Silver Fin Page 13

  He took in a long, deep breath of cool air and let it out slowly. Here they were, in the middle of nowhere, free and alone. What could be better? But even as he had this thought he heard a sound, carried from far away on the strong wind, a sound like drumming. He tried to see where it was coming from and finally spotted, far off in the distance, a dark shape moving towards them.

  ‘Look,’ he said, turning to Kelly and pointing.

  Kelly looked. There was a horse and rider, galloping towards them.

  ‘Looks like a girl,’ said Kelly, squinting into the sun and shielding his eyes from the wind. ‘A pretty one at that.’

  ‘You’ve got sharp eyes,’ said James as he eventually made out the girl, her hair streaming behind her.

  ‘I can spot a pretty girl from a hundred miles, mate.’

  In a couple of minutes the horse had arrived, and with a slight jolt of surprise James recognised the rider. It was the girl from the circus, the one with the long blonde hair and the strange green eyes.

  When she drew level, she stopped at the last moment and dismounted, all in one clean, swift movement, like an acrobat.

  James was impressed.

  ‘Hi there,’ said the girl. ‘Out for a walk, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kelly in a mock-posh voice. ‘Taking the morning air, don’t you know.’

  ‘Where’ve you come from?’ she asked, patting her horse’s neck. The great black beast stood there, steaming and snorting, pacing the ground, eager to be off again. ‘I dinnae recognise you.’

  ‘We’re staying in Keithly,’ said James. ‘I’m Max Bond’s nephew, James.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I heard he had a lad staying.’

  ‘And I’m his mate,’ said Kelly. ‘You can call me Red.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ said the girl. ‘I’m Wilder Lawless.’ She stroked her horse’s mane. ‘And this is Martini. Where’re you headed?’

  ‘Oh, we’re just walking,’ said James.

  ‘It’s grand up here. I often ride this way, you feel like you’re Queen of the World. I don’t usually see another soul, that’s why I came over when I saw you. I suppose I’m just naturally nosy.’

  ‘Do you never see anyone?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘Och, now and then. A crofter out looking for sheep, sometimes a group of hikers.’

  ‘D’you know about Alfie Kelly?’ said Red. ‘The boy who’s missing?’

  ‘That I do,’ said the girl. ‘Everyone around here knows about him.’

  ‘He’s me cousin,’ said Kelly, rubbing her horse’s nose.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ said Wilder. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You ever see him up this way?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Wilder thought for a second. ‘A few days before he disappeared, I was riding up here and I did see a lad with a bag on his back, but I was too far away to see much more and I didn’t think anything of it at the time, because it was before he went missing.’

  ‘Did you ever tell anyone?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘I mentioned it to the laird.’

  ‘To Lord Hellebore?’ said James.

  ‘Aye. Because a week or so later I was up this way and I saw Hellebore out with some of his men. They were looking for something. I rode over and spoke to them. It seems they were helping in the search, so I told Lord Randolph what I’d seen and he said he’d make sure the police knew.’

  ‘And did he tell them?’ asked James.

  ‘Och, I don’t know,’ said Wilder with a shrug. ‘I’m sure it was nothing. Now I’d better be off. You enjoy your walk, now.’ She smiled at James. ‘Your friend Red looks like he could do with some fresh air.’

  She put one foot into a stirrup, pulled herself back up on to the saddle, gave a brief wave, dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and thundered away from them, her blonde hair flying out in the wind behind her. Kelly watched her go with a smile.

  ‘She’s a bit of all right,’ he said, and whistled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked James.

  ‘She’s a looker. A pretty girl. Tasty. What d’you think? D’you think she liked me?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know?’ said James.

  ‘I reckon she did. I reckon she was giving me the eye.’

  ‘And I reckon you’re mad,’ said James. ‘Come on, let’s get on.’

  But Kelly was still staring after the girl on her horse.

