My Book - Bloodline assassin

Bloodline Assassin
McBain
By
Michael A Leary

Dedicated to my wife Joanne, for all of her love and support
Text copyright © 2014 Michael A Leary
All Rights Reserved

1
Outside in the early autumn sunshine, the fluffy white clouds cheerfully scudded across the
blue sky, the sun shone bright and warm and the birds sang from the trees…..
Inside, amongst the dark shadows, quietly studying a crescent of feeble light on the earth
floor, cast there by a low voltage light bulb hanging from above crouched the Mahakala in
the corner or the room. The figure before him stirred in the chair, disturbing his thoughts like
the sway of dust hanging in the humid air, rising and falling on the drafts which permeated
through the gaps in the rusted roof corrugations. His breathing was shallow and harsh. His
hands restrained, fastened to the arms of the chair by plastic tie-wraps. He flexed his
shoulders and pushed to no avail. The bonds bit deeper into his flesh, the blood seeped from
the fresh, raw wounds and dripped to the lighted floor and tainted it deep red.
He raised himself and contemplated the task. He had a job to do. He was at the beginning of
a task, this one was the first. Others were sought but this one would put him on the trail.
There are many ways to obtain information from those that would try to conceal it. He had
studied most of them and chosen one to form his trademark. It was a tortuous method, but
one he favoured, one that had been passed down to him through many generations. He got
results and as far as the Vajrakilaya were concerned; it was only results that mattered. He
was plagued by their insistence, and would suffer at their hands if he failed – he would not
fail, he was aware of his own mortality and never failed, though he was dispensable like all
the others before him, no matter what their standing.
He, in fact had a royal lineage from old Russia, but this mattered little to Vajrakilaya. He
pondered on their wisdom, and couldn’t fathom how some of the Saroruha were initially
chosen, obviously the Vajrakilaya could see qualities in them that he couldn’t and needed
them to act as their agents – he thought them worthless scum, working only for financial gain
rather than loyalty and commitment. His job was to hunt down those that strayed and make
them pay dearly for their sins – there would be no second chance for Saroruha. He was
driven by his duty, he could not do otherwise.
At first, he was forced to do these things, against his will and better judgement, to answer
their bidding, but, because of an ancient honour now instilled in him taught by his
predecessor. Now it was his catharsis - a purifying, figurative cleansing of his emotions,
especially pain and fear, this, described by Aristotle as ‘an effect of tragic and terrifying
drama expelling temporary quenching relief on its audience or participants’. This was his
means of release of his emotional and physical tension, as, after an overwhelming experience,
that restores or refreshes the spirit – left him cleansed, renewed and refreshed.
He contemplated his captive who was now showing signs of returning to consciousness. He
rose, turned away and went outside.
It had rained in the interim, as it so often does in the Highlands but had now stopped falling,
the earth and scrub grass surrounding the isolated farm building, left smelling sweet and
pungent. He strode to the Range Rover, opened the back and retrieved a tarpaulin, new, still

in its polythene wrapper, purchased from Highland Supplies that day. He placed it on the
ground and reached back inside, rummaged around till he felt the handles of a black canvas
grip. He hauled it out and it clanked hollowly as it nudged against the top of the tow-bar. He
hefted it up with ease and swung it over his shoulder. He moved back towards the decaying
out-building beside the main croft house.
He prodded the captive with his elbow as he went by. In the state of impaired consciousness
in which he showed no responsiveness the Mahakala knew he would soon get a lively
reaction with what was to come. Pain would pierce the forced slumber and return him to his
full sensitivity. The Mahakala grinned shallowly, dwelling on the ‘procedure’, one that
would soothe his spirit, restrain his god and please his masters. He thought of the exquisite
moment, making the Panjarnata mark and scattering the contents – on reflection, he actually
enjoyed this work.
The screams would go unheard. The things he needed to know would be known and that
which was taken and hidden, found and returned. This one would lead him to the others; he
would track them down one by one, relieve himself of his duty and leave the sign to warn all
others and thereby cleanse his inner-self as he did. The Panjarnata would be happy, the
Vajrakilaya vindicated and the message would go to all those who would know. He would be
relinquished of this task – until the next time. There was always a next time. Greed was a
human element that persisted throughout. When greed threatened, it had to be extinguished –
it was evil, this was the way he dealt with evil.
‘There’s a thought’ he mused – ‘a warning, to all those that might think of trying to take that
which was not theirs to take – to deter from an evil which they should not see, hear, say or
do’.
He kicked out at his captive “Вы слышите меня? Вы бодрствуете? Hey обезьяна! Кто
ваш орган grinder? (Do you hear me? Are you awake? Hey monkey! Who is your organ
grinder?).
Mahakala cocked his head to one side and cackled out loud at his own humour. ‘Monkey’,
he thought, ‘that’s a good one, for that was all that these people were… stupid monkeys’ He
nodded to himself, ‘I will remember that for future reference… The three wise monkeys –
actually, there were four, Four Wise Monkeys – or, not as wise as the case may be’. This
time he laughed long and hard.
The Mahakala turned, serious, lowered his bag to the floor, opened the zip, and removed his
tools. He spread them on the old work table that ran down one side of the room, beyond his
captives reach. He selected a small pair of gardening croppers. Chrome vanadium steel jaws
with serrated edges for extra grip on the work piece.
Straightening, he smiled whilst examining the tool, turning it over in his hands, glinting in the
dim light, silently praying to his god, he moved closer.
A sudden flash, like white-lightening searing across the inside of his eyelids, the man
screamed himself back to consciousness as his right thumb hit the floor severed at the second
knuckle joint it rolled slightly and was still. Blood poured from the wound and soaked into
the earth.

