On dangerous ground

NINE

Fergussquatted on a truckle bed in the old hunting bothy at the west end of Loch Dhu and drank from a bottle of whiskey. He was no longer afraid now, the events at the pub behind him, but he was angry, particularly when he thought of Asta.

"You bitch," he said to himself. "All your fault." He drank some more whiskey. "Just wait. If I ever get my hands on you again."

There was a sudden creak, the door swung open, and Murdoch slipped in. "Here he is, sir," he said, and Morgan moved through the door behind him, a riding crop in his hand, Marco at his side.

"Now then, you piece of dirt," Morgan said.

Fergus was terrified. He got up, the bottle of whiskey in one hand. "Now look, there's no need for this, it was a mistake, I didn't know who she was."

"Mistake?" Morgan said. "Oh, yes, your mistake, you little swine." He turned. "Marco."

Marco was pulling on a pair of leather gloves. Fergus suddenly smashed the whiskey bottle, spraying the bed with its contents, and held up the jagged glass threateningly. "I'll do for you, I swear I will."

As Marco advanced, Fergus swung the bottle. The Sicilian blocked his arm to one side and punched him with sickening force under the ribs. Fergus dropped the bottle and staggered back on the bed.

Morgan said, "Leave him."

Marco stood back and Morgan went forward. "You put your filthy hands on my daughter."

He slashed Fergus across the face with his riding crop again and again, and Fergus, screaming, tried to protect himself with his raised arms. Morgan rained blow after blow, then stood back and Marco moved in again, punching Fergus in the face, sending him to the floor, kicking him with brutal efficiency.

"Enough." Marco stepped back and Fergus lay moaning on the floor. Morgan turned and found Murdoch in the doorway looking as frightened as Fergus had done. "Do you have a problem?" Morgan asked.

"No, Mr. Morgan."

"Good. Let's get going then."

He led the way outside and they got in the station wagon, Marco behind the wheel, and drove away.

It was some time later, evening falling, when Fergus appeared in the doorway. He looked dreadful, blood on his face. He stood there swaying a little and then staggered down the slope to the loch. He waded into the shallows and dropped to his knees, scooping water over his face and head. The pain in his head was terrible, the worst thing he'd ever known. It was really a merciful release when everything went dark and he fell forward into the water. • • • It was eleven o'clock and raining hard as Hannah Bernstein turned the Range Rover in beside the wall of Loch Dhu Castle. "My God," she said, "it's a miracle when it does stop raining here."

"That's bonny Scotland for you," Dillon said. He was all in black, sweater, jeans, running shoes, and now he pulled a black ski mask over his head, only his eyes and mouth showing.

"You certainly look the part," she said.

"That's the idea." He pulled on thin black leather gloves and took a Walther from the glove compartment and fitted the new short Harley silencer to it.

"For God's sake, Dillon, you aren't going to war."

"That's what you think, my lovely." He slipped the gun into his waistband and his teeth flashed in the opening of the ski mask as he smiled. "Here we go then, give me an hour," and he opened the door and was away.

The wall was only twelve feet high and simple enough to negotiate. A crumbling edge or two for footholds and he was over and dropping into damp grass. He moved through trees, came out into an area of open grass, and jogged toward the castle, finally halting in another clump of trees, looking across smooth lawn toward the lighted windows of the castle.

The rain fell relentlessly. He stood there sheltered slightly by a tree and the great oaken front door opened and Marco Russo appeared there, the Doberman at his side. Marco gave the dog a shove with his foot, obviously putting it out for the purposes of nature, then went inside. The dog stood there, sniffing the rain, then lifted a leg. Dillon gave the low, curious whistle he had used at the hunting lodge, the Doberman's ears went up, then it came bounding toward him.

He crouched, stroking its ears, allowing it to lick his hands. "Good boy," he said softly. "Now do as you're told and keep quiet."

He moved across the lawn and peered in through French windows and found Asta in the study reading a book by the fire. She made an appealing figure in a pair of black silk lounging pajamas. He moved away, the dog at his heels, looked in through a long narrow window and saw the empty hall.

He moved round to the far side and heard voices and noticed a French window standing ajar. Curtains were partly drawn, and when he peered cautiously inside, he saw Morgan and Murdoch in a large drawing room. There were several bookcases against the wall and Morgan was replacing books in one of them.

"I've been through every inch in this room, taken down every book, searched every drawer, every cupboard, and the same in the study. Not a bloody sign. What about the staff?"

