FIFTY-EIGHT

The air ambulance rose deafeningly into the sky above Castle-bay and turned for its high-speed run to the mainland. Harry stood at the edge of the playing field that doubled as a helipad, watching it go and wishing the patient it was carrying well. The hours that had elapsed since Chipchase's collapse were a blur in his memory. Anxiety about his old friend's condition overshadowed his attempts to explain to the police what had happened earlier in the day and to reassure Donna over a crackly phone line to Swindon that all was well with him — if not, alas, with Chipchase, who had undergone an emergency craniotomy at Barra Hospital to drain a blood clot on the brain prior to being transferred to a specialist neurosurgical unit in Glasgow.

It seemed absurd and unfair that Chipchase might have inflicted a fatal injury on himself in the process of cheating death at the hands of a pair of hired killers. But Harry knew enough of the absurdity and unfairness of human existence to realize that it was only too possible. And the doctor who had operated on Chipchase had made no bones about the seriousness of his condition. 'The next twenty-four hours will be critical; it could go either way.'

So it was that a comatose Chipchase was borne away to fight for his life in a distant hospital ward, while Harry remained on Barra to answer any questions that might be put to him by the small team of detectives helicoptered down from Stornoway to investigate three violent deaths at the normally uneventful southern extremity of their command area.

Ailsa, after making a statement to the Stornoway team, had retreated to the house of a family friend. Harry had barely spoken to her since their arrival in Castlebay aboard the launch. They had radioed ahead and been met halfway by the lifeboat, so that Chipchase could be rushed to the hospital. Only the resident officer at Barra police station had been waiting for them at the pier, in a strangely low-key start to what was to become a multiple homicide inquiry.

One of those homicides had been an act of self-defence, of course. Harry had stressed that at every opportunity. The detectives, however, led by a dour and inscrutable chief inspector called Knox, had given the circumstances of Murdo Munro's death far more attention than those of his killers'. There was an unspoken implication that they had got no less than they deserved for descending on such a peaceful little island set on mayhem and murder. The scenes of crime — the launch, the Munro croft on Vatersay and the inshore waters of Haskurlay, where there was a body still to be recovered — had become the focus of their activities. The tangled connections between what had occurred that day and the deaths of two other members of the Munro family fifty years before had barely been addressed.

They would be eventually, though. Harry was well aware of that. There would be a combing of old files. There would be consultations with the Grampian and Tayside forces. There would be a lot of assimilating of information and assessing of evidence. And it would all take time. Nothing would be concluded quickly.

The intelligence dimension to the case would be a further complication. With the original version of Maynard's disk lost, the true purpose of Operation Clean Sheet remained unprovable. And Harry felt sure it would be officially denied. The role of MRQS as a memory-wiping drug was no better than a rumour in the pharmacological world anyway, according to what Samuels had told Donna — something the US Army might or might not have tried out on some of its own men back in the fifties. This had nevertheless been sufficient to convince Donna she could no longer sit idly by in Vancouver. Her discovery upon arrival in Swindon that Harry had omitted to mention to her the small matter of the destruction of his old home had only heightened her alarm. And the cryptic message he had left for her with Jackie had done nothing to lessen it.

At least she now knew he was safe and well. Harry walked slowly up from the playing field to the Castlebay Hotel rehearsing in his mind various ways to explain to her why he had misled her and reckoning that an abject apology would probably serve him best. A blue and white police launch was heading in fast across the bay towards the pier, perhaps bearing some of the investigating team back from Haskurlay. If so, they might have more questions for him. But they knew where to find him. He was going nowhere without their consent. He had given them his word on the point and meant to stick to it. It was the best demonstration of his innocence he could devise. And there remained the possibility that his innocence might still be questioned in some quarters. Ailsa had said she did not care who among the Clean Sheeters had killed her father and brother and hired Frank and Mark. But Harry cared. And so would a good few others when they heard what had happened.

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry's earlier call to Donna had been from the police station. Now, in the privacy of his hotel room, he was able to speak to her more freely.

'I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything that was going on. I knew you'd be tempted to do what you did in the end anyway - fly over. And I didn't want to expose you to the danger I was already in. It really was as simple as that.'

'We're man and wife, Harry. We're supposed to be a team.'

'I know. But it's a team of three. Someone had to look after Daisy.'

'While you looked after yourself?'

'Well, I didn't do such a bad job, did I?'

'You've been lucky. That's what it amounts to.'

'Unlike Barry.'

'Yeah. Sorry, hon. How is he?'

'Not good. The doc muttered about his unhealthy lifestyle catching up with him.'

'How long will the police want you to stay on Barra?'

'No idea. There's a lot for them to get their heads round. It could be a few days. More, even. I just don't know.'

'I reckoned not. So, I'll join you there tomorrow.'

'You will?'

'I'm booked on an early flight to Glasgow. Jackie's going to drive me up to Heathrow at the crack of dawn. The connecting flight to Barra gets in at ten.'

Harry had not expected to be reunited with Donna so soon. The prospect of seeing her again in a matter of hours rather than days suddenly reminded him how much he had missed her. 'Ten tomorrow morning? That's great.'

'You're not going to try and put me off again?'

'Absolutely not. It'll be—' A sharp rap at the door sounded in his other ear. 'Hold on.' He covered the receiver and called out: 'Yes?'

'Chief Inspector Knox, Mr Barnett. I need a word. Urgently.'

'Just a minute.' Swearing under his breath, Harry went back to Donna. 'I'm going to have to ring off. The police want to speak to me. I'll call you again as soon as they've gone.'

'Make sure you do. I'm still worried about you.'

'Don't be. 'Bye for now.' Harry put the phone down. 'Come in.'

Knox entered quietly, closing the door behind him. He was a short, squat, sandy-haired man in his forties or early fifties, with a guardedly polite manner and an unreadable demeanour. 'Sorry to interrupt,' he said, though it was impossible to tell whether he genuinely was or not.

'My wife,' Harry explained.

'Relieved you're in one piece, no doubt.'

'Yes. Naturally. She'll be joining me here tomorrow, as a matter of fact.'

'Tomorrow?' Knox frowned.

'Is that a problem?'

'I'd have to say it is.'

'Why?'

'Because… I'm hoping you'll agree to do something for us, Mr Barnett. And if you do… you won't be here when she arrives.'