The Mahakala moved closer so that he could smell the sweat and fear of his captive. He
mumbled grimly in old Russian, his native tongue, almost inaudibly “ОК вы предатель
гибрид! (OK you traitor bastard!) Where can the others be found and where are the
possessions of the Vajrakilaya? One joint of each finger to you will be lost for each untruth
or hesitation – you have twenty eight finger joints. You also have twenty joints in your toes,
following that I can work on your wrists, elbows, shoulders, ankles, knees and hips – I can
chose from any number of joints to dissect, all of which will cause you extreme and
excruciating pain. It has been known for very strong willed individuals to remain alive to the
point of quadruple amputation, but then, there are always the ribs to contend with next, but
that is unknown, if you are still be alive by then you will be very unlucky. I think we can
satisfy ourselves with the first basic sixty joints at most, don’t you? Now that you’re awake
and I have your full attention, you will answer my questions. There will be no rest until I
know all I need to know – then you may take your leave. We begin…”
All that could be heard was the continued rasp of his captive’s laboured breathing, then
another sudden scream. Agony coursed through him, a pain so intense, increasing in waves
to a crescendo of excruciating and all-consuming torment.
The Mahakala sighed with a smile and repeated his questions. “Where can the others be
found and where are the possessions of the Vajrakilaya? Расскажите мне! (Tell to me!)”
He coughed and choked, fought for breath and tried to speak… not quickly enough; the pain
came again and again and again. Several more fingers fell to the floor, only one remained on
the right hand now. The Mahakala shook his head solemnly and his captive screamed
evermore loudly as it joined the rest on the floor.
“I will leave you for a short time to consider the fate of your left hand whilst I
meditate. When I return, we will begin again. Think on, Saroruha, dwell on your suffering
and assemble for me your answers. This is not a riddle, if you don’t comply; I will torment
you all the more, until you reach your unenviable and inevitable death – “Я жалею вас (I am
sorry for you – Not!)”. He sighed and left.
When he returned ten minutes later, the man was slumped in the chair and had returned to his
semi-conscious state. The Mahakala slapped him about his blood caked face and roused
him. The man, though huge in stature with a well-honed, muscle-bound frame, recoiled in
fear as he awoke. His tattooed skin clammily glistening with perspiration in the dimly lit
shack. The man’s terror stricken features were vivid, the horror clear in his eyes. His thin
cracked lips babbled words the Mahakala could not hear, bloodied spittle dribbled from the
corner of his mouth as he struggled against the ties holding his arms and legs in place. The
tendons of his overdeveloped neck stretched the skin taught as he twisted his head away. The
tormentor approached and asked his questions again.
“Now that you have had time to consider the remainder of your short life, I must ask of you
these things once more. Вы ответите мои вопросы(You will answer my questions). Where
can the others be found and where are the possessions of the Vajrakilaya? The situation is
simple you tell me what I want to know and I will leave you to your peace”.
“My teaching shows that life is permeated with suffering caused by desire, that suffering
ceases when the desire itself ceases, and that enlightenment obtained through the right
conduct, wisdom and meditation releases one from the need for desire and suffering and

hence receives rebirth – “свободный Для моей души - Вечный damnation для вашего, Вы
обезьянничать! (freedom for my soul - eternal damnation for yours…, you ape!)”.
Stooping to recover his favoured torture tool of the moment, he weighed the croppers in his
hands where they were on full view to his captive. The Mahakala went to work on the other
hand, snipping off four fingers in quick succession, followed by the thumb. The pain reached
an all-time high and at last he relented nodding his head wildly. In a croaky voice he gasped
out the names to the satisfaction of his captor. The Mahakala smiled at this, his persuasive
measures worked as he knew they would, as they always did. Now he could relax, take his
pleasure and work to his own will. A statement in his own hand he would make, a sign for
others to read, …a message from the ‘Wise Monkey’s’ to anyone else that followed in their
wake. He laughed aloud again “веселое траханье (fucking hilarious!”) he shook his head
whilst grinning to himself.

