“It’s a mammal, it’s a carnivore with a newly acquired taste for long pork, and it’s at least semi-aquatic,” Banks said. “That’s three things we know about it. Let’s hope we find some more answers. The colonel gave us a roving brief, so let’s rove. This bloody generator thumping is giving me a right headache.”
“What’s the plan, Cap?” Hynd asked.
“I’m making this shit up as I go along, Sarge. But we need to start thinking like a hungry predator,” he replied, “and try to second guess where it’ll be next.”
“Somewhere it can get an easy meal,” Hynd said.
“Aye, and given its methods so far, I’m guessing it’s a tad shy and only on the move when it’s dark and quiet, which rules out another attack here, at least while these lights and generators are running and there’s so many folk about at the barriers. Let’s get out of the village where it’s calmer and darker, have a wee walk up the shore, and see what’s what while I’m thinking.”
The village of Foyers was already falling quiet as they walked out of the small campsite. The sound of departing traffic was all that was left of the squads of reporters and TV crews, and the security barriers were gone and would no doubt be reinstalled farther up and down the loch road. There were no lights in any of the houses, and Banks guessed that the evacuation had already been effected here. Several Army trucks still sat in the main road, and a group of 20 or more soldiers stood around waiting for orders. Banks looked, but didn’t see the colonel.
He led the squad north, and they were out of the small village only a minute or so later, walking in almost darkness with the black waters of the loch on their left and a slope of a rhododendron-covered hillside on the right. McCally had point and used the light on the barrel of his rifle to keep them straight on the road. They stopped at a lay-by for their first smoke for several hours.
“I fancy a cuppa to go with this,” Banks said as he took in a long draw. “Cally, get a pot of coffee made. We’ll stay here for half an hour until they’ve completely stopped fucking about back in the village. Our beastie isn’t coming out until it’s sure of some peace and quiet.”
It was proving to be a damp, chilly night, with mist rolling in waves off the loch, but the coffee, and some more biscuits, five minutes later did a lot to dispel that. Over on the north bank, lights showed among the trees where traffic moved along the main Inverness road. It was the only sign of life they could see, and even that was becoming harder to make out as the mist thickened and swirled.
“We could be in for a long night, lads,” Banks said as they finished the coffee, had another smoke, and got everything stowed away again. “I’m thinking we should find a quiet spot to declare as center of operations and ditch the rucksacks there so we can move hard and fast if we need to. I’ve lugged this crap around on my back as much as I want to for one day.”
Nobody disagreed, so he led them out again, still heading north, but with an eye open for a safe place to call home for the night. *
They saw the sign in the gloom ahead long before they were close enough to read it, a pointer at the roadside to a site of interest for tourists. This one read ‘Boleskine House’ and the words tickled something in Banks’ memory that wouldn’t come fully to mind; all he knew was that he’d heard the name before. McCally filled in the blanks for him.
“I remember this; it’s an old manor house or something. Burnt down in a fire some years back and made a splash on the news at the time. It’s famous; I think it used to be owned by Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin.”
“Aye,” Hynd replied. “And it’s always had a bad rep, even before that. Some big scandal back in the early part of the last century. I read about it in a magazine a while back.”
The sarge didn’t get time to elaborate, for they were all looking up a long driveway that ran off the road, and they all saw the dancing beam of a torch being played around somewhere up the slope.
“Could be one of our lads, or a local cop?” Wiggins said.
“I doubt it,” Banks replied, “but let’s go and see anyway. If we get lucky and chase a reporter off, it will put us back in the colonel’s good books, for a wee while anyway.”
McCally switched off his gun light and, using the torchlight up the slope as a beacon, they went quietly and quickly up the driveway. The roofless ruin of a large house loomed above them, a darker shadow in the night. Whoever was waving the torch about was inside to their left, behind what had been a large bay window. Banks drew the men close and spoke softly, just loud enough for them to hear.
“Cally, Sarge, round the back and cut him off in case he does a runner. Wiggo, you come with me. And for fuck’s sake, don’t shoot anybody.”
Banks and Wiggins made their way quietly to what had been the main door of the old house. The light was still coming from their left, and now that they were closer they heard someone shifting rubble, as if searching for something in the ruins.
They crept forward, keeping to the darkest of the shadows, and made it all the way up to a doorway leading into what had been a large room without giving themselves away. A dark figure was bent over, using the torchlight to study something on the floor.
“Hands up! You’re under arrest,” Wiggins said.
There was a loud thud as the torch fell to the floor. It hit hard, they heard the tinkle as the bulb went, and the room was plunged into darkness.
“Wiggo, you tosser,” McCally said from a far side window, and then the room was dimly lit by the wash of his rifle light. Banks switched on his own light, and they caught the intruder in the crossbeams.
A small, wiry man in a tweed suit and with a mop of red hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee stood up straight and smiled at Banks. He looked to be in his 60s at least, but full of health with it, and even in the dim light his eyes showed, piercing blue, crinkled in wrinkles at the corners as he smiled. If he was at all perturbed at being caught, he didn’t show it.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for Her Majesty’s finest?”
“You can tell us what you’re doing fucking about here in the dark for starters,” Banks replied.
“That’s rather a long story, I’m afraid,” he said. Banks couldn’t quite place his accent. It was definitely Scottish, but with a hint of a drawl that might be American, and he had a slightly formal, slightly detached manner that reminded the captain of his colonel. “I have a wee boat moored down by the loch that might be more comfortable if we are telling tales. I can’t offer you much in the way of food, but I have coffee, or something stronger if you wish. I even have a heater.”
Banks certainly didn’t fancy quizzing the man here in the dark dust and ruin, and there was no sense in taking him back to the village, which would surely be empty by now. By all rights, they should just see him on his way and get on with looking for the beast, but Banks’ gut was telling him stories again, and he trusted his instinct.
The wee man might know something that we need to know.
He made up his mind quickly.
“We’ll go down to your boat, see what’s what, and then, if your story convinces me, you can be on your way,” Banks replied.
“Oh, I can be very convincing,” the man said. “Lay on, MacDuff, and don’t spare the horses.”
The wee boat proved to be a 20-footer. Banks recognized the type; tourists could hire them at ports at either end of the Ness for cruising trips, and at high summer the locks of the canal at the southern end were packed tight with their coming and going. This late in the year they were rarer, and seeing one operated by just one man rarer still. It didn’t feel right, and Banks’ gut was still telling him there was more to this wee man than met the eye.