"They've all got their instructions, sir, every one of them is eager to win the thousand-pound reward you promised, but nothing as yet."

"It's got to be here somewhere, tell them to renew their efforts."

The Doberman whined, slipped in through the window, and rushed up to Morgan, who rather surprisingly greeted it with some pleasure. "You big lump, where have you been?" He leaned down to pat the animal. "My God, he's soaking, he could catch pneumonia. Take him to the kitchen, Murdoch, and towel him off, I'm going to bed."

Murdoch went out, his hand on the Doberman's collar, and Morgan turned and walked to the window. He stood there, looking at the night for a moment, then crossed to the door and went out, switching off the light.

Dillon slipped in through the window, went to the door, and stood listening for a moment, then he opened the door a crack, aware of voices, Asta's and Morgan's. The study door was open and he heard Morgan say, "I'm for bed. What about you?"

"I suppose so," Asta said. "If I'm out on the moors tomorrow stalking deer I'll need all my energy."

"And wits," he said. "Listen to everything Ferguson and Dillon say, store it up and remember it."

"Yes, oh master."

She laughed and when they came out, Morgan had an arm about her waist. "You're a great girl, Asta, one of a kind."

Strange, but watching them go up the great staircase together was something of a surprise to Dillon, no suggestion of the wrong kind of intimacy at all, and at the top of the stairs, Morgan only kissed her on the forehead. "Good night, my love," he said and he went one way and she the other.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dillon said softly.

He stayed there for a while, thinking. There was little point in going any further. He'd picked up one useful piece of intelligence, that they hadn't got anywhere as regards finding the Bible. That was a good enough night's work and the truth was what he'd done had been more for the hell of it than anything else.

On the other hand, again just for the hell of it, he could do with a drink and he'd noticed through the French windows the drinks cabinet in the study. He opened the door and hurried across the great hall to the study door. As he got it open, the Doberman arrived, skidding on the tiles as it tried to brake, sliding past him into the study.

Dillon closed the door and switched on a lamp on one of the tables. "You great eejit," he said to the dog and fondled its ears.

He went to the drinks cabinet and found no Irish whiskey so made do with Scotch. He went and stood looking down into the fire, taking his time, and behind him the door opened. As he turned, drawing the Walther, Asta came in. She didn't notice him at first, closed the door and turned.

And she didn't show any sign of fear, stood there looking at him calmly, and then said, "That couldn't be you, could it, Dillon?"

Dillon laughed softly. "Jesus, girl, you really are on Morgan's side, aren't you?"

He slipped the Walther back in his waistband at the rear and pulled off his ski mask.

"Why shouldn't I be? He's my father, isn't he?"

"Stepfather." Dillon helped himself to a cigarette from a silver box on a coffee table and lit it with his ever-present Zippo. "Mafia stepfather."

"Father as far as I'm concerned, the only decent one I've ever known, the first version was a rat, the kind of man who sniffed around everything in a skirt. He made my mother's life hell. It was a blessing when his car ran off the road one day and he was burned to death in the crash."

"That must have been rough."

"A blessing, Dillon, and then after a year or two my mother met Carl, the best man in the world."

"Really?"

She took a cigarette from the box. "Look, Dillon, I know all about you, all about the IRA, all that stuff, and I know who decent old Ferguson really is, Carl told me."

"I bet he tells you everything. I suppose you could give me chapter and verse on the Chungking Covenant."

"Of course I could, Carl tells me everything."

"I wonder. I mean there's the Carl Morgan of the social pages, the polo player, Man of the Year, billionaire, and then back there in the shadows is the same old Mafia sources of cash flow, drugs, prostitution, gambling, extortion."

She moved to the French windows, opened one, and looked out at the rain. "Don't be tiresome, Dillon, after all, you can talk. What about all those years with the Provisional IRA? How many soldiers did you kill, how many women and kids did you blow up?"

"I hate to disappoint you, but I never blew up a woman or a child in my life. Soldiers, yes, I've killed a few of those, but as far as I'm concerned, that was war. Come to think of it, I did blow up a couple of PLO boats in Beirut harbor, but they were due to land terrorists on the Israeli coast with the deliberate intention of blowing up women and kids."

"All right, point taken. What are you doing here anyway?"

"Just curious, that's all. I wondered if you were getting anywhere, but I overheard Morgan discussing things with Murdoch, and of the Bible, there is no sign."