2
He was afraid of the dark tide that stirred in him. He did not want any part of Nataliya
Naryshkina, his mother's blood. And yet it called to him. Pyotr Alexeyevich Romanov or
otherwise known as Peter I - enslaved, tortured and toyed with many subjects as a boy,
leaving him scarred and wary of his future.
Peter I was the son of Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich or Alexis I. Alexei’s foreign policy was
pacificator. He had secured a truce with Poland and carefully avoided complications with the
Ottoman Empire. His domestic policy was scrupulously fair and aimed at relieving the public
burdens by limiting the privileges of foreign traders and abolishing a great many useless and
expensive court offices.
Boris Ivanovich Morozov was tutor and brother-in-law to Alexei 1, was a Muscovite
statesman and boyar who led the Russian government during the early reign of Alexis.
During his long career at the Kremlin court, Morozov supervised a number of government
departments – The Grand Treasury, The Streltsy (the Russian army which was initially an
elite force in the sixteenth century), the Pharmacy, and the Payroll. Aspiring to increase the
treasury’s income, Morozov reduced salaries of state employees and introduced a high
indirect salt tax. These measures caused the Salt Riot of 1648. The rebels demanded that
Morozov was handed over to them for rough justice, but the tsar hid him in his palace and
then sent him into a fictitious exile into the Kirillo-Belozersky Monastery. After four
months, however, Morozov returned to Moscow.
In 1649, Morozov took active part in preparing the Sobornoye Ulozheniye, a legal code
which would survive well into the 19th century. In the early 1650s, while maintaining a low
profile, he was still in the charge of the Muscovite government. He owned 55,000 peasants
and a number of mills, distilleries, factories that produced iron, bricks, and salt. He was
deeply involved in the dark ‘Old Believer’ movement.
Morozov and the Old Believers were very unpopular however – and for good
reason. Morozov was regarded as a typical self-seeking 17th-century boyar, and was
generally detested and accused of practicing sorcery, dark arts and witchcraft, but more
particularly and strictly speaking, Morozov was a necromancy practitioner. Necromancy is
the practice of conjuring the spirits of the dead for divination or prophecy - although the term
has also been applied to raising the dead for other purposes – and usually, death to the
individual occurred at the hands of the practitioner by reducing the victim’s body to a number
of many small parts through amputation of the limbs whilst in a state of consciousness, a
form of devil worship through torture. The Old Believer movement flourished and merged
with older and more diverse practices from the East, becoming known as ‘The Awakening’ or
‘Vajrakilaya’.
In May 1648 the people of Moscow rose against the Awakening movement in the so-called
Salt Riot, and the young Tsar was compelled to dismiss them and exile Boris to the Kirillo-
Belozersky Monastery. The Awakening was forced underground but continued to develop,
grow, change, shape and re-style as the years crept by – becoming more and more powerful
and more and more covert.

Peter I feared the dangerous bloodlust of his predecessors and the passions of his bloodline -
and his potential for self and worldly destruction, but he was also enthralled by it. His
beloved mother, exotic and lovely, had trained him in the arts of the underground activities,
including espionage skills that will either help him to serve his country well, or draw him
down into a web of corruption and treachery that would merge with his dark beliefs and help
him in the teachings through development of his secret ‘Saroruha’ army.
Peter needed all of these resources as he travelled abroad, throughout Europe. What he
discovered was not freedom, but a world at war, and a political game so deep that he could
never escape its grasp – Peter I devised a plan, to epitomise the Vajrakilaya and let it become
ever powerful and indestructible to be handed through the bloodline, his legacy to his
children following on for them to build something bigger and more powerful than he or even
his forefather had envisaged.

3
Big Frank fell about the dock screaming like a man possessed with his head on fire, one of
his mates in the small crowd of onlookers blasted him with a fire hose. Then another
followed on with a bucket of icy cold water, Frank stopped dead - blinked at his hands,
looked up in surprise then glared at the gathering. He collapsed in a heap on the floor and
burst into tears.
Hector, the operations manager, came out of the prefab dock cabin and surveyed the scene,
focusing on the sodden, trembling heap by the wash bay.
‘You bunch of rotten, hairy arsed Bastards’ he bellowed at the assembled crew.
‘Stop gawking and fetch Frankie a towel someone for Christ’s sake, I told you what to do
when he starts fitting, couldn't one of you twats keep an eye out to see he takes his meds, eh,
Bob?’ ‘Wait till Dan hears about this, he’ll go ape’.
‘Aw c’mon Hector. You know he says he’s taken them when he hasn’t., what d’you want me
to do stand over him like his mum?’ retorted the 1st Mate ‘if he needs her so bad, he
shouldn't be flamin’ well here – should he?’
‘Yeah, well, he's on the payroll and he's one of your crew, so take charge of him’ ‘and Bob,
have a bloody heart will you, or your skipper'll be sailing a man down, and he won't be happy
about that, will he – particularly if it’s this man?’ ‘You know as well as I do that when
Frankie-boy pulls his finger out, he’s worth two or three of your own men put together, with
the strength of an ox’
The crewmen gathered round Frank and led him off to get changed and cleaned up for work.
‘And remember…’ Hector called after them, ‘Frankie has an appointment with his doc at two
this aft, before you go – there’s plenty of time, so someone can run him into town and wait
for him – OK?”

4
It was chucking it down big style. The rain was falling in globules rather than drops, when
the wind shook the sides of the tent, it forced little streams of rainwater to run across the
muddy floor and mix with some ancient diesely oil patches and puddles of congealing blood,
which formed a number of shimmering, liquid kaleidoscopic rainbow hues running into deep
red, then trickling off out the other side of the tent and into the ditch at the edge of the field.
The tent was there, to protect the scene of crime and allow the duty doctor, Dr Iain Johnstone
to make his examination before declaring death and perhaps even having a stab at the time
Charles Lundgrin made the apparently hugely painful transition from mortality to the afterlife
– if there is such a dimension.
Perhaps the use of the word ‘stab’ shouldn't be applied too loosely, because Lundgrin hadn't
just been ‘stabbed’; he’d been hacked, torn and mutilated and dissected.
The ferocity of the attack in itself wasn’t intriguingly unusual, in such a brutal murder
situation, or perhaps a gangland killing, but when you consider that he'd had his fingers cut
off and his eyes gouged as well, that put it in the particularly gruesome league all of its own –
this was ‘unusual’ to say the least.
Detective Sergeant Harry McBain of the Northern Constabulary Inverness CID, closed his
eyes to blot out the view in front of him, but the image of the slaughtered mass on the inside
of his eyelids still was just as vivid. McBain sighed and ran a hand over his tired face, feeling
the stubble of two days growth beneath his fingers, ‘Jeezzz; I could kill for a fag’ he thought.
He pushed up the sleeve of his overcoat and glanced at his watch, ‘Shite, that's fifteen hours
I've been on the go’ McBain mouthed to himself. Between this new corpse appearing and the
one he'd spent most of the day attending to, which turned up, down by the new causeway
opposite the Press & Journal offices directly beneath the Kessock Bridge. That was at five
this morning so he’d just about had it for the day.
A frigid, almost Baltic blast of wind shook the tent and McBain looked up from despondently
examining the toes of his soaking, muddy, and blood smudged shoes, to see a damp figure
run in out of the rain. The duty ‘on call’ police pathologist had arrived on the scene.
Dr Amanda Clark, a young looking and very attractive, 39 year old, she had light auburn hair
with man made waves and lightly blond highlights, she stood five foot four, with a body and
a smile you could die for.
Called away from an evening business function, she was dressed immaculately in a black
business suit with a tight fitting skirt finishing just above the knee, topped off with a light
grey Burberry overcoat. The fact that she was wearing an oversized pair of country green
welly boots flapping about at her shimmering, black, silk stocking legs - instead of three or
four inch stilettoed patent leather shoes - only detracted from the stunning effect ever so
marginally.

