'He's the one with the price on his head, sir?' Dillon said, handing the glasses back.
Griffiths pursed his lips. 'Word certainly travels fast… some bloody taxidermist in Edinburgh,' he muttered darkly. 'He's very rare, and with antlers that size, a fair trophy. But he's worth a lot more than five thousand for stud.'
They drove on, Dillon glancing back. Five grand standing up there on the hill. He stroked his moustache, frowning thoughtfully.
Next stop on the itinerary was the main event, and it was clear from the boyish enthusiasm in Griffiths ' voice that the salmon tanks were his pride and joy. Enclosed in a compound of chain-link fencing topped with razor-wire, the three huge steel tanks, lined with polythene sheeting, were teeming with full-grown salmon, silver bodies flashing and tumbling in their thousands. To Dillon and the others the sight was mesmerising, almost hypnotic. They stood on a wooden gangway while Griffiths gave them the low-down.
'These are the big 'uns, the ones the poachers go for. We lost the entire stock last year, more than fifty thousand pounds' worth.' Griffiths shook his head. 'Can't afford to lose out this year.'
'How did they do it?' Dillon was curious to know.
'Very simply – Hoover them up! They move fast, and with that machine it doesn't take long…'
Cliff's jaw dropped. 'Did he say Hoover ?'
'You have any guard dogs?' Dillon asked, looking around.
'They were shot with a.22 rifle in '89. Bastards used Cymas that year; they also took the stock from the other tanks, so we were wiped out… fish and financially,' he added gloomily.
Dillon jumped down and Griffiths followed him over to the edge of the compound, the two of them looking out at the banks of heather stretching away to the stony ridge. Casting his military eye over it, Dillon was less than happy. 'You're wide open,' he said, rubbing his chin.
Griffiths spread his hands. 'To electrify the fences would be astronomical…'
Don Walker strolled up and offered an opinion. 'The one plus – if you can call it a plus – is that these men are professionals and dealing in bulk, so they need big trucks, not only to take the fish away, but to freeze it.'
'I think Malone's right,' Griffiths said. 'Best protection has to be manpower. That's why I got you chaps up here.'
Spoken like an officer, Dillon thought, which was what Griffiths was, in effect, certainly of the officer class.
The estate manager went off somewhere. Don had his field glasses out, checking the terrain. The other lads were messing about, joking and laughing, and Don waved them over, obviously excited about something.
'There he is, see him?' Don handed the glasses to Jimmy, pointing, chuffed as a schoolboy. 'Just on that ridge!'
'Oh yesssss…' The word hissed through Jimmy's grinning mouth. 'A fair set of coat hangers.'
Dillon said, 'Where's the nearest Para base to here, Jimmy?'
Jimmy turned to Dillon with a sly wink.
'This taxidermist on the level, is he? We heard last night he's got three grand on his head.'
Don grabbed the glasses off him. 'You touch him and I'll mount your fucking' head,' he promised, and stumped off.
'Nature boy's a bit touchy about the hatstand, isn't he?' Jimmy shrugged, raising an eyebrow.
Dillon said, 'Let's get the security sorted first.' He gave Jimmy a deadpan stare. 'And it's not three, it's five grand.'
'Five?' Jimmy looked towards the ridge and quickly back at Dillon. 'Thousand? Five?'
They both turned to contemplate the ridge for a moment, and then each other. A low growl of laughter came up from Jimmy's chest and he punched Dillon on the shoulder.
Steve Harris was having one of his filter problems. Leaning against the jeep, face puce, coughing and spluttering, thumping himself. Dillon went over as he was getting his breath back.
'All right, mate?' Steve nodded, sweat glistening on his brow. Dillon fished out a list and gave it to him. 'Okay, I want you to go into the village, get some stores.'
Dillon had intended to hand over the list to Griffiths, but seeing Steve in trouble he decided he would get him out of the way. 'Get yourself rested up, check your filter, okay mate?… Steve?'
Steve nodded. At that moment Jimmy walked past, he gave Steve an icy stare. 'Ruddy liability, I told you not to bring him!'
Dillon glared at Jimmy, then patted Steve's shoulder. 'Pay no attention.'
Steve stuffed the list into his top pocket, and climbed back into the jeep. His breath rattled, a hoarse sound in his chest and he couldn't look at Dillon, knowing he was already making excuses for him. He hated it. He started the engine, released the handbrake.
'Take your time, get back when you're done…'
Steve nodded, the errand boy, the waster, the liability. He looked back at Dillon, but he was already walking away, so Steve headed into the village. The simple errand of getting the stores, the packs of beer, the food for the camp was an effort. He had to write everything down and pass the note to the shop owners, and, already feeling depressed, he became worse. He needed a drink, needed something, anything, to give him the confidence to face them.
Hearing the jeep crunching over the gravel, Sissy MacFarland nipped out from behind the reception desk and skipped through the doors and down the steps.
'Mr Harris, can I talk to you for a minute?'
Steve nodded, giving her a shy smile. He gulped down some air and brought up a burp: 'Yeah! Sure!'
Sissy looked startled. He was polite all right, and very good-looking too, but she hoped he wasn't drunk at this early hour.
Steve pointed to his throat, swathed in the loose silken scarf, and said in a slow croak so that she understood, 'I just had – my tonsils – out.'
'Oh! I'm sorry.' Sissy smiled, dimples in her cheeks. 'I was wondering when your friends would be back. I really need to talk to them…' She bit her lip, and went on anxiously, 'There's two local boys going to get themselves hurt – this Malone could even kill them. They're going for him tonight.'
Steve's mouth opened, worked soundlessly. The poor boy's throat must hurt terribly, she thought, because he then scribbled something down on the back of the list and handed it to her. Sissy read it and quickly shook her head, dark curls bounding against her pale neck -'Och no! It's not Malone they're after… It's the stag.'
Steve felt better, he'd put a few pints down, and now he had something to do. It was important, he had to warn the lads about the poachers. He took a heavy swig from a bottle of scotch, and then turned the jeep round to head back to the camp.
Dillon tensed up, listening again for what had sounded like somebody or something disturbing the bracken a few yards away from the hide. Wearing his one-piece DPM combat suit with hood, lying full-length on a bed of straw, he peered through the six-inch gap, trying to discern a distinct shape in the darkness. Not a bloody sausage. Then a low whistle, and Dillon relaxed as Jimmy slithered in, teeth white against his blacked-up face. He crawled between Dillon and Harry, cradling what looked like a brand-new weapon. Dillon stared more closely. An L42 sniper rifle fitted with an IWS night sight.
'I dunno how you do it!' Dillon marvelled, envy in his voice.
'It's all down to contacts,' Jimmy bragged, chuckling.
'That prat Steve come back with the nosh?' Harry grumbled. 'I'm starvin'!'
Dillon reached for the headset as the radio emitted a couple of snaps and crackles. He twisted a dial, boosted the power with the slide control, listening intently for Cliff.
'You know what we should do?' Jimmy ruminated, lovingly running a lightly-oiled rag over the L42. 'Entice him down onto low ground… they like apples. We get him as near to the truck as possible – give ourselves a hernia if we try and lift his carcass, and -' he squinted through the night sight, crooked his finger alongside the trigger. 'Pow!'