On Dangerous Ground, page 11
“Enemy you say?”
“We supported the same cause, but had different attitudes on how to go about it, let’s put it that way.”
“A cause, Mr. Dillon? That sounds serious.”
“A heavy burden.” The waitress arrived with the Krug in a bucket and he nodded. “A glass for the lady, we’ll sit in the booth over there.”
“I was a stranger in the city,” she said, giving him some of the verse.
“Out of town were the people I knew,” he replied. “Thank the Gershwins for it, George and Ira. They must have loved this old town. Wrote it for a movie called A Damsel in Distress. Fred Astaire sang it.”
“I hear he could dance a little too,” she said.
The black pianist returned at that moment. “Heh, man, that’s nice.”
“But not as good as you. Take over.” Dillon got out of the way as the pianist sat beside him.
They sat in the booth and Dillon lit a cigarette for her and gave her a glass of champagne.
“I’d judge you to be a man of accomplishment and high standards and yet you drink non-vintage,” she said as she sampled the Krug.
“The greatest champagne of all, the non-vintage,” he said. “It’s quite unique. It’s the grape mix, and not many people know that. They go by what’s printed on the label, the surface of things.”
“A philosopher too. What do you do, Mr. Dillon?”
“As little as possible.”
“Don’t we all? You spoke of a cause, not a job or a profession, a cause. Now that I do find interesting.”
“Jesus, Asta Morgan, here we are in the best bar in London drinking Krug champagne and you’re turning serious on me.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Well the Tatler knows it and Hello and all those other society magazines you keep appearing in. Hardly a secret, you and your father keeping such high-class company. Why, they even had you in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot last month with the Queen Mother, God save her, and me just a poor Irish peasant boy with his nose to the window.”
“I was in the Enclosure because my father had a horse running, and I doubt whether you’ve ever put your nose to a window in your life, Mr. Dillon. I’ve a strong suspicion you’d be much more likely to kick it in.” She stood up. “My turn to leave now. It’s been nice and I’m grateful for you intervening back there. Hamish Hunt is a pig when he’s been drinking.”
“A girl like you, my love, would tempt a cardinal from Rome and no drink taken,” Dillon told her.
For a moment she changed, the hard edge gone, flushed, looking slightly uncertain. “Why, Mr. Dillon, compliments and at this time of night? Whatever next?”
Dillon watched her go, then got up and followed. He paid his check quickly, retrieved his Burberry and pulled it on, walking out into the magnificent foyer of the Dorchester. There was no sign of her at the entrance and the doorman approached.
“Cab, sir?”
“I was looking for Miss Asta Morgan,” Dillon told him. “But I seem to have missed her.”
“I know Miss Morgan well, sir. She’s been at the ball tonight. I’d say her driver will be picking her up at the side entrance.”
“Thanks.”
Dillon walked round and followed the pavement, the Park Lane traffic flashing by. There were a number of limousines parked, waiting for their passengers, and as he approached, Asta Morgan emerged wearing a rather dramatic black cloak, the hood pulled up. She paused, looking up and down the line of limousines, obviously not finding what she was looking for and started along the pavement. At the same moment the MP, Hamish Hunt, emerged from the hotel and went after her.
Dillon moved in fast, but Hunt had her by the arm and up against the wall, his hands under her cloak. His voice was loud, slurred with the drink. “Come on, Asta, just a kiss.”
She turned her face away and Dillon tapped him on the shoulder. Hunt turned in surprise and Dillon ran a foot down his shin, stamping hard on Hunt’s instep, then head-butted him sharply and savagely and with total economy. Hunt staggered back and slid down the wall.
“Drunk again,” Dillon said. “I wonder what the voters will say,” and he took Asta’s hand and pulled her away.
A Mercedes limousine slid up to the curb and a uniformed chauffeur jumped out. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Miss Asta, the police were moving us on earlier, I had to go round.”
“That’s all right, Henry.”