The duty pathologist wouldn’t normally arrive at the SOC, but because of the condition of the
deceased, McBain requested pathology presence to make observations in situ, before the post
mortem.
Her eyes locked onto McBain, an uncertain smile flickered across her face. He thought to
himself ‘Jesus! I must look a right state! Bastard!’
Not surprising really, because of the long shift he had done, and not the first one that week,
McBain had sunken, family sized bags under his deep brown eyes, his dark brown hair was
wild, and unkempt - as a boy, he was one of those people that grandma’s and girlfriends
mothers always raved about because of their cute curls, whilst he spent all of his time wetting
them down flat. The trouble is, the first touch of rain, and they all sprang into life again,
much to his disgust – now, as a grown forty-ish-whatever-year-old, though the curls were not
so obvious as opposed to the slowly receding hair line, his outlook gave off the impression of
someone who had just fallen through a hedge backwards and lost a battle with a very large
stray animal – a gorilla most likely.
Amanda opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it again, without making a
sound. Though if she had, it would have gone unnoticed.
By this time the racket in the tent was deafening and the rain outside was hitting the ground
so hard, it was bouncing three feet back into the air. It hammered on the tent roof, which
made any attempt at conversation impossible. Dr Clark thought better of trying, but she was
still somewhat absorbed, somewhere between a partially recalled erotic inner thought and a
critical visual evaluation of McBain's current overall stature.
Dr Johnstone broke the spell ‘aw, bloody shite!’ As he tried wiping the camouflaged
coloured, sticky dog crap off the side of his right shoe. ‘Must have been an effing donkey by
the size of it!’
Amanda came back to life and a grim look settled on her features as she put on her
professional face. ‘Death been declared then, has it?’ she shouted, to be heard over the din of
nature going about its business outside. No one answered. She stepped closer to the doc who
was still fussing about trying to find a fresh bit of ground to wipe the side of his shoe on. ‘Dr
Johnstone!’ she shouted again - now less than three feet away, ‘has death been declared yet?’
The young doctor pointed at the corpse and replied, ‘Yeah, he's dead alright – unsurprisingly,
and to head off your next question, though it’s not rightly ma job to say so, in my humble
opinion, he's been dead as a do-do for a good wee whilie. Ah’ think about a week - until
today’s monsoon, the sun’s been splitting the trees for about ten days and he has started to go
a tad ripe because of it. Aw the blood’s pooled in his back causing a lot of bruising so he’s
been laid that way fur a while Most folk wid appreciate the chance to lie out in the sun for a
while, but not him in his condition - ahm surprised he wisnae found before now wi the
guff he’s been making’. ‘Ow d'reckon he got here? Because this isnae where he was killed,
ther's no enough blood.
Dr Clark stepped in, ‘from my first observation, I'd say this cadaver’s been thrown from a
moving vehicle – you’re right though, he’s been killed and mutilated somewhere else
previously. There seems to be some finer, odd looking cut marks across the chest which have
not been inflicted by the same implement that did most of the damage around the abdomen,

