored disk gives us a motive to have carried out those murders. The police are meant to conclude we've been eliminating the remaining witnesses to what happened. And I'd bet that's what they will conclude. Unless we can give them some good reason not to.'

'What about McIntyre's records? He must have kept some. Maybe we weren't even in the group sent to Haskurlay.'

'And maybe we were. I can't remember. Can you?'

'Of course not.' Chipchase jumped up, grabbed the sheaf of papers and tore it angrily in half. 'Bloody Professor Mac. Meddling with our memories. If we get out of this, I swear I'll sue the MoD for a small fortune. No, make that a big one.'

'They'll deny they ever used MRQS on us, Barry. It's a can of worms they can't afford to have opened. That's what Erica Rawson has been doing. Keeping the can firmly closed.'

'You think so?' Chipchase looked suddenly hopeful.

'I do.'

'Then it's not so bad after all. They could never let us be tried, could they? Not if this' — he held up the two halves of Maynard's account — 'was the evidence against us.'

'No. But that makes it worse, not better.'

'How d'you mean?'

'I'm not exactly sure. But whoever's setting us up will have worked out all the angles. Every if. Every but. Every therefore.'

'They wanted us to come here, didn't they?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. But—'

The ringing of the telephone in another room struck Harry silent. He and Chipchase stared at each other, listening to its insistent brr-brr, brr-brr. They waited for the answering machine to cut in, but Murdo Munro evidently did not have one. The telephone went on ringing. And did not stop.

'Why don't they hang up?' asked Chipchase, mournfully enough to suggest he had already guessed the answer.

'Because they want to speak to us. And they know we're here.'

'What are we going to do?'

'Get it over with.'

Harry marched out into the hall. The telephone was mounted on the wall in the kitchen. It went on ringing as he approached. He did not hurry. He knew it would not stop — until he picked up the receiver.

'Hello?'

'Thank God.' It was Howlett's voice. He sounded breathless and anxious. 'It's Mark, Harry. Is Barry with you?'

'Yes. Where are you?'

'I can't— Listen. Tell Barry to pick up the extension in the lounge.'

'All right. But—'

'Please. Just do it. OK?'

'OK.' Harry mimed the request to Chipchase, who headed for the lounge. A few seconds later, the line clicked.

'I'm here,' said Chipchase, his voice echoing hollowly.

'Thanks,' said Howlett, sounding as if he meant it. 'Now, Harry, I'm going to… hand you over… to the guy who's holding us.'

'Holding? Us?'

'Just do as he says. For God's sake. It's—'

'Harry.' Another voice had suddenly supplanted Howlett's: low-pitched and precisely enunciated. 'Frank here. Don't worry about my surname. You don't need to know it. What you do need to know is that your friend Mark, along with Karen Snow and Ailsa Redpath, are relying on you to do what I tell you. Have you read the printout?'

'Yes.'

'I have the disk. I also have three hostages, whose lives will be forfeit if you fail to co-operate. Is that clear?'

Harry tried to answer, but for a second was unable to speak.

'Is that clear?'

'Yes,' said Chipchase.

'Yes,' Harry hoarsely confirmed.

'Good. Listen carefully. I won't repeat myself again. You should know I'm armed with a Browning nine-millimetre automatic pistol. Standard issue to RAF officers and air crew during your days in uniform. The very weapon either one of you might have misappropriated fifty years ago . . . and kept ever since. This one's in perfect working order. With me so far?'

'Yes,' Chipchase and Harry replied in reverberating unison.

'Excellent. Now, I want you to leave the house and walk back along the road to the jetty you passed on your way there. There'll be a boat waiting for you. I also want you to open the garage as you leave and look inside. Then you'll have no doubt of the gravity of the situation. Clear?'

'Yes.'

'One more thing. If you're not at the jetty within ten minutes, I'll kill the hostages, then come looking for you. And I'll find you long before the police get here — should you decide to phone them. But I wouldn't, if I were you. I really wouldn't.'

The line went dead in that instant. The one-sided conversation was over.

—«»—«»—«»—

Chipchase reached the kitchen while Harry was still holding the telephone. He looked as shocked and irresolute as Harry felt himself.

'What do we do?'

'You mean apart from what he's told us to do?'

'Yeah. Apart from that.'

'Do you believe he meant what he said?'

'Every word.'

'So do I.'

'In that case…'

'We don't have much choice, do we? And we don't have much time either.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry led the way out of the house and round to the front of the garage. He took a deep breath, turned the handle of the up-and-over door and gave it a tug.

The mechanism was well lubricated. It rose smoothly and silently into position. Grey light spread into the garage, over and round the rear of a red pick-up truck.

A sheepdog lay huddled and motionless near the driver's door to the truck, blood pooled beneath it on the concrete floor of the garage. A few feet further on the boiler-suited lower half of a man was visible. He was slumped across the wing of the truck, head down in the engine cavity, partly shielded from them by the raised bonnet.

'Bloody hell,' murmured Chipchase. 'It's Murdo, isn't it?'

'Reckon so.'

'I'll take a look.'

Chipchase moved apprehensively along the narrow corridor between the truck and the garage wall, grasping one of the struts supporting a shelf loaded with paint pots as he stepped gingerly over the dead dog. He peered down into the shadowy recesses of the bonnet, then turned, grimaced at Harry and shook his head.

A few seconds later, he was back outside. 'Bullet through the temple,' he said, his eyes reflecting the horror that his matter-of-fact tone did not express. 'Must have been tinkering with the engine when Frank arrived. Probably never knew a thing. Lucky sod. Then Fido came to see what the noise was. Bang. We're looking at the work of a cold-blooded killer here, Harry. You know that, don't you?'

'Yes. I do.'

'And we're going to walk calmly down the road and go for a cruise round the bay with him, are we?'

'Apparently.'

'Bloody hell.'

'Unless you've got an alternative to suggest.'

'No. I haven't.'

Harry sighed. 'Thought not.'