A uniformed police officer moved along the pavement toward Hunt, who was sitting against the wall, and Asta opened the rear door of the Mercedes and pulled Dillon by the hand.
“Come on, we’d better get out of here.”
He followed her in, the chauffeur got behind the wheel and eased into the traffic. “Jesus, ma’am, the grand car you’ve got here and me just a poor Irish boy up from the country and hoping to make a pound or two.”
She laughed out loud. “Poor Irish boy, Mr. Dillon, I’ve never heard such rot. If you are, it’s the first one I’ve heard of who wears clothes by Armani.”
“Ah, you noticed?”
“If there’s one thing I’m an expert on it’s fashion. That’s my fruits of a misspent youth.”
“Sure and it’s the terrible old woman you are already, Asta Morgan.”
“All right,” she said. “Where can we take you?”
“Anywhere?”
“The least I can do.”
He pressed the button that lowered the glass window separating them from the chauffeur. “Take us to the Embankment, driver,” he said and raised the window again.
“The Embankment?” she said. “What for?”
He offered her a cigarette. “Didn’t you ever see those old movies where the fella and his girl walked along the pavement by the Embankment overlooking the Thames?”
“Before my time, Mr. Dillon,” she said and leaned forward for a light, “but I’m willing to try anything once.”
When they reached the Embankment, it was raining. “Would you look at that now,” Dillon said.
She put the partition window down. “We’re going to walk, Henry. Pick us up at Lambeth Bridge. Have you an umbrella?”
“Certainly, Miss Asta.”
He got out to open the doors and put up a large black umbrella, which Dillon took. Asta slipped a hand in his arm and they started to walk. “Is this romantic enough for you?” he demanded.
“I wouldn’t have thought you the romantic type,” she said. “But if you mean do I like it, yes. I love the rain, the city by night, the feeling that anything could be waiting just up around the next corner.”
“Probably a mugger these days.”
“Now I know you’re not a romantic.”
He paused to get out his cigarettes and gave her one. “No, I take your point. When I was young and foolish a thousand years ago life seemed to have an infinite possibility to things.”
“And what happened?”
“Life.” He laughed.
“You don’t mess about, do you? I mean, back there with that creep Hamish Hunt, you went in hard.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“That you can take care of yourself, and that’s unusual in a man who wears an evening suit that cost at least fifteen hundred pounds. What do you do?”
“Well now, let’s see. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, but that was a long time ago. I played Lyngstrand in Ibsen’s Lady from the Sea at the National Theatre. He was the one who coughed a lot.”
“And afterwards? I mean you obviously gave up acting or I’d have heard of you.”
“Not entirely. You might say I took a considerable interest in what might be termed the theater of the street back home in the old country.”
“Strange,” she said. “If I had to guess I’d say you’d been a soldier.”
“And who’s the clever girl then?”
“Damn you, Dillon,” she said. “Mystery piles on mystery with you.”
“You’ll just have to unpeel me layer by layer like an onion, but that would take time.”
“And that’s exactly what I don’t have,” she said. “I’m going up to Scotland tomorrow.”
“I know,” Dillon said. “There was a mention in Nigel Dempster’s gossip column in the Mail this morning. ‘Carl Morgan takes the lease on a Highland Estate for the shooting,’ that was the byline. It also said you were standing in for him tonight at the Brazilian Embassy Ball.”
“You are well informed.”
They had reached Lambeth Bridge by now and found the Mercedes waiting. Dillon handed her in. “I enjoyed that.”
“I’ll drop you off,” she said.
“No need.”
“Don’t be silly, I’m curious to see where you live.”
“Anything to oblige.” He got in beside her. “Stable Mews, Henry, that’s close to Cavendish Square. I’ll show you where when we get there.”
When they turned into the cobbled street, it was still raining. He got out and closed the door. Asta put the window down and looked out at the cottage.
“All in darkness. No lady friend, Dillon?”
“Alas no, but you can come in for a cup of tea if you like.”