"It must be here," she said. "Tanner said it came back." She frowned. "I'm not giving anything away, am I? I mean you and Ferguson wouldn't be here if you didn't know."

"That's right," he said. "Lord Louis Mountbatten, the Laird, Ian Campbell, the Dakota crash in India."

"You needn't go on. Carl would love to know how you found out, but I don't suppose you'll tell me."

"Classified information." He finished his drink and there was a noise in the hall. "On my way." He pulled on his ski mask and as he slipped out of the French window, said, "See you in the morning."

The door opened and Morgan came in. He looked surprised. "Good God, Asta, you startled me. I thought you'd gone to bed."

"I decided to come down for my book and guess what, Dillon was here."

Morgan's eyes narrowed. "Really?"

"He looked terribly dramatic. All in black with a ski mask. Looked like Carlos the Jackal on a bad Saturday night in Beirut. He's just gone."

"What was he after?"

"Just prowling around to see what was happening. Apparently he overheard you and Murdoch discussing your lack of success at finding the Bible." Morgan poured a brandy and came over to stand beside her at the French windows. "They know everything, Carl, Mountbatten, Corporal Tanner, the Laird, everything," she said.

"You got that much out of him?"

"Easy, Carl, he likes me and he wasn't giving anything away. He wouldn't tell me how they found out, and you said yourself it was obvious they knew otherwise why would a man like Ferguson be here."

He nodded. "And they don't care that we know. Interesting tactics." He swallowed some brandy. "Are they still picking you up in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Good." He emptied his glass and closed the window. "Bed then, and this time let's mean it."

"So the decks really are cleared for action now," Ferguson said.

"You did say you wanted him to know we were breathing down his neck," Dillon reminded him.

"Yes, it's a good tactic, don't you agree, Chief Inspector?"

He turned to Hannah Bernstein, who was leaning against his desk. "I suppose so, sir, if we're playing games, that is."

"So that's what you think we're doing?"

"I'm sorry, sir, it's just that I don't feel we're really getting to grips with this thing. We know what Morgan is up to and he knows what we are, I'm not sure it makes sense."

"It will, my dear, when that Bible turns up."

"Will it? Let's say he suddenly found it at the back of a drawer tonight, Brigadier. They could be into his Citation and flying out of the country in the morning and nothing we could do about it."

"Well, we'll just have to see, won't we." Kim came in with tea on a tray. Ferguson shook his head. "It's bed for me, I'll see you in the morning."

He went out and Kim poured the tea and retired. Hannah said to Dillon, "What do you think?"

"You could be right, but I've a hunch it isn't so." He moved to the window, opened it, and looked at the rain bouncing on the flagged terrace. "I don't think that Bible is tucked away in some casual spot so that a maid might find it while she's dusting." He turned. "Remember what Tanner said when the doctor asked him if the Bible had been returned to Loch Dhu?"

"Yes, his answer was: 'You could say that.' "

"And then he laughed. Now why would he do that?"

Hannah shrugged. "Some private joke?"

"Exactly. Quite a mystery, and I came across another tonight."

"What was that?"

Dillon said, "When I was snooping around earlier at the castle I saw Morgan and Asta going up to bed."

"So?"

"It wasn't what I expected, not a hint of a sexual relationship. At the top of the stairs he kissed her forehead and they went their separate ways."

"Now that is interesting," Hannah Bernstein told him.

"It is if you consider any theory that says his motive for killing the mother was because he had designs on Asta." Dillon finished his tea and grinned. "You can put that fine Special Branch mind to work on that one, my love, but as for me, I'm for bed," and he left her there.

The following morning it had stopped raining for the first time in two days. As the Range Rover drove up to Loch Dhu Castle, Kim at the wheel, Asta and Morgan came out and stood waiting. She wore a Glengarry bonnet, leather jacket, and a plaid skirt.

"Very ethnic," Dillon said as he got out.

"Morning," Ferguson boomed. "A good day's sport with any luck. I'm glad this damn rain's stopped."

"So am I," Morgan said. "Did you have a good night, Brigadier?"

"Certainly. Slept like a top. It's the Highland air."

Morgan turned to Dillon. "And you?"

"I'm like a cat, I only nap."

"That must be useful." Morgan turned back to the Brigadier. "Dinner tonight? Seven o'clock suit you?"

"Excellent," Ferguson said. "Black tie?"

"Of course, and bring that secretary of yours and I'll try and persuade Lady Katherine to join us."

