“The civil authorities won’t want us sticking our nose in,” Banks replied, “and neither will the colonel. Trust me on that, lad. This is a clusterfuck waiting to happen and somebody’s going to have to take the blame. So it’s heads down and mouths shut time, you know the drill. Just think yourselves lucky that the press hasn’t got wind of it yet. You would have been seeing us on the telly on the six o’clock news, and then the shite really would have hit the fan.”
“Fame at last,” Wiggins said with a grin, then had to pay attention as they exited the narrow entrance onto the main road at the same time as two vans tried to come in. One of the drivers lent heavily on his horn, Wiggins gave him two fingers, called him a wanker, and forced their way past without stopping. The second van trying to enter had to brake hard to avoid hitting the first and then Wiggins was clear and away, leaving more blaring of horns in their wake.
“Fucking amateurs,” Wiggins muttered.
Banks turned to check that they hadn’t left an accident behind. Both vans were, carefully now, negotiating the entrance and were side on to him so that he could see the logos on their flanks. One was from BBC Scotland, the other from the local newspaper.
We got out just in time.
“Get me a pie and a pint,” Banks said to Hynd when they got back to Lossiemouth and parked up the van. “I’ll be right with you. Just got to report in to the boss, and that’s only going to take a minute.”
It took much longer than he expected. The colonel was on the phone, and Banks had to wait 10 minutes for the call to finish before he was allowed in. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t even had breakfast yet, but he stayed in the chair opposite the colonel’s secretary; if his superior knew that he’d got back and not made a report, it would be his balls rather than mutton that would be in the pie.
Eventually, he was allowed into the colonel’s office. The officer listened without speaking at first, then sucked at his teeth before replying.
“I don’t like it, John.”
“It’s bad for the park, right enough, sir, what with the loss of revenue from having to close even above the loss of the animals themselves,” Banks replied. “But as you told me this morning, it’s not in our jurisdiction. They’ll need animal control people out on the hill to round up the escaped beasts and find out what killed the others, not a bunch of squaddies looking for something to shoot at.”
“If it was just the park, I wouldn’t be so worried,” the colonel said, and Banks felt the sinking in his gut again and knew he wouldn’t be getting to that pie and pint any time soon as his superior continued. “That’s what I’ve been on the blower about before you came in. Things have been hinky around that area for a couple of weeks. The local police and the county council have been trying to keep a lid on it, but the farmers are up in arms, rumors are flying, and now with this thing in the park… ”
He trailed off. Banks had seen the BBC van and guessed the news was out all over town, or would be imminently. He hesitated to ask the next question, guessing it was only going to lead to trouble, but the silence was dragging on, so he filled it.
“Hinky in what way, sir?”
The colonel told him and he went to tell the squad that the drinking would have to wait. They were going back on the clock.
“Missing sheep? Cattle mutilations?” Wiggins said as they were getting kitted up after a very short briefing. “What the fuck is this now, the bloody Scottish X-Files? Why are we always getting the weird shite?”
“Because the colonel knows you love it so much,” Hynd replied.
“And don’t worry, Wiggo,” McCally added. “If any wee green men turn up, we’ll not let them probe you. Not for long anyway; we all know you’d enjoy it too much.”
“Just let them try it. I’ll kick them in the balls, if they’ve got any, and in the arse if they haven’t.”
“And what if they don’t have an arse?” McCally said, laughing.
“Don’t talk shite, man. Everything’s got an arse. Nothing’s quite as big as the one on the sarge’s missus though.”
Wiggins had to dance aside to avoid a slap from Hynd.
“Apart from yours,” McCally said. “Them aliens could see yon from space and they wouldn’t even need a telescope.”
“Aye, maybe, but they’d need a microscope to see your tadger.”
Banks let them have the banter while they got kitted up; they’d be all too serious soon enough. Given the terrain he expected to be walking, he’d ordered bad weather gear and full rucksacks for camping out; they might be on the hills for a while, and even at this time of the year, there was often snow on the high tops. It was best to be prepared for any eventuality.
“Lugging this lot around in a bog isn’t going to be much fun, is it, Cap?” Wiggins said as he threw his rucksack into the back of the SUV five minutes later. Banks waited until the private had stowed his rifle in the mounted gun rack before replying.
“We don’t pay you to have fun, Wiggo,”
“Strictly speaking, you don’t pay me enough to do fuck all apart from have a couple of pints and a few packs of smokes.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“Well, I was promised all-I-could-manage Colombian marching powder and high-class prozzies when I signed up.”
“That’s only for the posh lads from the public schools,” McCally chimed in. “We get Sweaty Betty the Shettleston bike and a wee dab of sherbet, and that’s if we’re lucky.”
“We’ll stop off in Aviemore on the way back,” Banks said, “and see what we can do about getting Wiggo laid. He’s obviously pining for something.”
“Aye,” Wiggins replied. “The sarge’s wife’s arse mainly.”
This time, Wiggins didn’t dance away fast enough, and got a cuff on the ear from Hynd. He was still rubbing at it when he got into the driver’s seat, started up the SUV, and headed out onto the road south.
“Where are we headed, Cap?” Wiggins asked.
Banks sat up front, with an Ordnance Survey (OS) map open in his lap, working out a route that would see them crisscrossing the bogs and hill country. It was rough terrain in the main, but not mountainous, and as long as the weather held up, he knew the squad could handle it easily, even with their packs; they’d all trained in far worse.
“Stay to the same roads as earlier for now. There’s a turn off a mile before the park that’ll take us up a track to a reservoir,” he said when he was satisfied. “We should be able to park there and get up into the hills on a rough hiker’s track.”
They drove in silence for a while, with the windows down while they all had a smoke. Banks’ stomach growled; the others had at least managed to fit in a quick lunch while he’d been with the colonel. All Banks had managed was two chocolate bars and a cup of weak, watery coffee from the mess vending machines, and he had a feeling that wasn’t going to be enough to sustain him in the yomp to come. He checked in the glove compartment in front of him, found a packet of chewy toffees left by the last occupants, and ate four for the quick sugar hit before passing them around. Chewing replaced smoking for the next few minutes.
Wiggins, as usual, was the first to speak up. The private had never met a silence he didn’t want to fill. Banks knew that he came from a big, noisy family, where he who talked loudest and fastest got noticed. The habit had followed the lad into first his regiment where he got a reputation as a bit of a loudmouth and now, toned down a tad from the youth he’d been some years before, into the squad. He’d been with them since joining to replace the dead from the Baffin Island affair. He was loyal to a fault to his friends, and a good soldier. That meant Banks was more than happy to cut him some slack, as long as it didn’t descend into insolence.