Matlock's System

10

The first torture wasn’t too bad. Indeed as he swam back to the surface of consciousness, he realized that it was his own refinement of fear, plus the physical debility resulting from the night’s activities, which had caused him to faint rather than any real intensity of pain. The pain had been administered quickly, almost casually. It was obviously routine. You got it no matter what your story was. They hadn’t even asked to see his papers to check the incoherent, jerkily-told tale he had offered them to explain his presence on the streets. A sick daughter — a telephone call — action without thought. It sounded weak enough to start with, and he hadn’t been able to project much sincerity into his voice.

But the curious thing was that they were ready to believe him. He could feel it as the young sergeant leaned down over him and slipped those terrible metal bands from around his wrists. Their nights, he realized, must be full of people like him, curfew-breakers with good reason, or at least real reason, sad reason, even tragic reason. And they would all stammer and tremble when caught, all sound guilty of every treasonable crime in the law books.

“Right, Dad,” said the Sergeant. “Just give us the story again.”

He gave it again, as best he could remember it.

“Right,” nodded the policeman. “Papers.”

He held out a confident hand. Matlock, feeling very hammy, started to go through his pockets.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I was in a hurry. I’ve put on the wrong jacket.”

“Not even your cardio-card?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”

Even now the Sergeant was still happy to believe him. At least that’s how he interpreted the mock severity of the man’s gaze.

“You oldies are all the same. What’s the matter with you, getting age-happy?”

Age-happiness. The state of being too near your final birthday to care what you did, who you offended. Matlock stared up at the young man’s face. Square-jawed. Broad nosed. Archaic military moustache. Not much imagination there. Might make another rank, but certainly no further.

He tried to look like a frightened, fuzzy-witted old man near his death.

It wasn’t difficult.

Shaking his head, the Sergeant lifted a ’phone from the wall.

“Inspector,” he said. “There’s an old guy down here. On his way to see a sick daughter. Forgot his papers.”

Then a period of listening.

“Yes. I reckon he’s OK. Address? Hang on.”

He hissed down at Matlock. “The address?”

“Address?” said Matlock, puzzled.

“You daughter’s. Where are you going? Come on!”

Matlock’s mind did a leap.

“The Hospital. Ripon General.”

He hoped such a place existed. He prayed it did. After another period of listening, the ’phone went down.

“You’re lucky,” said the Sergeant, “the Inspector feels kind. We pass the Hospital this sweep. We’ll drop you off. Smoke?”

Matlock didn’t. Never had. But now he felt the urgent need for something to calm his nerves. He took a cigarette. Within seconds the nerve-caressing smoke had damped down his fears and he began to look around.

A mobile dungeon. That’s what these things were. There was no hope of escape if you needed to escape, and just being there meant you needed to escape. Unless you were very lucky.

Superstitiously he diverted his mind from his own lucky break. Leaning back against the bulkhead, he felt a slight tremor which told him the wagon’s powerhouse lay behind him. Not that that told him anything much. He knew that the engines lay dead in the centre of these machines, insulated from assault by compartments such as the one he sat in now. Not that anyone had ever tried to assault a Curfew Wagon.

The Sergeant was seated at a small metal table bracketed to the wall. He was filling in some kind of form with practised ease. On the wall to his right hung the ’phone. To his left was the only other object which relieved the uncompromizing metallic squareness of the compartment. This was the simple control panel for the electric manacles which now dangled casually above his head.

There were, of course, stories of the interiors of wagons which made medieval torture chambers seem very dull unimaginative places and which peopled them with psychopathic manipulators of human flesh.

The truth was even more frightening, Matlock decided. Conscientious men, unaware of any need to examine what they were doing, and with the power to apply the exact level of pain desired to any part of the body.

The Sergeant caught his eye and smiled.

“Won’t be long, Dad,” he said.

The ’phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened, said, “Right,” then replaced the receiver.

“Come on,” he said to Matlock, “we’re nearly there.”

“This is very kind of you,” said Matlock with incongruous but real gratitude.

The Sergeant looked gratified.

“Think nothing of it. We’re here to help, one way or another. Up you go.”

He helped Matlock up the little aluminium ladder he had pulled down from the roof and which led to what seemed the only exit from the room.

“Hurry it up,” shouted the Sergeant below, prodding him unceremoniously in the behind.

“Which way?” asked Matlock when they were both upright in the corridor.

“Along there,” pointed the Sergeant.