She laughed. “Oh, no, I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
“Another time perhaps.”
“I don’t think so. In fact, I doubt whether we’ll ever see each other again.”
“Ships that pass in the night?”
“Something like that. Home, Henry,” and as she put up the window the Mercedes pulled away.
Dillon watched it go, and as he turned to open the door he was smiling.
SEVEN
IT WAS PEACEFUL IN THE SMALL RAILWAY STATION BY the lochside and Dillon peered out of the rear compartment keeping out of sight. Following her had been easy. The Lear had taken him to Glasgow Airport at breakfast time and he had waited until Asta had arrived on the morning shuttle from London, had followed her down to the central railway station. Keeping out of the way from Glasgow to Fort William had been easy, for the train was busy with many tourists here to see Loch Lomond and afterwards the spectacular mountain scenery of the Highlands.
The smaller, local train from Fort William to Arisaig had been more difficult, for there were only a handful of passengers and he’d kept out of sight, only leaping into the rear compartment at the last moment. The station they had stopped at now was named Shiel according to the board at one side of the ticket office. They seemed to be standing there for quite some time. It was very pleasant, a mountain above them rearing three thousand feet into the clear blue sky, sunlight glinting on a waterfall that spilled over granite into birch trees.
Asta Morgan suddenly stepped onto the platform. She wore a leather jacket and linen slacks and leather brogues. She made an attractive sight in the quiet setting. She moved across to the ticket collector who stood at the barrier. There was some conversation, a burst of laughter, and she went through the barrier.
The ticket collector moved to join the guard, who was standing by the open door beside Dillon. “You’ve lost a passenger, Tom.”
“Do you tell me?”
“A bonny lass, a Miss Morgan, hair of corn and a face to thank God for. Her father is yon fella Morgan that’s just leased Loch Dhu Castle. She’s away over the mountain. You’ll put her luggage down at Arisaig and leave a message.”
Dillon grabbed his Burberry trenchcoat and brushed past the guard. “Do you mean there’s a shortcut over the mountain?”
“Well that would depend where you want to be.”
“Ardmurchan Lodge.”
The guard nodded. “Over the top of Ben Breac and a twelve-mile walk to the other side. You’ll be staying with Brigadier Ferguson, the new tenant?”
“My uncle, he’ll be waiting at Arisaig. Perhaps you could tell him where I am and give him my luggage.” Dillon slipped a five-pound note into his hand.
“Leave it to me, sir.”
The guard blew his whistle and boarded the train. Dillon turned to the ticket collector. “Where do I go?”
“Through the village and over the bridge. There’s a path through the birches, hard going, but you can’t miss the cairns that mark the way. Once over the top the track is plain to the glen below.”
“Will the weather hold?”
The man looked up at the mountain. “A touch of mist and rain in the evening. I’d keep going, don’t waste time on top.” He smiled. “I’d tell the young lady that, sir, no place for a lassie to be on her own.”
Dillon smiled. “I’ll do that, a pity to see her get wet.”
“A thousand pities, sir.”
At the small village store he purchased two packs of cigarettes and two half-pound bars of milk chocolate for sustenance. Twelve miles on the other side of the mountain and that didn’t count the miles that stood up on end. Something told him he could be hungry before he reached Ardmurchan.
He marched down the street and crossed the bridge. The track snaked up through the birch trees, lifting steeply, bracken pressing in on either side. It was cool and dark and remote from the world, and Dillon, thanks to his renewed energy, was enjoying every moment of it. There was no sign of Asta, which suited him for now.
The trees grew sparser and he emerged onto a bracken-covered slope. Occasionally grouse or plover lifted out of the heather disturbed by his presence and finally he came to a boulder-strewn plain that stretched to the lower slopes of Ben Breac. He saw Asta then, six or seven hundred feet up on the shoulder of the mountain.
