“Don’t,” Reeve warned him.
Creech got back some mobility and went over to the boat, picking up his paintbrush. He’d left it lying on the edge of the newspaper, and some paint had dribbled onto the floor. He wiped the spot with his rag, but that just spread the stain farther.
“I’m painting this boat,” he said.
“I’d never have guessed.” Reeve paused. “But that’s the boat I want.”
Creech glanced towards him. “Now?” Reeve nodded. “Can’t it wait till I’m finished?”
“Do I look like a man who can wait?”
“No.” The word took a long time coming out. “But you surely don’t want to take a boat out at night?” Creech paused. “No wait, of course you do. There’s less chance of them spotting you at night.”
“Well done, Kenneth. How many police are there?”
Creech considered lying, but looked at the money again, the money Reeve was still holding in his hand.
“There’s more where this came from,” Reeve told him.
Creech wet his already glistening lips. “Well, there’s nobody in Mallaig,” he said, “but I’ve heard tell there are a couple of strange faces on Skye.”
“Anywhere else?”
“Oh, aye, they were in Oban yesterday.”
“And Tarbert?”
“I couldn’t tell you about Tarbert.”
“And on South Uist?”
“Well, they’ve been to your house a couple of times, that much I’ve heard. You’re big news around here, Gordon.”
“I didn’t do anything, Kenneth.”
“I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it, but the police used to have a saying in Glasgow: you don’t arrest an innocent man. If they take you in, they’ll try their damnedest to find something against you, even if it means planting the evidence.”
Reeve smiled. “You sound like you’ve been there.”
“I was in trouble enough in my early days. I’m from Partick, remember. One look at my face-I know it’s no beauty-and the polis would stop me.” Creech spat into the water.
“You’ll help me?”
Creech considered the question. The tension left his shoulders. “Ach, maybe I’m too sentimental for my own good,” he said. “Of course I’ll help you.”
And he held out his hand for the cash.
Reeve helped him move the boat back over the water and lower it in, so that its side scraped that of the larger vessel, leaving smears of paint on the wood. Creech went to check that the boathouse doors were locked. When Creech returned, Reeve was standing at the workbench, his back to him. Creech licked his lips again and moved forward quietly. When Reeve turned, Creech let out an involuntary gasp. Reeve was holding the biggest knife Creech had ever seen. He had it in his right hand, a coil of Creech’s best rope in the other.
“What… what are you going to do?” Creech said.
Reeve showed him. He sliced through the thick braids like they were string, then let the long part of the rope fall to the floor. “I’m going to tie you up,” he told Creech.
“No need for that, Gordon. I’ll come with you.”
“And you’d wait in the boat for me? You wouldn’t for example sprint off the minute I was on dry land and head for the nearest mainland telephone?”
“No,” Creech said. “You know I wouldn’t.”
But Reeve was shaking his head. “This way we both know where we stand. Or in your case, sit.”
And he made Creech sit on the floor with his back to the workbench, tying his hands behind him around one thick wooden leg of the structure. For good measure, he cut another length of rope-“That stuff costs a fortune,” Creech protested-and tied Creech’s ankles. He thought of sticking the paint rag in Creech’s mouth, but he wanted to restrain the man, nothing more. He doubted anyone would come to see Creech during his absence. Creech had no friends, no one who’d miss him; he spent most of his time in the boathouse, and had even put up a partition so he could sleep there, too. Reeve glanced into the “bedroom” to make sure there was no telephone. He’d seen no cables outside, but it was best to check. All he saw was a mattress and duvet on the floor, a candlestick, an empty whiskey bottle, and a pornographic magazine.
Satisfied, he brought his bag in from the car and got to work, changing into dark clothes and balaclava, donning face-blacking. Creech’s face told him he had achieved the right effect. There was a good-sized moon in a clear sky. He wouldn’t have any trouble navigating; he knew the islands and the potential obstacles pretty well. He had a choice of two routes: one would take him into the Sound of Eriskay so he could approach the western side of South Uist. The advantage of this route was that he’d have a shorter hike at the end of it, two or so miles, but it meant a lot more time spent in the boat than the second route, which would land him in Loch Eynort, a seawater loch. This way he would land farther away from Stoneybridge, maybe as much as a six-mile hike away. It made for a longer time on land, more time for him to be spotted. Plus, of course, if forced to retreat, he’d have a lot farther to run to reach the safety of the boat.
He decided in the end to head for Loch Eynort. If all went well it would cut hours off the mission time, being a much shorter boat crossing. He still doubted he’d complete his mission under the cover of darkness, but the sooner he started the better chance he’d have. He loaded spare fuel into the boat, and took one of Creech’s better sets of rain gear, plus a flashlight and mooring rope. Then he cut himself a length of twine, and tied about a dozen knots in it, each one a couple of inches from its neighbor.
Finally he went back over to Creech, who’d been complaining throughout about aching arms. “I could always amputate,” he said, showing Creech the knife. That shut him up. “What’s the water in the Minch likely to be like tonight?”
“Cold and wet.” Reeve inched the knife closer to Creech, who gave in quickly and told Reeve the prevailing winds and the forecast: it would be blustery, but far from unmanageable. Of course, he could have been lying, but Reeve didn’t think so-it was in his interests for Reeve to return. For one thing, he might starve to death otherwise, since chances were nobody came near the boathouse from one week to the next. For another, he loved his boats too much. He wouldn’t want one tipped and sunk in a gale, especially not the one with the expensive European Community outboard motor.
“Take care of her,” Creech begged.
“Thanks for your concern,” Reeve said, climbing down the ladder into the boat.
The crossing was worse than he’d anticipated, but that was typical of Little Minch: you thought it had done its worst, then it did a little more. He was glad he didn’t have to tackle the sounds; Eriskay could be particularly hair-raising. He wondered no amusement park had sought to emulate it-talk about a white-knuckle ride. His own knuckles were quite white enough as he wrestled with the outboard. The only good news was that it wasn’t raining. Still, he was glad he was wearing the rain gear, considering the amount of spray that was being washed over him. He kept close to the Skye coast for as long as he could before heading out into Little Minch proper. He was taking as direct a line as he could, hoping he would hit the coast in the right place. The way the wind was blowing, and without much in the way of navigation save his small compass, he knew he might be blown off course by as much as three or four miles, which would only add to the trek if he decided to land the boat.
He saw a couple of boats, warning lights flashing to let others know they were there, but they didn’t see him, and they certainly couldn’t hear him. He changed hands often on the outboard’s throttle, but even so wished he’d thought to bring gloves. He used his breath to warm his fingers, then worked them in the raincoat’s pocket, rubbing life back into them.
His mind was on nothing but the crossing itself. He couldn’t afford not to concentrate his full attention on it.