‘He died.’
‘I know.’
‘A martyr to the cause.’
‘You really think so?’
‘When Francis spoke, he could make kings or topple them.’
‘You knew him pretty well, then?’
‘He was that rarest of creatures – a thinker who could do. A man who didn’t just talk about things but worked to make them happen.’
‘He was pretty active,’ Fox seemed to agree.
‘Which was why he had to die.’
‘You think he was targeted?’
‘The man was shot at point-blank range. No more than four weeks later, they came for me. They’d been busy in the interim – planting evidence in my basement. All very impressive when they kicked the door down and came in dressed in their radiation suits. I was wearing pink striped pyjamas.’ He was enunciating with care. What teeth Fox could see were blackened and uneven. ‘Wouldn’t even let me get dressed. And they knew exactly where to look for their “evidence”.’
‘You went to prison at first.’
‘Aye, but that wasn’t enough for them. They could see I was prospering there, talking to the men, opening their eyes to the tyranny.’
‘You got in a fight with another inmate…’
‘He was paid for his efforts. That’s the only explanation as to why I was the one punished! Solitary, then Barlinnie, then Peterhead …’
‘More violence?’
‘More goading and intimidation,’ MacIver corrected him. ‘More of everything that might break the spirit and drive a man towards the madhouse.’ He wagged a finger at Fox. ‘But I’m as sane as you are – take that news with you when you go.’
Fox nodded, as though in agreement. ‘So what did Francis Vernal do exactly? Within the organisation, I mean?’
‘Francis was our one-man brains trust. Lot of hot heads that needed cooling – he was the man for the job.’
‘He looked after the finances too, didn’t he?’
‘He was useful in many ways.’
‘The money came from hold-ups and robberies,’ Fox persisted. ‘You used it to buy guns and explosives?’
‘A necessary evil.’
‘Did Mr Vernal keep any guns in his car?’
MacIver blinked a few times, as though waking from a nap. ‘What are you doing here? Why all these questions?’ He looked down at the newspaper as if he had never laid eyes on it before. ‘Burns said it best, you know: bought and sold for English gold.’ He stabbed a finger against the artist’s impression of the new bridge. ‘That’s what you’re seeing here.’
‘A parcel of rogues in a nation,’ Fox said, finishing the quote while reaching into his pocket. He had the photo from Professor Martin’s book, the one of Vernal with Alice Watts and Hawkeye. He placed it on top of the newspaper, along with the two matriculation photographs of Alice.
‘Francis,’ MacIver said, rubbing his thumb across Vernal’s face. ‘And Alice.’ His eyes widened and he lifted one of the snaps, holding it up and studying it.
‘Any idea what happened to her?’ Fox asked.
The old man shook his head. He was stroking his beard with his free hand. He seemed transfixed by the picture. ‘Youth, energy, beauty – everything a movement needs.’
‘She was sleeping with Vernal.’
‘Alice had many admirers.’
‘Including yourself? Did you ever hear from her afterwards?’
‘She did the right thing. They assassinated Francis and then came for me. Alice went underground.’
‘And Hawkeye?’ Fox leaned forward a little to tap the photograph. Hawkeye arm in arm with Alice.
‘Still out there, I dare say. Somewhere in the world where there’s a cause worth fighting for.’
‘Did you know his real name?’
‘He was always Hawkeye.’
‘Does no one from the old days keep in touch?’
‘Why would anyone want to come see me? I’ve nothing to offer.’
‘I spoke with John Elliot recently. He’s not exactly gone underground, has he?’
‘I’ve seen him on the television.’
‘He’s never visited?’
MacIver shook his head.
‘That photograph’s from a book,’ Fox went on. ‘It was written by an academic called John Martin.’
‘Like the singer?’
‘Different spelling. He asked to speak to you and you turned him down.’
‘Did I?’
‘That’s what he says.’
MacIver shrugged. ‘I don’t remember him.’
Fox thought for a moment. ‘Does the name Gavin Willis mean anything to you?’
‘Gavin Willis?’ MacIver rolled the words around his mouth. ‘Gallowhill Cottage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Beautiful spot. Somewhere over in Fife…’
‘Near Burntisland. Gavin was a policeman when you knew him.’ MacIver nodded. ‘And a sympathiser?’ Fox paused. ‘More than a sympathiser?’
‘Never an active member.’
‘He got guns for you, though, didn’t he? Maybe kept them at the cottage until you needed them. And I suppose he could get rid of them for you too, when occasion demanded.’ After a bank job, say: who was going to notice an extra handgun going into the furnace? Evidence destroyed… ‘Gavin held on to Francis Vernal’s car, Mr MacIver. Why would he do that?’
‘Clever man,’ MacIver said quietly. ‘I always wondered…’
‘Wondered what?’
‘Whether anyone found the money.’
‘The money from the armed robberies? A few thousand, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what they said. They didn’t want the public to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘We were good at what we did. We sent anthrax to the highest in the land, razed government buildings, held up banks and armoured cars …’ He smiled at the memory. ‘We were several hundred strong, and I’m the only one they ever locked up.’
‘How much money was in the car, Mr MacIver?’
‘Thirty or forty thousand.’ MacIver paused to think. ‘More or less.’
‘Did he keep it in the boot?’
MacIver nodded. ‘Below the spare tyre.’
Fox remembered Tony Kaye crowbarring open the boot and lifting the perished tyre – nothing underneath.
‘You’re sure about that figure? Thirty or forty?’
‘A lot of money back then.’
Fox nodded in agreement, recalling the price of an Edinburgh flat in 1985 -thirty-five thousand. Was it money worth killing for? Of course it was; people had died for far less.
‘There are bombs going off right now in Scotland,’ he told MacIver. ‘You think the bombers are