but it’s too messy down there to see what’s gone on – we’ll see better in the mortuary when
he’s cleaned up a bit’. Unsettlingly though, the amount of blood at the front of the torso
might indicate that he was still alive when it happened. No immediate sign of injury to the
head except of course that the eyes have been removed.
She paused and took a breath, after a closer examination of the face of the corpse. ‘Very
interesting… I’m not sure what happened to the eyes, perhaps they got pecked out by birds -
is this how he was found?’ turning in her crouched position to DS McBain who had gone
back to studying the ends of his shoes, though was still listening intently - ‘Hey McBain,
wake up! Is this how he was found?’
Slightly embarrassed, at being caught with his mind wandering elsewhere, McBain adopted
his trademark lopsided grin and replied sheepishly, ‘Sorry, no! The farmer who owns the
field discovered the body and turned it over with his toe, out of morbid curiosity. The guy
didn't touch him otherwise, because as soon as the corpse rolled, he puked his guts up and ran
off to call us – hence the mess. I suppose that means, if he'd been lying face down, the birds
couldn't get at his optics, then, most likely they were already gone by the time he ended up
here?’
Dr Clark nodded, ‘that's what I was thinking - I’ll do a ‘hands off’ expo here, and let the
Identification Bureau get in to do their stuff – they’ll be getting agitated if we stand about in
the SOC much longer. The mortuary guys’ll take him back to Raigmore so I can do a more
detailed post mortem examination later – you will be attending?’ She stood up and
approached McBain as he shrugged in response, she moved close and touched him lightly on
the arm. Then she stepped back, took one last searching look into his eyes and with a wistful
look on her face, sighed, shook her head gently then waved him away. She slipped on her
Bluetooth headset mike and started talking to her voice recorder.
McBain backed out of the plastic tent, camera flashes illuminating the scene and went and
stood next to the remains of a rusting Massey Ferguson combine harvester, which was parked
by the gate in the field. He stood in silence reflecting on the wordless encounter with
Amanda. She had touched him deeply when she looked into his eyes – the first time for over
ten years. She had awakened in him a feeling of great loss and remorse. He stood blankly,
still feeling her touch on his arm, not certain about what had just happened, but aware of one
thing – there was still something burning inside of him for the one woman that he had ever
truly loved. – ‘Jesus, my life is just one big screw-up,’ he thought.
Miraculously enough the wind and rain had abated quite suddenly. This area of the field, at
one time must have been enclosed by a building which had recently fallen about the ears of
several bits of farmyard plant and machinery, including a couple of collectable looking
Fordson Major, petrol driven tractors, and what looked like the boiler end of an old steam
traction engine. At some time it was possibly an ex MoD, Nissin type workshop garage,
because the huge pile of curved corrugated steel sections heaped in the corner, and a couple
of old knackered series one Land Rovers with collapsed chassis, still in RAF grey livery but
now with gorse bushes growing through the foot-well’s.
The ground was black and hard-packed, contaminated with years of spilt fuel, oil and grease -
nothing would grow on this patch of ground for generations to come, unlike the tangled mess
of unused field which lay behind - either the farm had fallen foul along with the economic
times, or the farmer was paid a huge subsidy to ‘set-it-aside’ and was coining it in on

government hand-outs to not farm, adopting the appearance to the outside world, of an
abandoned, weed infested, run down, shite-hole. This was another classic example of
pathetic, hair-brained Europeanism’s that the Scottish Government had lapped up. Still, the
scrappie or the tinks would do nicely to visit this little corner of Kinlea Wood, on the
outskirts of Inverness - seeing as these days you have to pay the scrappy to take your junk
away not the other way round as it used to be, they make a mint twice over, when they sell it
on to the smelter – or collector, if he’s astute enough.
McBain glanced back at the tent and watched the camera flashes illuminate, in silhouettes,
those within, the slender form of Dr Clark distinct from the others.
Two 30ft lighting towers were just being set up near the tent to assist in an outside search for
any evidence that might have fallen from the body between the times it left the moving
vehicle to where it currently lay. As the single cylinder Lister~Perkins diesel generators were
cranked over and thumped into life, the bottom of the field was suddenly illuminated in stark
white light - enough to eradicate all form of shadow. As the lamp units heated up, the
subsiding rain fizzled as it hit the casings.
McBain gave up the struggle against nicotine and wandered off to the other side of the
pathology tent beyond the blue and white SoC boundary ticker-tape to seek out whatever PC
it was that was on duty and was making the most of the temporary abatement in the
downpour to have a fly fag.
PC Kate Janus was trying to deflect some of the water running down the back of her neck by
cricking her head to one side, at the same time sheltering the glowing tip end of her cigarette
whilst trying to draw in a lungful, just as McBain came round the corner of the tent.
‘Oi!, givuza fag will you’ he whispered, ‘or I’ll shop you to your sergeant for smoking on
duty’.
Janus was caught off guard and erupted in a coughing fit. ‘Bloody hell!, you scared the life
out of me... oops, I mean, sorry Sarge… I mean… ermm….’
‘Never mind that crap, just give us a tab will you’
She fished a cigarette out of a rather soggy pack of Regal king-size, ‘you'll have to light it off
mine tho, the matches are damp along with everything else, and I mean everything’,
‘Don’t talk slutty – it’s not befitting a police officer in uniform’ but he grinned while saying
it.
“Anyway Sarge, I hear the dead guy was known to you, I hope you don't mind my asking,
what's the story? I heard a rumour on the way out here, but you can never trust the Chinese
whispers, can you?”
McBain eyed her for a long moment and shrugged, “Charlie Lundgrin was an out-and-out
nasty Bastard. He wasn't a victim by any means, the evil twat liked to dabble in all sorts -
torture, kidnapping. Rape, pillage and robbery were his thing, killing thrown in for good
measure. He thought of himself as a proper little 21st century Viking. Lundgrin didn't care

