The jeep juddered over a cattle grid, and the countryside became more cultivated, with sweeping lawns, groves of trees, and carefully tended flowerbeds. Harry Travers waved them down as they came up the drive and hopped on the running-board, directing them to take a side road leading to the stables and outhouses.
'You know who's in charge, do you, Frank?' Harry looked down, broad florid face and ginger moustache, wide-set piercing blue eyes fixed on Dillon. 'Old friend of yours. Malone.'
Malone. Dillon shot a venomous look at Harry, suspecting that the big man was winding him up. But Harry wasn't smiling.
'He's been in civvies for four years now.'
It was five since Dillon had seen him last. The night Hennessey's Bar went up, and the yellow bastard had run off, left the injured and dying behind, including his own comrades, in that hellish inferno.
Jimmy stopped the jeep outside the stable block. Don Walker, bandanna around his head, was in the paddock, feeding an apple to a beautiful chestnut mare. Don nuzzled the horse's soft nose, whispered to it and at the same time he clocked the lads' arrival, but he made no effort to cross over or even welcome them. He found it difficult to interact with anyone, even his own kind, his shyness and his inability to form personal relationships made him a loner. It was only with the animals that he felt at peace, felt the anger inside fade. Dillon was about to stroll over when a tall black-haired figure, dressed in an old Denison smock, emerged from one of the outhouses into the sunlight. Malone started towards the jeep, and then halted mid-stride, took a pace back as he saw Dillon. The two men locked eyes, the mutual hatred passing between them like a electrical charge.
'Well, well,' Malone said, getting a sneer into his voice, 'finding it tough in Civvy Street, are we, Frank?' Face stiff, black eyes sweeping coldly from Dillon to take in the others. 'Any aggro from any of you and you're on your way, understand?'
'Malone? Can I have a word?'
The estate manager, John Griffiths, appeared at the office door and beckoned him over. A tall, slender, fair-haired man with a beaked nose and receding chin, he had public school written all over him, and sounded it too, a drawling, negligent tone as if all the world was at his beck and call, which of course it was. Jodhpurs tucked into green Wellington boots, thick polo-neck sweater, heavily darned, with leather patches on the sleeves, he was fashionably scruffy in the approved upper-class manner, and played the part to perfection.
'You think they'll be enough? Sure they can handle it?' asked Griffiths, nodding to the group clustered round the jeep.
'The dark-haired guy's an ex-sergeant, explosives expert,' Malone said, indicating Dillon. 'We were in the same Regiment. The other four are good, steady soldiers.'
'Yes, well, this isn't exactly a war, Malone,' Griffiths retorted, a trifle testily.
Malone grinned at him insolently, not bothering to hide his distaste. He turned his head to look at Dillon, muttering under his breath, 'Wanna bet?'
Griffiths took Dillon and the others on a tour of the estate, pointing out the lie of the land, and where he felt they were most vulnerable to the poaching gangs. The scenery was breathtaking, but after seeing Malone Dillon wasn't in the mood to have his breath taken. Had he known the score, he wouldn't have accepted the job in the first place. He sat beside Griffiths in an open-topped Land Rover, the rest following on in the jeep, and tried to show polite interest, though his heart wasn't in it.
'Malone tells me you were in the same Regiment.'
'Yes, sir.' Dillon stared straight ahead. 'Then he quit, went over to the RMPs.'
'Explosives expert I believe,' Griffiths said, getting a nod and nothing more. 'How long have you been out of the Army?'
'Couple of months, sir. Eighteen years' service, sir.'
Griffiths pulled over suddenly and produced his field glasses, aiming them towards a rocky crag about five hundred yards away. 'There he is, see him?'
Dillon took the field glasses and found himself gazing at the proud, uplifted head of a magnificent stag with a huge spread of antlers. The animal surveyed the glens and lochs below, his world, his kingdom.
'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?'