She turned to look down and he dropped into the bracken. When he glanced up a few moments later, she had disappeared round the shoulder of the mountain. She was certainly moving fast, but then she was young and healthy and the track was plainly visible.
There was another way, of course, though only a fool would try that, which was straight up the breast of the mountain and the granite cliffs beyond to the summit. He took out an Ordnance Survey map of Moidart and had a look at the situation. Dillon glanced up. What the hell, strong nerves were all that was needed here, and with luck he might actually get ahead of her. He tied his Burberry around his waist and started up.
The lower slopes were easy going with his new-found strength, but after a half hour he came to a great cascading bank of scree and loose stones that moved beneath his feet alarmingly. He went to his left, found the waterfall he’d noted from the station, and followed its trail upwards, moving from boulder to boulder.
Finally, he reached the plateau and the final cliffs were before him and they were not quite as intimidating as they’d looked from the station, fissured with gullies and channels reaching to the top. He looked, checking his route, ate half a bar of chocolate, then made sure his raincoat was secure and started up, climbing strongly, testing each handhold. He looked down once and saw the railway station in the valley below like a child’s toy. The next time he looked it had disappeared, blanked out by mist, and a sudden breeze touched him coldly.
He came over the granite edge to the summit a few minutes later to find himself cocooned in mist and he’d spent enough time in hill country in the past to know that there was only one thing to do in such conditions. Stay put. He did just that, lighting a cigarette, wondering how Asta Morgan was getting on. It was a good hour later when a sudden current of air dissolved the curtain of the mist, and down there the valleys lay dark and quiet in the evening sunlight.
In the distance was a cairn of stones marking the ultimate peak, but there was no Asta. He cut across the track and followed it back until he reached a point where he could look down almost three thousand feet to the railway line, and there was no sign of her. So she had beaten him to the summit, hardly surprising, for with the track to follow the mist would have been no problem.
He turned back, following the track to descend on the other side and paused suddenly as he stared down at the incredible sight before him. The sea in the distance was calm, the islands of Rum and Eigg like cardboard cutouts, and on the dark horizon, the Isle of Skye, the final barrier to the Atlantic. It was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen and he started down.
Asta was tired and her right ankle was beginning to ache, legacy of an old skiing accident. It had been harder crossing Ben Breac than she had imagined and now she was faced with a twelve-mile hike. What had originally started as an amusing idea was now becoming rather a bore.
The track along the glen was dry and dusty and hard on her feet, and after a while she came to a five-barred gate with a sign that said LOCH DHU ESTATE—KEEP OUT. It was padlocked and she pulled herself over and limped on. And then she rounded a curve and saw a small hunting lodge by the burn. The door was locked, but when she went round to the rear a window stood ajar. She hauled herself through and found herself in a small kitchen area.
It was gloomy now, darkness falling, but there was an oil lamp and kitchen matches. She lit the lamp and went into the other room. It was adequately furnished with whitewashed walls and a wooden floor and a fire was laid in the hearth. She put a match to it and sat in one of the wing-backed chairs, suddenly tired. The warmth from the fire felt good, and her ankle didn’t hurt now. She added pine logs to the fire and heard a vehicle drive up outside. A key rattled in the lock and the front door opened.
The man who stood there was of medium height with a weak, sullen face and badly needed a shave. He wore a shabby tweed suit and cap, his yellow hair shoulder-length, and he carried a double-barreled shotgun.
“Would you look at that now?” he said.
Asta said calmly, “What do you want?”
“That’s a good one,” he said, “and you trespassing. How in the hell did you get in here?”
“Through the kitchen window.”
“I don’t think my boss would like that. He’s new. Just took over the estate yesterday did Mr. Morgan, but I know a hard man when I see one. I mean, if he knew about this he might make it a police matter.”
“Don’t be stupid. I turned my ankle coming over Ben Breac. I needed a rest, that’s all. Now that you’re here, you can give me a lift.”
He moved closer and his hand was shaking as he put it on her shoulder. “That depends, doesn’t it?”
