In the lower bunk, duvet kicked off, Phil was burning up, twisting and coughing in his sleep. Susie felt his forehead and the backs of her fingers came away sticky. Anxious now, she checked on Kenny in the top berth, pyjamas soaked with sweat, breath rasping. Both boys were really sick, no doubt about it.
The door was pushed open and Susie's mother peered in, hairnet over bulging curlers like an alien's headgear.
'It's mumps!' Susie whispered, distraught. 'Look at their throats…'
Don Walker found the tell-tale signs at first light, and shouted Dillon over to have a look. The two village kids had been taken into police custody, and now it was back to the more serious business – the business they were being paid for – protecting the salmon tanks. It was at the northern end of the compound, sixty yards or so from the fence, where the lane branched off into a rough moorland track. Thick hedgerows of thorn and thistles stretched away, clumps of juniper bushes dotted about.
Squatting on his haunches, Don pointed out the tracks to Dillon and Cliff. 'They've been here all right – look, tyre treads, five fag ends. There was two of 'em, and it wasn't the kids, they came in a van.' He prodded the soft churned earth with his finger and looked meaningfully at Dillon. 'These are scrambler bike tracks.'
Dillon walked a little way up the lane, surveying the general area, and came back. 'Cliff, you and Don start cutting this hedge back, it's too good a hiding place…'
'What about Steve?' Cliff interrupted, dark face a bit haggard from lack of sleep. 'He's always pissed, Frank, we want him off our backs.' He jabbed his thumb into his chest. 'We're doin' all the work!'
Dillon nodded wearily. 'I'll talk to him.'
'Hey! Frank!'
'Kick the waster out – why should we split our dough!' Cliff grumbled.
Dillon made an impatient swipe to shut him up as Jimmy drove up in the jeep, slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. Christ, Dillon thought, somebody else with a grouse. Jimmy leapt out, eyes blazing.
'I just caught that bastard Malone red-handed! All that gear I got, the sod's been paid more'n five hundred quid. And two hundred for the radio!' Jimmy leaned nearer, fist up, voice getting throaty. 'I tell you, Frank – you don't take him, when the lads hear about this, you'll have to fight 'em off.'
Dillon closed his eyes, just for a second, to keep his sanity. Knowing Malone for the devious bastard he was, he sussed out what must have happened. Malone had been giving Griffiths some bullshit about how he'd organised the operation, got the radio and the latest sophisticated weapons, smooth-talked him that he was masterminding the whole show. The estate manager had swallowed the story, and forked out seven hundred to defray Malone's out-of-pocket expenses. Only Malone hadn't paid a red cent for the gear – Jimmy had, or Jimmy had made deals – didn't matter how they had come by the gear, the point was they had done it without Malone.
Somehow Jimmy had caught Malone bragging that he had pulled it all in, dogs, flares, radios, weapons, and the piece of shit was collecting a rake-off on the sly, as usual crapping on his mates from a great height. Dillon couldn't even pretend he was surprised: par for the course.
He said, 'You catch him at it up at the office then?'
'Yeah!' Jimmy was totally fired up. Reaching into the back of the jeep, he grabbed a pair of shears, snapped them under Dillon's nose. 'I'll cut his balls off!'
Half-an-hour later, when they returned to the compound, Malone hailed them. Dillon sniffed more trouble. A police car was parked outside the wooden office building, and over by the tanks Griffiths was talking with two uniformed officers and doing a lot of gesticulating.
'What's going down?' asked Dillon as Malone strode up, looking thunderous.
'That bloody wimp Griffiths, he's shittin' in his pants -' Malone's black brows met in the middle as he glared towards the tanks. 'He wants all the weapons in his office… the kids reported us to the cops.'
Still boiling about the money, Jimmy snapped at him, 'That was down to you, Malone!'
'I'm doin' my job,' Malone rasped through his teeth, and Dillon half-expected him to stick one on Jimmy. 'You don't like the action, you know what -'
Jimmy cut his short. 'Gettin' well-paid for it, are you!' – his voice like a whipcrack, and Dillon had to act fast. He had the jeep in first, spun the wheel and shot off even before Malone could bunch a fist.
Griffiths was standing by the desk, talking on the phone, when Dillon walked in. Dillon hesitated, but Griffiths gestured him in, a casual twitch of the wrist, nodding and saying, 'Thanks… fine, and I'll see you first thing in the morning. 'Bye.'
He put the phone down and blew out a satisfied gust of air, smacking his palms lightly together. 'That's a relief! They've bought the entire stock…'
His pleased expression wilted into one of consternation, even alarm. Dillon had dumped a large canvas holdall on the desk and was taking out a small armoury of handguns, rifles, night sights, ammo, CN canisters, commando knives in leather sheaths.
'Good God! Any of you hold licences for these?' He held up his hand. 'Second thoughts – don't answer.'
'You mind if I give you some advice?' asked Dillon, watching as Griffiths stacked the weapons in a cupboard with a heavy padlock. 'Get shot of Malone. You've got a good man in young Don, he knows the land and he's got military training for security. Give him Malone's job and hire a few of the locals on a permanent basis. Pay them enough so they won't have to poach. Lot of unemployment up here.'
Griffiths shut the cupboard and secured the padlock. Straightening up, he glanced guardedly at Dillon through his fair eyelashes. 'Not as easy as you think.' He hesitated, then went on in his educated drawl, 'Most keepers, you know, supplement their wages. So I give the butcher a few rabbits and he gives me a steak, eggs and so on…'
Dillon waited, knowing there was more to come as Griffiths went over to the window and looked out at the wooded hillside, pulling at the lobe of his ear.
'Sometimes during the pheasant shooting season a couple of the protected birds get clobbered. I mount them and sell them off in Edinburgh. Malone brought me a couple of falcons, said he'd found them after the shoot, and we split the profits. It's illegal, and I obviously knew to start with he wasn't simply finding them…' He gave a slight shrug, cleared his throat. 'Now? Well, I'm in a Catch-22 situation. If he goes to the landowner, that's me out of a job and a cottage, so I doubt I could get him to leave without a hell of a fight.'
Dillon nodded, getting the picture, and smoothed his fingertips along the line of his scar. 'There's one on the cards, sir,' he said almost inaudibly.
Griffiths looked over his shoulder, and he got the picture too, seeing the dark, threatening shadow in Dillon's eyes. Maybe there was a way they could each do the other some good.
He turned then, and said softly, 'You get Malone out of here and I'll see it to it you get a bonus on top of your wages, and Don will take over… Deal?'