who he was a bastard to, he was equally evil to all mankind regardless of sex, race, age, creed
or religion – including his own family’.
McBain drew his smoke in deeply, and then exhaled slowly.
‘He originally came from Norway – somewhere up near Narvik as I recall. Immigrated as a
kid, with his father who was a minister working for The Norwegian Peoples Aid, managing
convoys of supplies to southern Sudan – can you believe someone like that fathered a
scumbag like this. Never ceases to amaze me how someone can come from such a proper
upbringing and end up such a shite. You’d have thought some of that drive to do good for
others would have rubbed off on him, wouldn’t you?’ ‘Anyway, when he was fifteen, he
stabbed his old man to the brink of his death, stole anything from the house worth flogging,
and legged it’.
‘I nicked him once down south, when he was in his late twenties, and got him a six year term
in the Scrubs for robbery that should have been ten, but his lawyer got it reduced on a
technicality and due to overcrowding in prisons, he was out in less than four – it seems he
moved north where he hoped he wouldn’t be known, but his reputation preceded him – and
being such a big ugly bastard, it must have been difficult to keep a low profile. It wouldn’t
be long before he was up to his old tricks again. I know that as part of his ‘rehabilitation’, he
was supposed to be attending some sort of anger management counselling in Inverness, it
seems he attended regularly and hadn’t got in the shite for anything major for some time’.
‘The psychologist who saw him must have been pressing some of the right buttons, because
he had calmed down quite a bit – still a complete nutter though, but not an out and out psycho
masochist that he was. It used to be that if you passed him in the street and happened to
unconsciously make eye contact, he would kick the living shit out of you, then walk away
totally unconcerned. He would go really bananas if he happened to have had a drink in
him. He got arrested countless times for actual and grievous bodily harm, but didn’t do much
time because the witnesses always disappeared into the woodwork, or suddenly caught a fit
of broken limbs’.
Harry looked down at his feet and sighed, ‘On reflection, getting out of prison didn’t do him
any good because someone got their own back. Seems they cut out his eyes and hacked him
about, with what looks like a machete and a set of bolt croppers for the rough cuts and dangly
bits, and a Stanley knife for the finer detail - he might’ve been safer inside where at least he
could rule to his heart’s content as King of the Mental Fuckers’
Both of them fell into silence and drew on their cigarette's, ‘I heard he got one over on you
once though, is that true?’ enquired Janus as she nipped the glowing tip of her cigarette into
the soggy matchbox and shoved it back in her pocket
‘Is there anything your rumour mill doesn’t churn out? Yeah, the Bastard shot me in the arse
- I couldn't sit down for a fortnight and I was off work for another month, I’m just back as it
happens’, rubbing his rump tenderly as he spoke – ‘We happened upon him in an old
abandoned mansion house when we tailed some of his cohorts for miscellaneous offences. I
sneaked in a back window. When I was edging down the hall, we heard movement upstairs –
someone was leaning over the banisters and took a shot at me. The bullet luckily missed my
head, but it scored a line down my back and entered the left cheek of my butt – ploughed a
deep furrow as it went – it made a hell of a mess, so it did. We couldn’t prove it was

Lundgrin though, and no one will bother to find out now, but as sure as I know my own
name’s Jim, it was him that pulled the trigger’.
Janus cocked an eye McBain's way ‘Jim?’ enquiringly.
‘S'okay Janus, it was a joke, just a joke, the names McBain, you can call me Detective
Sergeant McBain, DS McBain, or just plain Sergeant, whichever you prefer - hah!’ ‘By the
way, I want you to start a log and note everyone that comes and goes – and I mean
everyone. No bugger gets near this site unless authorised. Don’t let anyone inside the
tickertape unless they sign the book first, and if they touch or remove anything, log that
too. See you later and ta for the fag’.
He nipped the glowing remains, dropped the extinguished cigarette butt into his coat pocket
and he stumbled back round the tent - this time the tower lights were against him and he was
blinded by the glare as he approached the front of the tent. He tripped over a guy rope and
collapsed on top of Dr Clark who was on her way out, having completed her examination.
Dr Clark went sprawling in the mud followed by McBain who landed with his face between
her firm breasts. He lay there blinking at the view of the top of two creamy white mounds of
flesh that presented themselves nestled in lacy black lingerie, as the 2nd and 3rd button down
on her green silk blouse popped open – a rush of pain swept through him as memories and
feelings were rekindled. McBain quickly jumped to his feet and held out a hand to offer
assistance. ‘Get out of my way, I can get up by myself’ she seethed, brushing herself down as
she attempted to gain a solid footing in her Wellingtons.
No matter how much you attempt to brush wet mud from your clothing, it just seems to make
matters worse - Dr Clark glared at McBain ‘that's half your problem isn’t it?, besides looking
like ‘The Thing From The Pit’, you are an accident looking for somewhere to happen - keep
your manky hands off me’ as McBain made another attempt to help.
Turning on her unfashionable rubber heals she stomped off back to her very fashionable,
sleek black, M5 BMW which she had left parked at the roadside. Risking a quick backward
glance to see if the method of her departure had made an impression on him – she smiled
cunningly to herself when she knew it had – there was still that spark of attraction that
excited her. She pondered the wisdom of her thoughts, shrugged the moment off and trudged
back to the protection and warmth of her car.