Matlock, his heart beating fast in the anticipation of getting out of the wagon, moved smartly along. The end of the corridor seemed blank, but the Sergeant reached over his shoulder and by some sleight of hand conjured up a door into a well-lit room.

There were four men in the room which was obviously the eyes and ears of the machine. Two of the men were watching a bank of television monitors which gave 180 degrees visibility round the wagon. A third was obviously in charge of the radio equipment which was fixed to the wall in front of him.

The fourth, standing with his hands behind his back which was towards Matlock, had an air of authority even from behind which told Matlock as clearly as his lack of uniform that he was in charge.

This was immediately confirmed by the Sergeant.

“I’ve brought the old fellow, the one for the hospital, Inspector.”

“Right,” said the Inspector without turning.

A door slid open in the wall opposite Matlock. This led into a protective bulkhead. Beyond, another door opened and Matlock found himself looking out into the night. A draught of cool air rustled in, refreshing, invigorating.

“Go on,” prompted the Sergeant.

It was only half a dozen paces across the room. Another two would have taken him outside, but some built-in, deeply conditioned politeness made him pause a second, turn and say to the room in general, “Thank you. Good-night.”

The Inspector glanced round. Casually. Then with growing disbelief.

He took a step towards Matlock, his face still full of doubt. But even before the doubt disappeared, his hand was full of gun.

“It can’t be. No. I don’t believe it. But it is! It is, isn’t it? Matlock. Matthew Matlock. Step back inside do! You may not remember me, though I haven’t changed as much as you!”

Matlock remembered now too well. Manchester. This was the man who had been in control the night Percy died.

At his back he still felt the cool night air, but even as his memories of the man flooded back, he heard the doors slide shut behind. Over the Inspector’s shoulder he could see the Sergeant’s face, bewildered, worried, angry.

“Sergeant,” said the Inspector.

“Sir!” snapped the Sergeant.

“This poor old man you’re so eager to help is none other than Matthew Matlock, one time politician, cabinet minister, Deputy Prime Minister, now rebel, terrorist, wanted on any number of charges. Don’t you recognize him?”

“I do now, sir,” said the Sergeant with nervous reasonableness. “But you must admit he doesn’t look much like his pictures, sir. He looks… older. Doesn’t he, sir?”

“Older? Perhaps. But we’ll talk more about your lapse later. I suggest meanwhile you take Mr. Matlock back below.”

The Sergeant, his face a blank of subordination, moved smartly across to Matlock who looked with some unease on the savage eyes which burnt through the mask. His arm was seized violently and he found himself being dragged bodily across the room. In some far corner of his mind he heard the Inspector instructing the radio operator to contact his Headquarters and give them the news. Then he was out in the corridor, being bounced from wall to metal wall. The Sergeant never uttered a word but used the rock-hard edge of his hand with controlled viciousness. When they reached the trap which led back down into the ‘dungeon’, Matlock attempted to drop cleanly through it, realizing his particular vulnerability here, but one boot came down on his hand and crushed it against the floor while the other swung at his unprotected face. He ducked as best he could but felt a gaping wound flower on his forehead as the boot crashed home. Then the pressure on his hand was released and he fell backwards.

He didn’t become unconscious, but was only distantly aware for the next few minutes of what was going on. There was a hubbub of voices, he was lifted up and sat down, and when he finally managed to re-focus his eyes and his mind, he found that the Inspector was leaning over him bandaging his head, which was nice.

Then he tried to move his hands and discovered that he was once again wearing the electric manacles. Which wasn’t nice at all.

The Sergeant was standing stiffly, resentfully, to attention. It was a small comfort to realize he was being reprimanded.

“It is our business to act within the law,” the Inspector was saying severely, “and though there may be times when sheer brute force is the only kind of force available or suitable, this can never be the case in an establishment like this. We have absolute electronic control over the amount of persuasion we administer. It is measured and recorded. Should accusations of maltreatment and abuse of power be brought against you, those measurements and recordings are your defence. You know the precise limits of your authority. But who can measure a kick in the face? You might have killed him. Just weigh the consequences to yourself of that for a moment.”

