The conversation carried on, then she heard her own name mentioned.
‘You told me he’s got a bee in his bonnet about Hanlon. He’s sure she’s onto what’s happening. He’s pretty desperate.’
‘He’ being Big Jim, she guessed.
‘Relax, Murdo, ye’re like an auld woman.’
‘Two deaths, Kai, that’s not good. I don’t want a third. Hanlon is police. It could ruin everything.’
Oh, yes, Murdo, she thought, you’re so right, not in the way that you meant, but I am going to ruin everything.
‘Look, I’m onto it. Nae bother.’
‘OK, but keep an eye on Big Jim. He’s an unpredictable alcoholic. He may not even know what he’s doing half the time. He’s a loose cannon.’
‘I’ll be here Thursday afternoon, 4 p.m., Murdo. It’s my day off. I’ll have everything you need. Then we’ll both be happy.’
‘Good, when I go, I’ll put the key where you can find it. I’ll leave it next to the water butt.’
‘Sure.’
‘Oh, and Kai?’
‘Yes, Murdo.’
‘Don’t fuck up, OK.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t fuck up.’
Oh, but you have, Kai, Hanlon thought as, silent as a ghost, she made her way back to the burn. You have.
She slipped back into the gully and headed northward, watched by the buzzard high in the sky and the implacable, silent bulk of the mountain.
15
Filthy, muddy and wet, Hanlon jogged back to the hotel along the main road. Her mind was racing. So there it was, definitive proof that Murdo Campbell was engaged in drug smuggling with Kai McPherson. Three kilos. By the sound of it, Big Jim was also involved. And he disliked her intensely. Good, she thought. She was delighted. The feeling was entirely mutual.
She ran on. What to do with her new-found information? Go to the police? Campbell was the police. Her word against his. Hanlon, an officer suspended from duty and under investigation from the IOPC; Campbell, a respected and upstanding young officer. Who would be believed? They’d think it was some crazy plan dreamed up by a disgraced detective to try and salvage an unsalvageable career.
Hanlon’s excellent memory kicked in as she gracefully leaped over a puddle.
She remembered verbatim what her psychologist had said about her relationship with her colleagues.
‘Your colleagues have as well. Complained about you… Bit unusual, isn’t it? You normally close ranks. When it’s the police worrying about police violence, surely alarm bells should be ringing in your head.’
Whatever she did wouldn’t be right. She had to get someone else to act. She herself was hopelessly compromised.
Tainted.
As she rounded a corner, she saw an old Land Rover driving towards her. It slowed down and stopped, blocking the road, its engine idling.
When she got closer she saw that its driver was Big Jim. She hadn’t spoken to him since their first meeting; she had seen him in the hotel, here and there. He sat immobile behind the wheel, staring at her, a massive figure in the cab of the vehicle, his powerful forearms with their faded tattoos grasping the wheel. She could well believe that he’d knocked a drunken fisherman out – he had the build for it, as well as the attitude. As she approached he wound the window down.
‘Morning,’ he said, faux friendly.
She slowed and walked up to the window. She wrinkled her nose; she could smell the whisky from here.
Campbell’s words.
‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet about Hanlon. He’s sure she’s onto what’s happening. He’s pretty desperate.’
Be careful, she warned herself. Big Jim might be old and out of shape, but he was formidable. Today he was dressed in working clothes: check shirt, old padded gilet. His silvery stubble – he hadn’t shaved – contrasted with his red face, making it even more scarlet. His eyes looked at her, slightly out of focus.
‘Good morning,’ Hanlon said. He looked at her blankly. She had her mobile on her, and she toyed with the idea of calling the police, reporting him for drink driving, then gave up on the idea. The chances of there being a policeman on Jura (excluding DI Campbell, just up the road with his drug-dealer friend) at this precise moment were slim, unless McCleod was working from home, and Hanlon doubted that she would have a breathalyser on her.
‘Have you been drinking?’ would have been an utterly pointless question. He obviously had. He reeked of booze. But he would hardly have said, ‘Well, now you mention it…’ Hanlon reached a decision. She was not going to allow him to carry on driving in his current state. She didn’t care if he killed himself, but there were others to think of, even though the only people around were probably a woman-beating drug dealer, a corrupt policeman and a few sheep.
‘You know you’ve got a flat tyre?’ Hanlon said, innocuously.
‘A flat tyre?’ Big Jim ran the two words into one. ‘Ffflatire?’
‘Yes.’
He frowned, trying to process the information through the fog of alcohol.
‘Have I bollocks,’ he finally said.
‘Get out and see,’ Hanlon said.
He did so, getting out of the Land Rover stiffly, leaving the engine running and the door open. To Hanlon’s incredulity, he reached inside his gilet and took out a flat quarter-bottle of The Famous Grouse whisky, unscrewed the top, took a couple of swigs before replacing the cap and putting it back carefully in his inside pocket.
He really doesn’t give a fuck, does he? she thought.
She pointed towards the nearside rear of the vehicle.
‘Rear one.’
He didn’t speak but walked round the Land-Rover.
‘There’s nothing…’
Hanlon had taken the opportunity. As he started to walk round the vehicle, shaking his head and grumbling, disappearing round the back, she put one foot on the metal step of the vehicle, and lightly jumped inside. Hardly daring to breathe, she checked the side mirror; Big Jim crouched down staring in perplexity at the wheel. She put the vehicle in gear and stamped hard on the pedal, accelerating away down the road, the driver’s door flapping as she did so. She
