‘No guarantees, Inspector.’ Martin leaned back in his chair, arms resting over either wing.
‘Any other names?’ Fox asked.
‘One or two are probably still a bit cracked – living as hermits in the Western Isles and writing anarchist blogs. Most of them probably found that as they got older, they became the sort of person they’d previously despised.’
‘The establishment, in other words?’
‘These were bright people, in the main.’
‘Even the ones scooping up handfuls of anthrax from Gruinard?’
‘Even them,’ Professor Martin said, sounding sleepy from all the wine. ‘It’s all changed now, though, hasn’t it? Nationalism has entered the mainstream. If you ask me, they’ll sweep the next election. A few years from now, we could be living in an independent European democracy. No Queen, no Westminster, no nuclear deterrent. That would have been impossible to predict a scant few years back, never mind quarter of a century.’
‘Pretty much what the SNLA and all the others were fighting for,’ Fox concurred.
‘Pretty much.’
‘Is there anyone I could try talking to about all of this, other than psychiatric patients and hermits?’
‘Do you know John Elliot?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s on TV all the time. News and current affairs.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He merits a mention in my book.’
‘What about Alice Watts?’
‘Who?’
Fox repeated the name, but it was clear Professor Martin had never heard of her. Fox showed him the two matriculation photos anyway. Martin blinked a couple of times, as if trying to focus. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, suddenly animated. ‘It’s good to have a name for her at last.’ He got to his feet quite slowly, but managed to make it to the bookshelves without too much of a detour. Fox went with him, and watched as he plucked out a copy of his own book – No Mere Parcel of Rogues: How Dissent Turned Violent in Post-War Scotland.
‘Catchy title, incidentally,’ Fox commented.
‘A misquote from Burns.’ Martin had opened the book two thirds of the way through, at a section comprising black-and-white photographs. He pointed to one of these. It filled half a page, and looked to Fox like a CND demo.
‘Coulport,’ Martin confirmed. ‘It was the handling and maintenance depot for Polaris warheads. Every week, a nuclear convoy would set out from there on its way by road to the Royal Ordnance factory near Reading.’
‘That’s a fair few hundred miles.’
‘I know – and by road! An accident… a hijacking… It boggles the mind, the risks they took.’
Ten demonstrators had been arrested that particular day: Sunday, 7 April 1985, three weeks before Vernal’s death. Martin’s finger slid to the photo covering the bottom half of the page.
‘Do you see your man?’ he asked.
‘I see him,’ Fox said quietly. This second photo was of a protest outside a police station, inside which, presumably, were the ten ‘martyrs’. One man, older than his neighbours, was at the centre of the shot – Francis Vernal. Next to him, in dungarees and a knitted hat, stood Alice Watts. ‘Who’s that she’s linking arms with?’ Fox asked. He meant not Vernal, but the man to Alice’s left. Tall, with long black hair, a bushy black beard and sunglasses.
‘I wish I knew. What did you say the young lady’s name was?’
‘Alice Watts,’ Fox repeated.
‘Watts…’ Martin broke into a huge smile. ‘Bravo, Inspector – twenty years too late, but bravo anyway.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Another of the code names,’ Martin explained. ‘“Steam”.’ He was still smiling.
‘Steam as in James Watt,’ Fox guessed.
‘And from James Watt to Alice Watts.’
Fox nodded his agreement that it was entirely feasible. ‘Do you still have the notes from the meetings?’ he asked.
‘I only have my notes of their notes – I was shown them; I wasn’t allowed to take them away.’
‘Shown them by a sympathiser?’
‘Quite the opposite, actually. One of the problems with all these splinter groups was that they couldn’t stop splintering. And when factions fell out, it got as messy as any divorce. I was shown records of the meetings so I could see how amateurish the group had become.’
Fox held up a finger to interrupt the professor’s flow. ‘Which particular group are we talking about?’ he asked.
‘The DHC.’
‘Dark Harvest Commando?’
Martin nodded. ‘They were extreme even by extremist standards – the paramilitary wing of the Scottish Citizen Army. You’ve already mentioned the anthrax…’
‘And Alice Watts was a member?’ Fox studied the photograph again.
‘I’d say so, yes.’ Martin paused. ‘Is that important, Inspector?’
‘What if I told you she was also Francis Vernal’s lover? And that she disappeared almost immediately after his death?’
The professor was silent for a moment. He closed the book and pressed it to his chest. ‘I’d say,’ he said softly, ‘that a new edition of my book might be in prospect.’
‘It gets better,’ Fox added. ‘Because as far as I can work out, Alice Watts was never alive in the first place…’
That night, Fox watched TV with the sound muted, and ignored one call from his sister and two from Evelyn Mills. He was wondering what it would be like to live next to a zoo, hearing and smelling the animals without ever seeing them.
And what it would be like to be a student, choosing to live in a small place like Anstruther.
Or work in television news and current affairs.
Or be incarcerated in Carstairs.
Or be suspected of murder.
When the credits rolled, he realised a film had been playing. He couldn’t remember the first thing about it.
Jude had sent him a text: Go see Dad. It’s YOUR turn!
She was right, of course. And it isn’t as if you’ve got anything better to do, Foxy, he told himself.
No Mere Parcel of Rogues… A misquote from Burns, according to Professor Martin. Fox hadn’t studied Burns since his school-days. He reached for his laptop, fount of all knowledge – some of it even dependable. He would look up the line in question. And then maybe he’d also check a couple of names – Donald MacIver; John Elliot.
Bed straight after, he promised himself.
Maybe with the window open an inch or two, allowing in the noises and scents of the night…
Eight
26
Fox woke up early and went to see his father. There was a bench in the garden of Lauder Lodge, and Mitch fancied sitting there, so Fox got him wrapped up, and one of the staff provided a travel rug for his legs. But Mitch drew the line at a hat and scarf.
‘Any more swaddling and I’ll be fit for a pharaoh’s tomb.’
The garden’s high walls gave protection from the North Sea’s gusts. The gardener looked like he’d be