It was nice to know that there were precise limits to the amount of pain these men could administer, but Matlock reckoned they would be far beyond his tolerance if his earlier experience was anything to go by. He kept his eyes nearly closed in an effort to postpone the interrogation he knew must follow, but he soon became aware with sinking feeling that the Inspector, the bandaging now finished, was carrying on with his preparations quickly and efficiently. He realized now that the Sergeant’s brief application of shock earlier had indeed been casual, routine. Then he had only worn the manacles. Now there was a variety of wires and tubes being attached to his body. At first he thought they were merely refinements of the actual pain-inflicting apparatus, but as his mind cleared, he realized that their function was less directly unpleasant but at the same time more sinister. This was recording apparatus. The Inspector would be able to keep a close check on his pulse, breathing, temperature, degree of consciousness, etc. while questioning him. Through the fringe of his nearly closed eyes he saw the man move back to the control panel and throw a switch.

“Well now,” said the Inspector, “I see that you are, or at least ought to be, fully awake.”

Matlock didn’t move. The Inspector did, and a split second of fearful pain coursed round his body.

“There you are. Try not to drop off again. Right, Sergeant. I think we can begin.”

The Sergeant produced a small radio-microphone which he attached to the wall apparently magnetically. He switched it on.

The Inspector spoke.

“Zero one-thirty hours. Thursday 13th September. Interrogation of Matthew Matlock by 0576621 Inspector Ross P.K.”

The Sergeant spoke.

“Witnessed and recorded by 3789552 Sergeant Hamer P.”

“Now Mr. Matlock,” said the Inspector. “Let me sketch out to you briefly the information I wish to obtain from you before we reach Headquarters. Firstly, with regard to your escape tonight from Fountains Abbey, it seems unlikely that you could have done this unassisted. I want to know first of all which members of the attacking force aided you. Secondly, I want to know where you were going when we picked you up.”

Matlock opened his mouth, but the Inspector raised his hand.

“No, don’t speak yet. We’ll take your first answer as spoken. People always lie the first time. Let’s just say we don’t believe you.”

He moved his hand.

The pain this time lasted several seconds and left Matlock feeling as though his nerve-ends had been rubbed raw.

“Now I’ll ask you again. Who helped you to escape? Where were you going?”

Matlock opened his mouth again, but before he could speak, the pain returned, longer lasting, more violent, and the words turned into a high, drawn-out shriek.

“That was just in case you were thinking of lying again. Now the truth, please.”

“No one. Nowhere,” rasped Matlock from a dry, rough throat.

“Really? That is helpful. You should perhaps realize Mr. Matlock that I can take you to the edge of unconsciousness and keep you there for some minutes without actually pushing you over. That’s the beauty of these things.”

He caressed the control panel affectionately.

“Why not truth drugs?” muttered Matlock.

“Those will come, never fear. But in laboratory conditions. For all I know, you are pumped full of one of the many neutralizing drugs which have been developed. For rapid accurate results, nothing can beat this. Now I don’t like your answer, I’m afraid.”

Again pain, taking him to the brink of a deep dark pit into which he tried desperately to fall, but always he was pulled back, always he swayed on the edge.

“No one. Nowhere. Truth,” he muttered again.

Then he was back by the pit, screaming to be plunged into the oblivion which swirled vaporously below.

His mind now wanted to say something, anything, which would satisfy the Inspector, but he could think of nothing, he was incapable of imagining, of inventing. Some very remote, still controlled part of his mind noted the effectiveness of the torture, but it was light-years away. Then like a headlight in the fog it came slowly, imperceptibly closer and closer till suddenly it rushed on him with unstoppable impetuosity and he opened his eyes to a world beautifully free from pain, but still hideous with its memory and its threat.

The respite had been caused by an interruption. Clambering down through the trap was a constable. In his hand was a message form.

He saluted.

“Radio from H.Q. Sir.”

“Read it,” said the Inspector.

“It’s coded, Sir.”

The Inspector motioned to the Sergeant who took the paper. The constable saluted again and climbed out.

The Sergeant stood hesitating for a moment.

“Do you want me to ...” he began.

“You’re studying for your promotion exams, aren’t you?” said the Inspector with the slightest hint of a sneer.

Without replying or saluting the Sergeant left.

The Inspector spoke into the mike.

“Interrogation pause. Zero One-Forty-Seven Hours.” He switched off and said conversationally to Matlock.

“We’ve got to have a witness.”

Seventeen minutes, thought Matlock. At this rate the few days that remain to me can seem longer than the previous seventy years.

The Inspector was quietly smoking a cigarette and making a note of some figures on the control panel.

“You’re a pretty fit fellow, Mr. Matlock. I can understand how you feel about the Age Limit. But you couldn’t really hope to do anything about it, could you, now?”

He sounded almost reproachful.

The trapdoor opened and the Sergeant’s well-set figure filled the square. He came slowly down and stood at attention. Matlock even through his weakness felt he detected a kind of triumph in the way the man stood, though his face was the old subordinate blank.

