FIFTY-THREE

They saw the boat standing offshore as they rounded a bend in the road and headed down towards the jetty. It was a smartly painted, newish-looking launch. A figure was visible on deck — a tall, broad-shouldered, darkly clad man, his head in shadow. He moved out of sight as they approached. Then the launch nudged in towards the jetty.

'You want to know what I think?' Chipchase enquired in a gloomy undertone.

'No,' replied Harry.

'This is suicide.'

'I said I didn't want to know.'

'But you already knew.'

'True enough.'

'As a betting man, I've got to tell you—'

'Don't tell me, Barry. Please. Don't tell me.'

They reached the jetty. The launch was bobbing in the gentle swell of the rising tide at its far end. The man they had glimpsed earlier stepped into view and nodded faintly in greeting. He was dressed in black jeans and sweatshirt, his clothes filled out by a muscular frame. His face was gaunt and raw-boned, his hair a close-cropped thatch of grey-flecked black. He studied them with chilling impassivity as they walked slowly down the ramp of the jetty.

'Frank?' Harry called.

'You're a little late.' Frank remained expressionless. But he moved his right arm, which had been folded behind his back, so they could see the pistol clasped in his leather-gloved hand. 'I'll overlook it, though. Seen Murdo, have you?'

'Yes. We've seen him.'

'So, you know I'm serious.'

'Oh yes.'

'Good. Come aboard.'

'Where are the others?'

'Just come aboard, Harry.' Frank raised the gun. 'Or I'll shoot you where you stand.'

'Bloody hell,' said Chipchase under his breath. And, silently, Harry echoed him.

It was an awkward step from the jetty down into the launch. Harry managed it in a stumbling stride. As he looked round, he was astonished to see Howlett sitting calmly at the wheel, smiling over his shoulder at him, without the least sign of duress. Indeed, he was in control of the vessel, a fact that loosed a cascade of sickening thoughts in Harry's mind.

The slack-jawed look of amazement on his face had caused Chipchase to hesitate. But Frank was having none of that. 'Get down here, Barry. Now.'

Chipchase cannoned into Harry as he scrambled aboard. Then he too saw Howlett, screened from him until then by the cockpit roof. 'Bloody hell. Marky. You're—'

'Not Marky. And not a hostage. You've got it, Barry.'

'Where are the hostages?' Harry demanded, anger simmering beneath his fear.

'There's just the one actually,' Howlett replied. 'Ailsa Red-path. She's in the cabin.' He nodded towards a pair of closed doors sealing off the fo'c'sle.

'What about Karen?'

'Probably cataloguing a mummy in the British Museum even as we speak. All that crap I served you about her going missing was just a come-on. And you fell for it big time, I have to say. I put on a pretty good show, didn't I?'

'You lured us all the way up here?'

'Correcto.'

'Why?'

'Never mind,' snapped Frank. 'Unbolt the cabin doors and go through.' His gaze flicked up to the shore, then back to them. 'Move.' He gestured with the gun.

Harry edged past Howlett, slipped the bolts holding the doors shut and pulled them open. A cramped triangular cabin revealed itself, a narrow bench running round either side to meet at the end, with a table in the middle. A slim, grey-haired woman dressed in jeans, trainers and fleece was seated awkwardly on the bench, her hands tied with rope behind her back, the rope fastened in turn to one of the table legs. A strip of brown tape had been placed across her mouth. She flinched at the sudden invasion of light, closing her eyes for a second, then turning to blink at Harry in obvious alarm.

'Keep moving,' barked Frank. And Harry did, stepping down into the cabin and making room for Chipchase, who stumbled in after him.

'What are you—' Harry's question was cut off by the slamming of the doors behind them. Darkness descended on him like a hood. He heard the bolts slide back into place. Then the woman moaned. 'Don't worry, Ailsa,' he said, to raise his own spirits as much as hers. 'You're not alone now.'

'I spotted a switch here somewhere,' said Chipchase, fumbling around the door frame. 'Yeah. Here we are.'

An overhead light flickered into life. As it did so, the engine revved throatily and the launch reversed away from the jetty. Then the sound altered again to a smooth, surging rumble. The boat changed direction and accelerated forward.

'Snug quarters we've got here,' said Chipchase. 'Snug as a bloody tomb.'

'For God's sake, Barry,' said Harry, shooting him a glare before moving round the table to where Ailsa was trapped. Gingerly, he removed the tape.

'Thank you,' she gasped, grimacing at the taste the tape had left on her lips. She was, Harry saw, a good-looking woman who had once been beautiful, with high cheekbones, a heart-shaped face, gentle features and grey-blue, far-seeing eyes. 'Who are you?'

'I'm Harry Barnett. And this is—'

'Barry Chipchase.' Chipchase moved round the other side of the table. 'I'll untie you.'

'Ah. Of course.' Ailsa sighed, as if some dismal expectation had only now been fulfilled. 'Barnett and Chipchase. The scapegoats.'

'Too bloody true that's what we are,' said Chipchase, his voice muffled by the tabletop beneath which he was crouching.

'Have you read Maynard's statement?' Harry asked.

'Their version of it, yes,' Ailsa replied.

'You realize we didn't kill your father and brother?'

'Of course I do. This entire exercise is designed to conceal the identity of the real killer. He's who these people work for. And now he's responsible—' She broke off, squeezing her eyes briefly shut. When she opened them again, they were moist with tears. 'Now he's responsible for killing both my brothers.'

'Do you know who he is?'

'No. And I doubt I'm going to get the chance to find out. I doubt any of us is.'

'Where are they taking us?'

'I'm not sure. But…'

'Haskurlay?'

'That's my guess.'

'What are they planning?'

'Our deaths,' said Chipchase, still struggling with the tightly knotted rope. 'That's what they're planning.'

'Yes,' said Ailsa. 'I fear they are.'