  ‘Come on!’ James shouted, and at last Kelly reluctantly turned and followed him, but now, instead of moaning about the walk and the countryside and dragging his feet, he was a bundle of energy, almost skipping over the ground and chattering incessantly about Wilder.

  ‘Did you see her legs? Nice long legs, like a horse… and her eyes, did you ever see eyes like that before? Green. Like a witch…’

  And so it went on for the next twenty minutes as they climbed up to the ring of hills that surrounded the loch, then through the gap at Am Bealach Geal, where they got their first view of Loch Silverfin and Caisteal Hellebore at the far end.

  James knew that Scottish castles didn’t often look like the familiar castles you see in picture books; they tended not to have battlements and barbicans and round towers, instead they looked more like large fortified houses, tall and square. Caisteal Hellebore was no different. It was built of dark-grey granite and consisted of two interconnected square blocks, several storeys high. The taller of the two blocks had smaller turrets sticking out at the top of each corner and a very high, sloping roof. The walls were plain and grim, with only a few narrow windows cut into them. In all it looked cold and mean and unwelcoming.

  It had been built on a small island, connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway. At the start of the causeway stood a group of ugly new buildings and a huge, diseased-looking black Scots pine that leant out over the water as if about to fall in.

  From here the two boys also had a good view of Hellebore’s fence, which encircled the lake and the buildings at the far end.

  They set off towards the water, and with each step James grew more uneasy. The sun had passed behind a great bank of thick grey cloud and the day had become chilly and dark. The hills seemed to close in round them now, and he had the strange feeling that he was being watched. Kelly sensed it too, and they became more and more cautious, although they had as much right to be there as anyone.

  When they reached the fence, they realised that it was taller than it had first looked.

  Kelly gazed up at the vicious barbed wire that topped it and whistled. ‘I wouldn’t fancy trying to climb over that,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine Alfie bothering to come all this way and get past this bloody thing, just to go fishing.’

  ‘They’re a funny lot, fishermen,’ said James. ‘They’re not like you and me.’

  ‘Yeah, but still…’

  ‘Come on,’ said James. ‘Maybe there’s a gap in the wire or something. Let’s scout round it and see if there’s anywhere we can get through.’

  So they began to circle clockwise round the fence until they came to where several dead animals had been strung up on the wire.

  ‘Nice,’ said Kelly. ‘Which one do you fancy for your lunch?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said James. ‘I think I’ll stick to my sandwiches.’

  Kelly read the sign. ‘“Keep Out! Private Property.

  Trespassers Will Be Shot.”’ He chuckled. ‘Well, they certainly don’t want anyone nosing around, do they? Maybe we should get back home, eh? This place gives me the willies.’

  ‘Look through here,’ said James, who had gone into the bushes nearby.

  ‘What?’ Kelly followed him in.

  ‘Fresh earth,’ said James, studying the ground. ‘And on the other side of the fence too.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So – it could be that someone dug under the fence, and someone else filled it in.’

  ‘Yeah, or it could be that a fox done it… and, let’s face it, they don’t like animals much round here.’

 
‘Maybe,’ said James.

  ‘Hold up!’ Kelly suddenly hissed and pulled James down to the ground. ‘There’s someone coming.’

  They peered through the shrubbery and saw a large man lumbering round the fence from the other direction.

  ‘Keep absolutely still,’ Kelly whispered. ‘And don’t make a sound.’

  13

  Meatpacker

  James lay on the cold, damp ground and peered out through the dark-green spikes of a gorse bush. At first he couldn’t see anything, but after a few seconds he saw a man’s legs. Had he been following them? Was he one of Lord Hellebore’s estate workers? But then, as he saw more clearly what the man was wearing, James realised that he couldn’t be. It was the man from the circus, the one with the overly Scottish tartan trousers.

  James watched as he wiped his big walrus moustache with the back of his hand, let out a loud puff of air and looked around. He was definitely searching for something, but was he searching for them?