“Message decoded, sir,” he intoned expressionlessly.

“Not bad, Sergeant,” smiled the Inspector. “Read it please.”

The Sergeant held the paper up before him, but Matlock got the impression he did not need it. His eyes seemed to be focused on the Inspector.

“From Commissioner One,” he began. The Inspector became absolutely still. This was not the message-source he had expected, Matlock guessed. Commissioner One was the man responsible directly to the Prime Minister for the police force of the country.

The Sergeant went on in the monotonous voice usually reserved for the giving of evidence in court.

“Your message acknowledged. Bring prisoner quickest repeat quickest to local H.Q. Do not stop for any reason whatever repeat do not stop for any reason whatever. Pick up no one repeat pick up no one. Do not commence interrogation of prisoner. Ensure that all further messages concerning prisoner are encoded repeat encoded. Message ends.”

There was a silence.

“Sergeant,” said the Inspector softly, “didn’t the operator encode my first message.”

“No, sir.”

“Despite my instructions?”

This was an invitation, Matlock decided, an invitation to cover up. But he saw the Sergeant was in no mood to conspire.

“You gave no instructions, sir. I checked. There were three constables present. Shall I file the interrogation tape, sir?”

The Inspector pulled himself together and managed an ironic smile.

“Yes, you better had, Sergeant. At the same time ensure the time of receipt of this message is clearly recorded, send off an acknowledgement, and pass the instructions about not stopping or arresting to the control room. No, on second thoughts I can do that more quickly from here. You might be delayed.”

There was an unmistakable stress on the ‘you’, but the Sergeant showed no reaction and busied himself removing the radio-microphone, while the Inspector moved over to the telephone.

Matlock’s relief at realising he was temporarily free from the threat of further torture brought him new strength. His mind began to regain its old agility and he had watched the Inspector closely, realizing that despite his effort at unconcern here was a sadly worried man. More interesting to Matlock than the Inspector’s personal worries, however, was the background to the message.

Obviously the news of his arrest had been channelled right up to the top, to Browning himself most likely. Hence the reply from Commissioner One. He felt mildly flattered, but more interesting still was Browning’s desire to save interrogation till he personally could deal with it. Matlock smiled. There were things about the setting up of the Abbey which the Prime Minister would not want blurted out by a tortured and obviously truth-telling man.

But most interesting of all was the reprimand for not encoding the message about his capture. The implication was that they were worried about possible interception of messages. But by whom? And to what effect? Rescue must be out of the question. Even if there was anybody desirous of rescuing him and capable of arranging action in the twenty minutes or so since the message was sent, he was now imprisoned in the strongest most impregnable vehicle ever known to man, on his way to what he suspected was going to be even closer confinement.

He surfaced from his discomforting thoughts to hear the Inspector speaking rapidly and authoritatively into the ’phone. He was giving instructions for the utmost speed.

“Also,” he added, “stop for nothing. If you can’t go through it, go round it. And no further arrests, not even on the move. Understood?”

Even as he spoke, a small panel in the wall above his head flashed red and white.

“I said no arrests!” he screamed angrily.

Matlock surmised that someone had been spotted and swept up automatically (as he had been) just as the order was being given. The Inspector’s next words seemed to confirm this.

“All right. No. We might as well keep him now we’ve got him. Put him down. But no more! Understood? Right.”

He replaced the ’phone and turned to Matlock.

“A little respite for you, Mr. Matlock. I’m glad in a way. I was beginning to believe that you had nothing to tell me and nothing isn’t really an end to justify these means. How are your friends?”

“Friends?”

“The ones I met in Manchester. The night the old man was killed. You were wrong about that, by the way. Nothing to do with us. Our orders came from the Chief Constable and he was hardly likely to arrange to murder one of his fellow-conspirators, was he?”

“No. I don’t know. I forget about… him. My friends? I don’t know. I don’t know where they are. I don’t know. I don’t.”

Amazed at himself, Matlock felt a couple of large tears swell at his eyes and begin to course down his cheeks. He tried to brush them away, but his hands were held by the manacles.

“Could I ... ?” he asked, looking down.

“Of course,” said the Inspector and moved over and unfastened them, at the same time removing the wires taped to Matlock’s body.

But he hadn’t finished this when there was an interruption. The trap opened and a pair of legs appeared, not uniformed legs, but short massive limbs straining to the limits the worn yellow trousers which clothed them.

