There hadn’t been much choice of direction. North or east meant splash. West was back to Tachnadray. Within ten miles Tinker drove me mad, complaining about the signs.
“Kyle of what?” he grumbled. “Strath of Kildonan? Here, Lovejoy. Funny bleedin’ names up here.”
“Give us that wheel,” I said irritably. We changed places. Cackling joyously, he fetched out a bottle, the old devil.
“Give Dutchie a swallow,” I told him.
He coughed long and harsh, giving himself time to think up an excuse. “Dutchie shouldn’t,” he wheezed, with rheumy old eyes streaming. “On account of his chains.”
“Tinker.” For half a groat I’d have slung them both out. I was sick of the lot of them.
Everybody was safe except me, heading back into danger.
Morosely Tinker passed his bottle to Dutchie, whose glugs made Tinker squirm in distress. He decided to get at me for enforcing charity at his ale’s expense.
“There wuz only two of them burkes with Dobson,” he said.
“You sure?” I felt my nape prickle. I’d banked on all five, plus Dobson, turning up at the auction. Dobson must have guessed I’d make a sly run for it.
“I waited, Lovejoy. They went in. Eyes all round their heads.”
“Dobson’s here?” Dutchie sounded pale in the rear seat.
“With five goons. Tough lot.”
Dutchie groaned. “We’ve had it, then. They’ll be on the road waiting for us, Lovejoy.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said bitterly.
“Will… they all be safe at Tachnadray?” He sounded like a bloke on his deathbed.
“You mean your mother and dad? Certainly. I’ve got Trembler up. There’s a big auction on the estate. Paper job.”
Tinker belched, hawked. “Mam and dad?”
“Michelle and Duncan,” I explained.
“Dutchie’s?” His eyes widened. “You mean that bird you—?”
“Shut it.” Tinker always knows more about my affairs than I’d like. “And your sister is fine.” Still nothing following in the rear mirror.
That took a minute to sink in, but he tried. “You know about that, then, Lovejoy.”
“Only guessed. She did a painting, your mother Michelle and the laird. Pastor Ruthven gave part of the game away. The laird’s wife couldn’t conceive and he became obsessed with providing an heir for the crumbling clan. Dynasty delusion.”
“He was always like that. Ever since…”
“Ever since he arrived as plain James Wheeler.” I adjusted the mirror to watch Dutchie’s face. “Even had his name changed to McGunn, by deed poll. I had it checked. Which makes Elaine Michelle’s daughter. You’re Elaine’s half-brother.”
“Elaine and me always got on, in spite of all.”
Tinker’s brain buzzed. “Then what she have you chained up for, Dutchie?”
I answered for him. “Remember that bureau? The night of the fog, when the driver got topped? Dutchie was trying to nick it. You were hoping to make a killing of a different sort, eh, Dutchie?”
Tinker put his mouth near my ear to whisper hoarsely, “Lovejoy. If Dutchie kilt the driver, what you give him that frigging hammer for?”
“Dobson clobbered the driver.” I kept checking my accuracy on Dutchie’s face. “When me and Ellen reached the wagon, the bureau had been offloaded. Dobson organized the twinning job, knowing its value. Maybe the driver also realized, so Dobson did him, poor sod. Dobson told Robert that Dutchie’d shared in the killing. With the fog lifting during the night, Robert drove Dutchie to Tachnadray. Dobson had to do in Tipper Noone, who’d done the twinning. He knew it was Dobson.”
Dutchie said, “Robert came up just as Dobson clobbered me because I wouldn’t go along with the driver’s killing. I’d been unloading while he killed him.”
Tinker cackled. “Bet Robert got an eyeful. Lovejoy was in Ben’s hut shagging that Ellen.
Biggest bristols you ever—”
“Tinker.” One day I’ll replace the garrulous burke by a Cambridge MA. I’m always making these vows, never fulfill them.
“There was no hiding place except Tachnadray,” Dutchie said. He sounded really depressed.
“Because one of Dobson’s goons is from Michelle’s home town in Belgium. The continental connection, eh?” I should have realized a million years ago, if only from Michelle’s accent. And Dutchie’s nickname: Anybody from the Low Countries is called that indiscriminately in East Anglia. Thick as ever.
Dutchie was telling Tinker. “… friend of my mother’s side.”
The old drunk was delighted. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “I know it! Nice little place. I blew a bridge there. Up to me balls in water. Lovely little Norman arch it had—”
“One more word from you, Tinker,” I warned him. He shut up. “Tell me if I’m right, Dutchie. Duncan and Michelle hid you at Shooters. You tried to escape, thinking you’d turn yourself in and tell the truth. Elaine supposed they were protecting you against yourself.”
“I tried telling them.”
I said, readjusting the mirror, “Shona discovered my identity because I opened my big mouth about antiques. She claimed then to have deliberately sent a real antique to entice me to Tachnadray. Like a prat I believed her. Here, Tinker, take a glance. Is that motor the one which Dobson and the goons had at Tachnadray?”
“Eh?” He screwed his eyes, peered. “No.”
“It could have overtaken us twice, and hasn’t.” I’d noticed it a mile since. “It has the legs on us.”
Dutchie sounded almost in tears. “There’s no way out, Lovejoy.”
“Optimist.” The trouble with some people is they’re not big-enough cowards. Anyway, they didn’t want Dutchie any more. They wanted me. “There’s nowt they can do until we pass Dingwall. We’re going to double back north for a bit. The A890 to Achnashellach.”
“Funny frigging names round here.” Tinker started a prolonged cough, phlegm and spittle over the side. If his chest would mend we’d be ten miles faster.
The big blue Mercedes stayed on our tail. I took on petrol in Dingwall, as Antioch had told me to do, then left the Inverness road and pretended to try to shake them off by over-desperate demonstration driving.
The day was fading. The road grew thinner and traffic lessened. An occasional car overtook us and a lorry or two passed going east, but that was about it. We left the security of towns as we hurried west. Countryside is rotten old stuff, lonely and ominous. The Government really should do something. I was as worried what was happening up ahead as much as by that bulky saloon dogging me, and kept staring into the middle distance on every rise. The skies abruptly lowered on us, and a drizzle started. The Mawdslay was a tough old thing, booming up each slope with ease, but steering it through the twisting dips was hell. It had a will of its own. Tinker started snoring.
As we ran on and the day ended, there was nothing but hills and woods and lakes to the left. Dutchie started some lunatic suggestion: Drop him off and he would nip down an incline, granite block and all. “I could reach the Strath Bran railway.”
“Ta, Dutchie, but don’t be daft.” He was only trying to help. Bravery’s more stupid than cowardice.
Tinker coughed himself awake and also made a contribution. “Here, Dutchie. How’d you manage to go for a—?”
“The chain was long enough.” Dutchie rattled it as proof.
We were a couple of miles past the chapel near Bran when we saw the man mending a motorbike by a lantern, thank Christ. He didn’t watch us drive past, made no move. I was beginning to worry I’d missed him.
“Hang on, lads,” I said, and cracked on speed. The old giant roared, fast as I could go in the darkening rain.
“Here, Dutchie,” Tinker was rabbiting on. “What percentage d’you give that Dobson… ?”
Here I was sweating, grappling with the controls, and this pair sitting yapping like at a tea party. The road curved, left to right. Down, then uphill. A slow bend, the Mercedes coming fast, its headlights on full beam. It’d be soon. I yelped, cornering too fast, wrestled up straight, cursing.