"Couldn't look forward to it more. We'll see you this evening then," and Morgan ushered Asta down the steps into the Shogun.

As the sun came up and the morning advanced, Dillon almost forgot why he had come to this wild and lonely place as they proceeded on foot, climbing up and away from the glen. He and Asta forged ahead, leaving Ferguson and Kim to follow at their own pace.

Dillon was aware of a kind of lazy content. The truth was that he was enjoying the girl's company. He'd never had much time for women, the exigencies of his calling he used to say, and no time for relationships, but there was something elemental about this one that touched him deep inside. They didn't talk much, simply concentrated on climbing, and finally came up over an edge of rock and stood there, the glen below purple with heather and the sea in the distance calm, islands scattered across it.

"I don't think I've ever seen anything more beautiful," Asta said.

"I have," Dillon told her.

The wind folded her skirt about her legs, outlining her thighs, and when she pulled off her Glengarry and shook her head, her near-white hair shimmered in the sun. She fitted the scene perfectly, a golden girl on a golden day.

"Your hair and mine are almost the same color, Dillon." She sat down on a rock. "We could be related."

"Jesus, girl, don't wish that on me." He lit two cigarettes, hands cupped against the wind, gave her one, then lay on the ground beside her. "Lots of fair hair in Ireland. A thousand years ago Dublin was a Viking capital."

"I didn't know that."

"Did you tell Morgan about my visit last night?"

"Of course I did. In fact, you almost came face-to-face. The noise you heard in the hall was Carl."

"And what did he have to say?"

"My goodness, Dillon, you do expect a lot for your cigarette." She laughed. "All right, I told him everything you told me, the Chungking Covenant and so on, but that was because you wanted me to, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"Carl said he didn't mind. He checked on Ferguson the moment he discovered he was at the lodge, knew who he was in a matter of hours and you. He knew you must have been aware of what was going on, otherwise why would you be here. He's no fool, Dillon, he would hardly be where he is today if he was that."

"You really think a great deal of him, don't you?"

"As I said last night, I know all about you, Dillon, so don't waste time telling me what a bad man Carl is. It would be the pot calling the kettle black, don't you agree?"

"A nice turn of phrase you have."

"I had an excellent education," she said. "A good Church of England boarding school for young ladies. St. Michael's and St. Hugh's College, Oxford, afterwards."

"Is that so? I bet you didn't get calluses on your knees from praying."

"You are a bastard," she said amiably, and at that moment Ferguson came over the rise, Kim following with the gun case, a pair of old-fashioned Zeiss binoculars around his neck.

"There you are." Ferguson slumped down. "Getting old. Coffee, Kim."

The Ghurka put down the gun case, opened the haversack that hung at his side, took out a thermos flask and several paper cups which he filled and passed round.

"This is nice," Asta said. "I haven't been on a picnic in years."

"You can forget that notion, young lady," Ferguson told her. "This is a serious expedition, the object of which is to expose you to the finer points of deer stalking. Now drink up and we'll get on."

And so, tramping through the heather in the sunshine, he kept up a running commentary stressing first a deer's incredible sense of smell so that any successful approach could only be made downwind.

"You can shoot, I suppose?" he asked her.

"Of course, Carl trained me, clay pigeon shooting mostly. I've been out with him after grouse during the season many times."

"Well that's something."

They had been on the go for a good hour when Kim suddenly pointed. "There, Sahib."

"Down, everybody," Ferguson told them, and Kim passed him the binoculars.

"Excellent." Ferguson handed them to Dillon. "Three hundred yards. Two hinds and a Royal Stag. Quite magnificent antlers."

Dillon had a look. "My God, yes," he said and passed the binoculars to Asta.

When she focused them, the stag and the hinds jumped clearly into view. "How marvelous," she breathed and turned to Ferguson. "We couldn't possibly shoot such wonderful creatures, could we?"

"Just like a bloody woman," Ferguson said. "I might have known."

Dillon said, "The fun is in the stalking, Asta, it's like a game. They're well able to look after themselves, believe me. We'll be lucky to get within a hundred yards."

Kim wet a finger and raised it. "Downwind, Sahib, okay now." He looked up at the sky where clouds were forming. "I think wind change direction soon."

"Then we move fast," Ferguson said. "Pass me the rifle."

It was an old Jackson and Whitney bolt action. He loaded it carefully and said, "They're downhill from us, remember."

"I know," Dillon said. "Shoot low. Let's get going."