“What the hell’s this?” snapped the Inspector.

A constable’s face peered through what little remained of the gap and he said anxiously, “It’s the prisoner, sir. You said to put him down.”

“Not down here, for God’s sake!” said the Inspector violently. But it was too late. The man let go of the ladder and dropped to the floor, landing with a heavy crash but not even bending his knees.

Even without the curfew he looked villainous enough to be arrested on sight. Above the yellow trousers was a voluminous and evil looking green donkey-jacket. Above this, a vast head, its features squashed between a narrow deeply corrugated brow and a blue triple-cleft chin. The figure only stood about five feet high, but in terms of sheer volume, it was the largest in the room. The accompanying constable had dropped down after him and stood with gun drawn. But the arrested man was by far the most menacing figure present.

Matlock recognized him at once as Ossian.

“Get rid of this thing, Sergeant,” cried the Inspector. “Lock him up somewhere. We’ll interrogate later. God, this used to be an efficient unit.”

The Sergeant moved forward to Ossian who had been slowly looking round the room. His gaze had rested lightly on Matlock for a second, then moved on.

The Sergeant put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Right. You, up!”

Ossian nodded and slowly began to climb the exit ladder. The constable came close behind. As he reached the trap, Ossian jerked back one of his legs and backheeled the man beneath the chin. His neck snapped audibly and he was thrown back into the dungeon with great force. Then Ossian shook a small metal object from one of his voluminous sleeves, dropped it into the room, pulled himself up and closed the trap.

The constable lay where he had fallen, his head strangely askew, the Sergeant leapt up the ladder, the Inspector rushed across to the ’phone. Matlock saw them both stiffen almost simultaneously, the Sergeant’s hand stopped almost a foot from the rung he was grasping at, the Inspector’s three times that distance from the ’phone. Then both dropped, and Matlock almost had time to think, “nerve gas!” before he fell forward, oblivious to the pain as the tape holding the remaining wires ripped away from his skin.

But his subconscious raced on filling his sleeping head with visions of Ossian like some monstrous troll running across the world, himself over his shoulder, and all men falling dead before them.

When he awoke he thought it must have been true for he was looking down at the surface of the earth from a great height. It seemed to be revolving very quickly beneath him and he could not understand why he was not falling. Then it seemed that he was and he closed his eyes in terror waiting for the impact.

When he opened them again, he knew instantly that he was lying on the floor of a helicopter with his face pressed to the observation panel. Looking up he saw Ossian, his ugly face expressionless if you discounted what seemed its perpetual look of brutal malignancy, a pink plastic respirator thrust up over his beetle-brow like a pixie’s hat.

Beside him at the ’copter’s controls was another vaguely familiar figure. Attracted by Matlock’s movement he glanced down and the moonlight which was so clearly etching out the landscape below picked out his features in patches of shadow and brightness.

It was the man with the hole in his head.

Matlock felt he ought to say something. Perhaps ask how he got there. It could have been no mean feat for one man, even armed with nerve-gas grenades, to take over a Curfew Wagon, rescue an unconscious man and get him into a helicopter.

But he didn’t really feel interested, and only slightly grateful. He was more amused that Ossian who could have no personal love for him, indeed must bear a strong grudge against him, should have had to take such risks on his behalf.

He did wonder, however, why they were flying so low. The ground now did not look more than about fifty feet below. And they were crossing pretty hilly terrain. He shivered as he looked out of a side port and saw they were flying lower than the peaks of some of the hills.

Ossian touched the pilot’s arm and pointed; Matlock automatically followed his finger, looking straight into the moon which was halfway down the sky. He saw nothing at first, then thought he picked out a sudden gleam, then unmistakably saw a dark shape flash across the gleaming saucer.

“Are they looking for us?” he asked.

Ossian ignored him but the man with the hole in his head answered in his precise Scots tones.

“That’s right. If they find us, we’ve had it. But don’t worry. Down here there’s little enough chance of that. They’re too fast, too high.”

“Then we’re safe?” said Matlock seeking the repetition of reassurance.

“Oh, no,” said the man. “They’ve got helicopters too. And they’ll be waiting at the Wall.”

“The Wall?” enquired Matlock stupidly.

“Don’t say you’ve forgotten the Wall, Mr. Matlock? It was restored at your instructions. After standing for centuries as a monument to the ruthless persecution and the unquenchable spirit of a great race, you resurrected it from history and gave it its old role again. Aye, Hadrian’s wall. Pushed a bit further north in places, but the same thing. Matlock’s wall some of the lowlanders still call it.”