5
Inverness, Scottish Constabulary Headquarters is a newly constructed building, made of brick
and dark blue tinted glass, topped off and bristling with aerials, antennas and satellite and
radio dishes, just down the road and opposite Raigmore Hospital on the Old Perth Road.
McBain lived at Hilton, not far from his HQ office, though far enough to have to drive in to
work every day. This morning the traffic was gridlocked all the way down the Culcabock
Road and probably beyond. The cars inched forward, brake lights winking angry red in
frustration as they rippled down the line like luminous dominoes.
McBain negotiated his way to police HQ only to find the car park chock-a-block and not a
space to be had… ‘Bastard!’ he muttered under his breath. This was an awkward time of day
to arrive, when one shift goes on to relieve the one coming off, there is a period when both
shifts have stowed out the inadequate car park to overflowing, so that those that don't comply
with the normal shift pattern, find themselves driving up and down the lots, out on a
limb. Without sitting waiting for the shift changeover to be completed, McBain shot off
down the street to find a vacant piece of roadside to abandon his Audi.
Twenty minutes later, McBain squelched into the HQ lobby and stood dripping in front of the
main reception desk. The desk sergeant eyed him curiously up and down. ‘What in god’s
name happened to you Harry? It might be a good idea if the Detective Chief Inspector
doesn’t see you, get yourself up the backstairs; the place is full of big nobs. There’s an area
command meeting upstairs, and I wouldn’t walk past the ‘Goldfish Bowl’ if I were
you’. Making reference to the conference room, this was constructed of floor to ceiling
lightly tinted glass, on all four sides.
‘You’ll be spotted a mile off looking like that, and then I’ll get a flea in my ear for allowing
vagrants through and into the building’. ‘Harry, a haircut and a shave might do you the
world of good you know, that and a bath and a reintroduction to soap would help. You’re
only just back off sick leave a week and you look like shite already’.
‘OK Stan, eloquently put, I take your point, I’ve been living like a pig recently and traipsing
all over the place. I’ve been in all the manky corners of the city checking out mutilated
corpses. Getting shot in the arse last month didn’t help, and I’ve had a particularly bad week
– I’ll just go up and make a report then bugger off home and take your advice – you won’t
recognise me tomorrow, I promise’
Detective Inspector Ronald Bryce was known to have a built-in nuclear ballistic early
warning system. His sixth sense had already caused him to peer out of the 5th floor window
and had spotted McBain driving up and down the car park. Bryce finished the remains of his
mug of tea and strolled down the corridor to take the lift to the reception on the ground
floor. He was just in time to meet McBain engaged in conversation with the desk sergeant.
DI Bryce could have made a reasonable stand-in for Burt Reynolds if a look-a-like was
needed, however, once he opened his mouth he wouldn’t have got a call back for audition – it
would be his short career over in the movies.

‘Oi, McBain, get your fukin’ smelly arse, or what’s left of it, up to my office. For fucks sake,
what is that smell? – On second thoughts we’ll use an interview room down here – we don’t
want your fuckin carcass stinking out the whole fuckin building’. Bryce strode off to towards
the three doors to the left of front desk; he chose the middle one and walked straight in. The
DI took up position by the frosted glass window and removed a nail file from his top
pocket. He proceeded to go through the motions of filing down the rough edges on his nails
and pushing back the skin from his cuticles. Why he carried out this exhibition of self-
preening in front of subordinates is anyone’s guess – some surmise it was a show of
disinterest, others thought it was because he just a bit of a poof and didn’t give a fuck.
McBain joined him in the room, closed the door and sat down at the table, leaving two plastic
chairs vacant for the DI. Bryce chose neither. He continued to stand in the corner fiddling
with his file. McBain suspected that this wasn’t just for show, as Bryce was known to
regularly get pampered whilst he had his hair and moustache titivated and the grey bits
masked over at the local beauty salon. McBain looked at Bryce expectantly, raised an
eyebrow and waited.
Bryce finished with his file and slipped it back in his top shirt pocket. He folded his hands
behind his back to stand at ease in what he thought was a good show of military type poise.
He cleared his throat. ‘OK McBain, I have to give you a fucking touchy-feely, back to work
interview. Actually it was supposed to be fucking done on your first fucking day back, but
it’s such a load of fucking crap that we won’t dwell on it and waste any more fucking police
time’.
Bryce cleared his throat again, ‘how’s your fucking arse doing now boy?’ he enquired, but
without waiting for an answer, moved on, ‘I have to know that you’re feeling fully fit to carry
out the duties demanded of you in the employment of the fucking Northern Constabulary –
you fucking up to it?’
McBain cut in, before Bryce rolled onto his next, caring employee relations statement. ‘Look
boss, I’m fine, a bit tender, and it aches like buggery if I sit down too long, but there’s not a
great deal of chance of that around here is there – and… you don’t really give a stuff
anyway?’ I’ve just had a tough week running about like a headless chicken, trying to pull
other peoples caseloads together, I’d be grateful for my own work, so I can plan my time a bit
better, that’s all’.
Bryce studied his DS for some time, then cleared his throat again ‘OK Harry, I have one for
you, I didn’t know if you would want to get involved with the Lundgrin mess, seeing as you
two had history, but if you want to pick up the threads, you can have it seeing as you’ve
already been up to the SoC at Kinlea Wood, – you’ll need some help though and we’re thin
on the ground as usual. I’ve assigned DC Jerry Rawlins to you – she’s got a degree in
criminology and she’s got some real potential, so don’t go fucking about and interfering with
her and go put her off’.
McBain looked confused ‘ Jerry?, you mean Jenny don’t you?’
‘Same lady, and I use the term ‘lady’ very lightly – they call her Jerry because she fights like
fuck when riled and is meaner than two sex starved gorillas in a cage. Just remember, don’t
annoy her and you’ll get along fine – she’s rather attractive as well, but I wouldn’t try

anything or you’ll end up with your head in your hands to play with and maybe an instant sex
change - without a fucking anaesthetic. Not a nice proposition, and you already have your
own bodily re-arrangement problems – you can’t afford any more time off work, especially to
get your fucking bollocks stitched back on - anyway, I heard she’s a lesbo’. Bryce leered at
McBain in a suggestive manner.
‘Ok, if I were you, I’d call it a day now, get home and get cleaned up, you might just make
the barbers before they close, so get a fucking haircut, and do something about that smell –
did you roll in cow shit or something?’ Bryce didn’t wait for an answer; he removed his nail
file from his pocket, spun on his heel and left the room heading for the lift - checking his
hands out as he went.
Harry went back to the main desk ‘Stan, are there any messages for me?’
‘Yes Harry, just the one – from DC Rawlins. She said you’d be looking for her, says she’ll
be in early tomorrow morning, about half seven – you’ll find her in the main incident room’
‘Thanks Stan – see you tomorrow!’ Harry left the station, and headed in the direction of his
Audi, hoping the Traffic Wardens hadn’t been busy up this end of town. He found his car
and was relieved to see that the weather had kept the wardens in the city centre and there
wasn’t a ticket stuck to the windscreen. He drove off in search of somewhere more on the
masculine side than the DI’s choice of hairdressers in which to get a short back and
sides.’ He had no liking for the smell of overheated hair, gels and sprays that you got in
female orientated ‘salons’ – and the reek of hot hair turned his guts.