  James wasn’t scared. In fact, he had to stop himself from laughing – if the man had looked out of place among the dull farmers at the circus, he looked even more out of place up here on the high moors. This man was from the city, not the countryside. James tried to picture him strutting along Park Lane in London, or past the smart shops in Regent Street, but even there he’d look wrong. Then James realised what it was – he couldn’t be British. He was Irish, maybe… or perhaps American?

  Yes, that was it. He was the sort of character you saw in American films. James could imagine him getting into a fight with Laurel and Hardy, or even shooting it out with gangsters. Yes. He belonged in a shady waterfront dive, not in the Scottish Highlands.

  He watched as the burly man squatted down and inspected something on the ground. Then he straightened up, pushed back his cap and scratched the top of his bald head, before making a big show of yawning and patting his big belly. Finally he sauntered over to inspect the sign, reading it slowly and deliberately.

  No, he definitely wasn’t an estate worker. But who was he, then, and what was he doing here?

  The man yawned again and glanced briefly towards the bushes where James and Kelly were hiding, then he turned back to the sign.

  ‘OK, come on out,’ he said quietly. ‘I know you’re there.’

  ‘Come and get us!’ Kelly shouted back, and the man laughed.

  ‘Ah now,’ he said casually. ‘I don’t mean no harm.’ His harsh, tough accent was definitely American.

  ‘I’ve got a knife,’ said Kelly, drawing a large penknife out of his pocket.

  ‘And I’ve got a dog named General Grant,’ said the man. ‘But that’s neither here nor there.’

  ‘What you talking about?’ said Kelly.

  ‘Just making conversation,’ the man growled. ‘You won’t be needing a knife.’ He took a cigar out of his pocket, bit the end off it, stuck it between his fat lips and lit it with a safety match. James smelt the tobacco smoke drifting past.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered to Kelly. ‘Let’s talk to him.’

  Kelly sighed and nodded, then the two of them crawled out of the bushes, dusted the dirt and leaves off their clothes and went over to where the big man had sat down on a rock.

  ‘I thought you was kids,’ he said as they drew near. ‘I saw you from the top of the hill. Didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m just naturally cautious by nature.’ He stuck out a large square hand and James shook it.

  Up close, James took the opportunity to study the man more carefully. He’d certainly lived a bit. He had a flattened, fleshy nose, which made his breathing noisy, his left ear was thick with scars, and one of his eyes was red with broken blood vessels. This was a man who’d been in one too many fights. His purple, blotchy skin also suggested that he’d had one too many strong drinks. James could smell whisky on his breath. He was sweating heavily and had to wipe his face every few minutes with a large, spotted handkerchief.

  ‘The name’s Mike Moran,’ he said out of the side of his mouth, which still held the smouldering cigar. ‘Better known as Meatpacker Moran.’

  James and Kelly introduced themselves.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure’ said Meatpacker, and he spat out a flake of tobacco. ‘Been keeping an eye on you two,’ he said, tapping his bloodshot eye. ‘Wondering what you was up to. Then I come down here, and you’ve disappeared. Well, nothing escapes the sharp eye of old Meatpacker. You left a trail, see?’ And with that, Meatpacker led them over to a patch of earth where he proudly pointed out the footprint of a boy.

  ‘Exhibit A,’ he said with a broad smile that exposed a row of stubby, broken, yellow teeth. ‘You should be more careful in future.’

  James stared at the print. He was no expert, but he felt that there was something wrong, and then he realised what it was. The print was dry, baked into the mud, which meant that it couldn’t have been made today. In fact, it must have been made some time ago – when the ground was still soft and damp, before the recent sunny spring weather. He looked more closely. No, it definitely wasn’t the print of his own plimsoll, or one of Kelly’s battered old boots.

  Meatpacker strolled back over to the fence and peered through it towards the loch.

  ‘Lonely spot up here. What are you two fellers up to?’

  ‘Just out for a walk,’ said James, and he signalled to Kelly to look at the print. Kelly squinted at it, but it meant nothing to him and he shrugged.

  Meatpacker wandered into the bushes. ‘What was so interesting in these bushes, I wonder,’ he said.