“What about it?”

“Well, we have to cross it. They’ll have been alerted, the guardians I mean, and it’s well fortified as you may know. We’ll have to go up to get over it safely, and up there there’s lots of the Few waiting to blow us out of the sky. If we keep too low, they’ll drop us from the Wall, or get us with their ’copters.”

“Thanks,” said Matlock.

“You’re welcome.”

In fact the Wall was easy. The great metal-plastic structure, sixty feet high throughout its length, prefabricated in a month and dropped into place section by section in less than a week, looked sinister enough as it snaked away to east and west following the roll and turn of the hills, but only one gun started up as they leap-frogged over at a height of several hundred feet, and that was well out of range and soon stilled.

Matlock relaxed, but soon tensed up again when he saw no signs of similar relaxation in his two companions.

“What’s the matter,” he asked finally. “The Wall’s past. We must be in Scottish air space now. What’s the trouble?”

“You don’t imagine the sovereignty of Scotland bothers the English Air Force, do you?” sneered the pilot.

“The reverse is certainly true,” rejoined Matlock.

“And lucky for you it is, Mr. Matlock. No, the Wall itself was little enough obstacle as long as a chancy shot doesn’t take you. But if I was in charge of this operation, I’d send my ’copters fifty miles or so over the Wall into Scotland, wait till my observers on the Wall had spotted us, then give the ambushers our crossing point, speed, direction, etc.”

“Dear God,” said Matlock, his mind racing now. “Then why don’t we land as soon as possible and proceed by road?”

“What a good idea,” said the pilot ironically.

He pointed ahead. At first Matlock could see nothing, then suddenly out of the darkness he picked a point of red light, then another, then two more.

“Now if we can just get down without being spotted, they can trespass up above as much as they like.”

Slowly they dropped towards the square of safety. A kilted figure appeared and began to wave them down. Others stood further back, guns at the ready. The lights were extinguished even before they touched.

“Out,” said Ossian.

Matlock realized as he tumbled out on to the long wet grass that this was the first word he had heard Ossian speak.

A small reception party approached, headed by a tall uniformed figure who saluted the man with the hole in his head, then held out his hand.

“Mr. Boswell, I’m Colonel Mackay. Glad to see you safely here, sir.”

“Thank you. Is there a car for us?”

“Aye, it’s all laid on. We’ll have you in Edinburgh within the hour.”

Boswell stiffened slightly and Matlock had an impression of a new alertness, but his voice was as soft and even as ever when he spoke.

“It was Glasgow we were to go to.”

“I know sir. A change of orders. Those are my instructions.”

“I see. Well, let’s be off.”

He half turned then said with a small gesture, “This is Mr. Matlock,” before walking briskly towards a group of vehicles just visible as dark outlines in the slight mist rising from the sodden field.

“I thought it would be,” said Mackay. “Matlock, eh? Well now.”

His tone was quite neutral, but Matlock felt glad when Ossian propelled him after Boswell with what might have been meant as a gentle push.

Rubbing his arm, he hurried away and clambered into the back seat of the awaiting car which jerked forward before Ossian, squeezing in behind him, had time to close the door. They moved slowly at first over what seemed a very rough track, if that, then began to pick up speed as the surface improved. Glancing back he was surprised to see distantly the red guidelights flicker to life again.

Boswell followed his gaze and answered his unspoken question.

“Now we’re safely out of the way, these soldiers can have their rough fun. They’re lying in the heather with their guns all ready, hoping that some of our trespassers will spot the lights and fly low to investigate.”

He laughed at Matlock’s slight flicker of distaste.

“Don’t worry too much, Mr. Matlock. Your countrymen have grown rather more cautious than they used to be about taking such bait. Our soldiers will probably just get cold and wet for nothing. But it’ll sharpen their appetites; oh yes, it will do that.”

The lights were now completely out of sight. Matlock settled back with a sigh. Then he managed a half-smile as he remembered Colonel Mackay’s insignia.

“It’s probably too far back for you to recall, Mr. Boswell, but when I was a young lad in the late sixties, I can remember seeing posters and stickers on car windows which said, ‘Save The Argylls’. I suppose in a way I did.”

There was no reply and the rest of the journey went by in silence.

Dawn was breaking as they ran smoothly through the silent suburbs of Edinburgh. As they turned into the long steep street that led up to the dark bulk of the castle, Boswell let the window down and on the sharp-edged breeze that blew in Matlock smelt the sea.