Asta found the next hour one of the most exhilarating she'd ever known. They moved through gulleys, crouching low, Kim leading the way.

"He certainly knows his stuff," she said to Dillon at one point.

"He should do," Ferguson told her. "The best tracker on a tiger shoot I ever knew in India in the old days."

Finally, they took to the heather and crawled in single file until Kim called a halt and paused in a small hollow. He peered over the top cautiously. The deer browsed contentedly no more than seventy-five yards away.

"No closer, Sahib." He glanced up. "Wind changing already."

"Right." Ferguson moved the bolt and rammed a round into the breech. "Your honor, my dear."

"Really?" Asta was flushed with excitement, took the rifle from him gingerly, then settled herself on her elbows, the stock firmly into her shoulder.

"Don't pull, just squeeze gently," Dillon told her.

"I know that."

"And aim low," Ferguson added.

"All right." What seemed like rather a long time passed and suddenly she rolled over and thrust the rifle at him. "I can't do it, Brigadier, that stag is too beautiful to die."

"Well we all bloody-well die sometime," Ferguson said, and at that moment, the stag raised its head.

"Wind change, Sahib, he has our scent," Kim said, and in an instant the stag and the two hinds were leaping away through the bracken at an incredible speed.

Dillon rolled over, laughing, and Ferguson said, "Damn!" And then he scowled. "Not funny, Dillon, not funny at all." He handed the rifle to Kim. "All right, put it away and break out the sandwiches."

On the way back some time later they paused for a rest on a crest that gave an excellent view of the glen below the castle above Loch Dhu and Ardmurchan Lodge on the other side. Dillon noticed something he hadn't appreciated before. There was a landing stage below the castle, a boat moored beside it.

"Give me the binoculars," he said to Kim and focused them, closing in on a twenty-five-foot motor launch with a deckhouse. "I didn't know that was there," he said, passing the binoculars to Ferguson.

"The boat, you mean?" Asta said. "It goes with the castle. It's called the Katrina."

"Have you been out in it yet?" Dillon asked.

"No reason. Carl isn't interested in fishing."

"Better than ours." Ferguson swung the binoculars to the rickety pier below Ardmurchan Lodge on the other side of the loch and the boat tied up there, an old whaler with an outboard motor, and a rowboat beside it. He handed the binoculars to Kim. "All right, let's move on."

"Frankly I'm getting bored with this track," Asta said. "Can't we just go straight down, Dillon?"

He turned to Ferguson, who shrugged. "Rather you than me, but if that's what you want. Come on, Kim," and he continued along the track.

Dillon took Asta by the hand. "Here we go and watch yourself, we don't want you turning that ankle again," and they started down the slope.

It was reasonably strenuous going for most of the way, the whole side of the mountain flowing down to the loch below. He led the way, picking his way carefully for something like a thousand feet and then, as things became easier, he took her hand and they scrambled on down together until suddenly she lost her balance, laughing out loud and fell, dragging Dillon with her. They rolled over a couple of times and came to rest in a soft cushion of heather in a hollow. She lay on her back, breathless, and Dillon pushed himself up on one elbow to look at her.

Her laughter faded, she reached up and touched his face, and for a moment he forgot everything except the color of her hair, the scent of her perfume. When they kissed, her body was soft and yielding, everything a man could hope for in this world.

He rolled onto his back and she sat up. "I wondered when you would, Dillon. Very satisfactory."

He got a couple of cigarettes from his case, lit them, and passed one to her. "Put it down to the altitude. I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

"You should be. I've got twenty years on you."

"That must be some Irish thing," she said. "All that rain. Is it supposed to have a dampening effect on love?"

"What's love got to do with it?"

She blew out cigarette smoke and lay back, a hand behind her head. "Now there's romantic for you."

He sat up. "Stop indulging in flights of fantasy, Asta, you aren't in love with me."

She turned to look at him. "You said it yourself. What's love got to do with it?"

"Morgan wouldn't think very much of the idea."

She sat up and shrugged. "He doesn't control my life."

"Really? I'd have thought that's exactly what he does do."

"Damn you, Dillon!" She was angry and stubbed her cigarette out on a rock. "You've just ruined a lovely day. Can we go now?"

She got up and started down the hill, and after a while, he stood himself and followed her.

They reached the edge of the loch about thirty minutes later and started to follow the shoreline. They hadn't spoken since the incident in the hollow and now Dillon said, "Are we speaking again or what?"

She laughed and took his arm. "You're a pig, Dillon, but I like you."