  ‘Look properly,’ James hissed to Kelly, pointing at the print. ‘It’s not one of ours.’

  Kelly looked and tried to fit his boot into it. It was too big. ‘I think you could be right,’ he whispered, just as Meatpacker came crashing out of the undergrowth in a cloud of reeking cigar smoke.

  ‘Eh?’ he said. ‘Why were you skulking in the shrubbery?’

  ‘We saw you coming and thought we’d better hide,’ said James.

  ‘And just why did you think you might need to do that, eh?’ said Meatpacker, coming very close and glaring into James’s face with his good eye.

  ‘They’re not too keen on strangers up here,’ said James. ‘You’ve seen the fence and the sign.’

  ‘I sure have. Now why d’you think they’d need a fence like that? Right up here, miles from anywhere. Don’t seem natural to me.’

  ‘No,’ said James.

  Meatpacker laughed and slapped James on the back so hard, he nearly knocked him over. ‘Now I expect you’re wondering just who I am, huh?’ he roared. ‘Poking around up here myself.’

  ‘It did cross my mind,’ said Kelly. ‘I mean, you’re not Scotch, are you?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Meatpacker, puffing out his chest. ‘I’m a New York man. Bronx born and bred, one of the fighting Irish.’

  ‘There you go,’ said Kelly, grinning. ‘My family’s from Galway.’

  Meatpacker startled Kelly by giving him a big bear hug. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it’s always nice to meet one of your own. Me grandaddy was from Shannon.’

  ‘How about a drink, Mister Meatpacker?’ said Kelly, producing the last bottle of beer from his paper bag.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Meatpacker, and he snatched the bottle, jammed it in his mouth, prised the top off with his yellow teeth and spat it out. He then took a deep breath, tipped the bottle up and drained it in one long gulp. Satisfied, he smacked his lips and let out a long, contented belch.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said.

  ‘So, are you going to tell us, then? said Kelly. ‘What you’re doing up here?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say too much, but as you’re one of me own, I’ll tell you a little. I don’t see as it can do any harm. I’m a detective. From the Pinkerton Detective Agency in America.’

  ‘“We never sleep!”’ said James.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘That’s your motto, isn’t it? “We Never Sleep.” I’ve read about Pinkerton’s.’


  ‘That’s right,’ said Meatpacker. ‘“We Never Sleep.”’

  ‘And are you on a case right now?’

  ‘Now you’ll keep this between yourselves, won’t you? As it happens, I’m investigating the nabob who owns this fence and everything behind it.’

  ‘Lord Hellebore?’ said James.

  ‘That’s your man. I expect you know, he used to live in the United States.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had a brother, Algar, good-looking feller by all accounts, your original man-about-town. He was the golden boy, set to inherit the earth, but then one day old Algar disappears. Now the reason we know this is because Randolph’s wife, Maude, comes to us. Seems that one time she had been keen on both brothers, and couldn’t choose between the two of them. Algar was her favourite, but Randolph was more persistent, and he wears her down and wears her down until she agrees to marry him and forget about the brother. But she’s always been sweet on Algar, and now he’s disappeared. She asks a lot of questions, but is given the brush-off by Randolph. In fact, Randolph dumps her altogether. Cooks up some story about her seeing another man and gets a divorce.

  ‘Maude’s not the quitting type, though. She wants to know what happened to Algar, so she comes to us and we starts nosing around, but it’s tough. The guy runs a very tight ship. All very secret. Nobody really knows exactly what he’s up to.’ Meatpacker dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Except me…’

  ‘What?’ James leant in closer.

  Meatpacker tapped his rubbery nose and winked his bleary, red eye. ‘I’ll tell you what he’s up to… He’s up to no good!’ He tilted back his great fat head and roared with laughter.

  Once he’d got over his joke, he carried on with his story. ‘Soon afterwards, Randolph ups stakes and steams across the ocean blue to Bonnie Scotland. Now, why do you suppose he did that?’