FIFTY-FIVE

A despairing silence settled over them. There was no more to be said. The launch surged on towards Haskurlay, its bow bucking through the waves. Chipchase smoked a cigarette, the vibration of the hull masking the tremor in his hand, while Harry's thoughts turned to Donna, waiting for news of him in Swindon, and to Daisy, asleep in her bedroom in Vancouver, unaware that her silly old daddy had been sillier than usual today — and was shortly to pay for it with his life.

They would be landed on the island where this whole tragic, tangled tale had begun and executed one by one. Harry no longer hoped for any other outcome. There was no point. That was how it was going to be. He was sure of it.

How were Frank and Mark going to make it look? He turned the matter over in his mind, almost as if it were a mental exercise unrelated to his own imminent demise. What exactly were the police intended to suppose? That he and Chipchase had taken Ailsa to Haskurlay and killed her, obviously. What then? A falling out among murderers, perhaps. The killing of one, followed by the suicide of the other? That would fit neatly into the fiction. Yes. That was probably—

'Hold on,' he said.

'What is it?' asked Ailsa, looking at him with sudden animation.

'You've had an idea, haven't you?' spluttered Chipchase, spilling ash on the table in his excitement. 'You've bloody had an idea.'

'Sort of.'

'Well? What sort?'

'It's just…'

'There isn't another episode next week, Harry. You can spare us the suspense.'

'What is it?' pressed Ailsa.

'This boat,' said Harry, smiling at them in spite of himself.

'What about it?' snapped Chipchase.

'Don't you see? If we're to be found — dead — on Haskurlay, there has to be a boat we got there in. Moored, or adrift. But there has to be one. And our friends on deck have to have one to make their getaway in.'

'So?'

'So, there must be a boat waiting for us at Haskurlay. Smaller than this, probably. One they can easily land us in. And they have to transfer us to it. Alive. Because ordering people around is much harder when they're dead.'

'Flawless bloody logic, Harry. Ten out of bleeding ten. Now, tell us what your bright idea is. I'm ready to be dazzled.'

'The transfer is our chance. We outnumber them. And there's only one gun.'

'That you know of.'

'The Browning has to account for everyone, Barry. Otherwise the police will smell a rat.'

'So what this so-called chance amounts to is…'

'Somewhere between leaving this cabin and boarding the other boat… we rush them.'

'Rush them?'

'Which one d'you want? Frank or Mark? Mark's the safer choice. He's unarmed.'

'You're crazy. Does Frank look like a pushover to you? He has a gun, Harry. And it isn't loaded with blanks. Ask Murdo. He didn't—' Chipchase broke off, regretting the reference to Ailsa's dead brother. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean to…'

'Never mind,' said Ailsa. 'Harry's right. It's our only chance, however slim. We have to take it.'

'Try to take it.'

'Yes.' She looked at them solemnly. 'We have to try. And I do mean we. We only outnumber them if we all play a part. And that includes me.'

—«»—«»—«»—

The plan of action they devised in the next few minutes was riddled with optimistic assumptions. It relied on Ailsa's ability to distract their captors by staging a collapse as she left the cabin; on Chipchase's dexterity in removing the fire extinguisher from its bracket in the cockpit where he claimed to have noticed it earlier and deploying it as a weapon; on Harry's momentum at the charge being sufficient to propel Frank overboard; above all, on fortune favouring the underdogs in this looming contest to an improbable degree.

The odds against them were even longer in Harry's own, unspoken estimation. True, Frank's use of a gun other than the Browning would taint the trail of evidence he was laying. But a knife posed no such problems and Mark could easily be carrying one. There was also the distinct possibility that a third man was waiting in the second boat, in which case their slim chances of success faded to zero.

But their chances of survival, if they allowed themselves to be shepherded meekly ashore, were also zero. He knew that. So did Ailsa. So did Chipchase. Harry could read the knowledge in their tight, anguished, determined expressions. And he could feel it, hard as iron, locked within himself. It truly was do or die.

—«»—«»—«»—

The launch slowed and veered to the right — the west, if Ailsa's judgement of their direction was correct. She looked at her watch. 'Long enough,' she said quietly. 'This is the turn for Haskurlay.'

'Small change of plan, Harry old cock,' said Chipchase, leaning across the table towards him. 'You go for the extinguisher. It's clipped above the doorway leading to the cockpit. You can't miss it. Clobber Marky good and hard. I'll deal with Frank.'

'Why switch targets at this stage?'

'Because you're a husband and a father. And I'm neither. So, if anyone's going to take a bullet…'

'Don't turn heroic on me, Barry. Please.'

'Heroic? No bloody way. That pistol's an antique. Overdue to jam, I'd say. Or blow up in the bastard's physog.'

'You reckon?'

'I'd bet on it.'

'But—'

'Not another word, Harry, hey?' Chipchase winked. 'You know it makes sense.'