"All part of my irresistible charm," he said and paused suddenly.

They were close to the west end of the loch, the old hunting bothy where Morgan and Marco had dealt with Fergus on their left. He was still lying down on the shoreline, face in the shallows.

Asta said, "My God, isn't that a body?"

"That's what it looks like."

They hurried down the slope and reached the sandbar. She stood there while Dillon waded in and turned Fergus over. Asta gave a sudden exclamation. "Fergus."

"Yes." Dillon waded back. "I'd say he was given a thorough beating. Wait here." He went up to the hunting bothy. She watched him go in. A moment later, he returned. "From the state of things, that's where the fight was. After they'd gone he must have come down to the shore to revive himself and fell in. Something like that."

"An accident," she said and there was a strange calmness on her face. "That was it."

"You could describe it that way," Dillon said. "I'm sure Carl Morgan would."

"Leave it, Dillon." She reached out and grabbed his lapel. "Do this for me, just leave it, I'll handle it."

There was a fierceness to her that was something new. He said, "I'm beginning to wonder if I really know you at all, Asta. All right, I'll leave Morgan to stew in it."

She nodded. "Thank you, I'll get back now." She walked away, paused, and turned. "I'll see you tonight."

He nodded. "I wouldn't miss it for anything."

She hurried away. He looked out again at the body by the sandbar, then climbed up the slope and reached the road. He had walked along it for perhaps five minutes when a horn sounded and he turned and found the Range Rover bearing down on him.

Ferguson opened the door. "Where's the girl?"

"She's cut across to the castle on her own."

Dillon climbed in and Kim drove on. "I must say you look thoughtful, dear boy."

"So would you," Dillon said, lit a cigarette, and brought him up to date.

Morgan was in the study when she went in, sitting at his desk and talking to Marco. He turned and smiled. "Had a nice day?"

"It was until things went sour."

He stopped smiling and said to Marco, "You can go."

"No, let him stay. You found Fergus, didn't you, you beat him up?"

Morgan reached for a cigar and clipped it. "He had it coming, Asta. Anyway, how do you know?"

"Dillon and I just found his body. He was lying in the shallows down there in the loch just below that old hunting lodge. He must have fallen in and drowned."

Morgan glanced at Marco, then put the cigar down. "What did Dillon do?"

"Nothing. I begged him to leave it to me."

"And he agreed?"

She nodded. "He said he'd leave you to stew in it."

"Yes, that's exactly how he would play it." Morgan nodded. "And so would Ferguson. It wouldn't suit the dear old Brigadier to have a police investigation, not at the moment." He glanced at Marco. "And it wouldn't get anywhere without a body, would it?"

"No, Signore."

Morgan stood up. "All right, let's take care of it. You stay here, Asta," and he went out followed by Marco.

In the trees that fringed the loch below Ardmurchan Lodge just above the small jetty, Ferguson and Dillon waited, the Irishman holding the Zeiss binoculars. The light was fading, but visibility was still good enough for him to see the motor launch Katrina moving along the shoreline on the other side.

"There they go," he said and focused the binoculars.

Morgan was in the wheelhouse and he reversed the launch toward the shore, Marco in the stern. Marco jumped over into the water and Morgan went to help him. A moment later Fergus came over the rail. Morgan went back into the wheelhouse and turned out toward the middle of the loch. Dillon passed the binoculars to Ferguson.

The Brigadier said, "It looks to me as if Marco is wrapping a length of chain around the body." He shook his head. "How very naughty."

He passed the binoculars back to Dillon, who focused them again in time to see Marco slide the body over the side. It went straight under and a moment later the Katrina got under way and turned back toward the castle.

"So that's it," Dillon said and turned to Ferguson. "You're happy to leave it that way?"

"I think so. A crime has undoubtedly been committed, but that's a police matter, and frankly I don't want the local constabulary swarming all over Loch Dhu Castle. We've bigger fish to fry here, Dillon."

"I doubt whether the good Chief Inspector Bernstein would agree," Dillon said. "A great one for the letter of the law, that lady."

"Which is why we don't say a word about this to her."

Dillon lit another cigarette. "One thing we can count on, he won't be missed, ould Fergus, not for a few days. The Munros will think he's just keeping out of the way."

"Which will be what Morgan is counting on. I would imagine he's hoping to be out of here quite quickly." Ferguson stood up. "Let's get moving, we've got dinner to look forward to. It should prove an interesting evening."