6
At the end of the jetty in the Invergordon boat yard, up against the north, sea wall, two tugs
made ready to go to work, the Maid of Cromerty and the Atlantic Star, both were steel work
boats with twin screws and 360 degree manoeuvrable bow thruster. Each 172 metric tonnes
gross, driven by a single, but more than ample 2337.4 hp, 3516B HD EUI Caterpillar engine,
each tug measured approximately 32 metres long, with a top speed of 18 knots – not speed
kings by any means, but hugely powerful and well adapted to bullying large oil tankers and
drill rigs, in and out of harbour.
The Cromarty Firth Port has a capability to berth ships of up to 150,000 tonnes deadweight at
the Nigg oil terminal - and turns round 250,000 tonnes of bulk and other cargo each year, not
counting the considerable crude oil cargoes to and from the terminal or freight on the Ro-Ro
ferry to Orkney. Both the Maid and the Star were on constant port duty to push and pull this
shipping traffic into position and guide them through the deep-water trough in the middle of
the sound. They also assisted in the more than occasional movements of the gas and oil
platforms.
Today’s, late afternoon and night-time job was to guide four maximum capacity tankers, into
the Nigg refinery from the Gryphon oil field. By 16:00 both the Star and the Maid had rung
up and were ready to work. A rusty dark blue transit van arrived at the head of the jetty; Bob
and Frank got out and made their way towards the Atlantic Star. The skipper, Dan Marshall
was by now, back on board having been absent for the best part of the day at a company
briefing session.
Dan had been working for the Cromarty Firth Tug & Salvage Company for 16 years now and
had skippered the star since she was purchased from the Van der Baahn Shipping Company
at Rotterdam in 1999, then merely five years old. Dan went to Holland, purchased both boats
and brought them back together, the Star in the lead, towing the Maid, who had some major
engine problems but was available at a knock down price as part of the deal.
It didn’t take Dan long to source another engine – he got one out of a wrecked 793D 250
tonne Caterpillar dumper truck that had been working in one of South Africa’s biggest open-
cast diamond mines, the Liqhobong project, which covers a 390-hectare licence area, located
about 100km north-east of the Lesotho capital, Maseru. Apparently, the truck had lost its
footing on a newly constructed hall road and tumbled down a steep embankment, killing the
driver outright.
Dan nodded to Frank in passing and signalled to Bob, the ships First Mate, to go to the
bridge. On the port bridge wing, Bob encountered Peter Thomson who was about to sneak
off to the work deck.
‘Wait up there Pete, me old bucket o’shite, you can hang about for this one, if I’m going to
get my arse felt, you’re going to get it in the neck too for the water caper. So’s Willie for his
inappropriate use of the fire hose, when I get hold of him’
‘Aw, c’mon man it was only a joke’ wined Thompson, ‘We were only carrying on, and he
was screamin that his head was on fire’.

‘Yeah, but as you know well, Frank has a problem with his meds, and seeing as he’s the
skippers nephew, he’s rather protected – besides, Frankie is a good bloke, and a hard worker
with it – he’s one of the boys, so you shouldn’t have shit on him – he just has a minor
psychotic flaw in his personality, that’s all – we can deal with it but not if you take the piss –
anyway, stand by for an arse kicking. ’
Bob entered the bridge and manoeuvred round the chart table, radar and sonar posts, near to
where Dan was sitting in the ‘Old Mans’ chair.
‘OK, Bob what’s the story, I left you in charge, and I come back and find you lot’ve been
having a laugh at the expense of Frankie boy. What’s the score? You all agreed when we
took him on that we’d all look out for him – I gave a promise to his mother, and though I
won’t give him any preferential treatment - and I don’t, do I? - I also said I would look out
for him so’s we would spot one of his episodes coming on, that involves making sure he’s
had his medication and makes the counselling sessions with the psychiatrist and the bleedin’
waste of space, social worker, OK? – Not a big deal to ask is it Bob? And Frank is perfectly
OK in every other regard’. But, if there’s a problem with him and the rest of the men, I want
to know about it, we only have an eight man crew so can’t afford to fall out with one
another. Well…, is there a problem?’
Bob, looked solemn, ‘No Boss, there isn’t a problem, a couple of the guys acted like pratt's
before they thought about what they were doing, it seemed funny to them at the time, but they
aren’t laughing now, and they’ve made it up to Frank, so he’s OK about it. I intend to boot
their arses appropriately straight after you’ve chewed me out.
‘Well, best you do my old Mucker. OK, if that’s the end of it, it’s dead and buried as far as
I’m concerned, but don’t let it happen again, to anyone, understand Bob, You’re in charge
when I’m not about and you gotta make them realise that?’ The skipper stared at his Mate for
a couple of seconds then swivelled his seat round, stood up and reached for his
binoculars. Scanning the opposite shoreline, he spoke in a lowered voice, Bob, before you
go, we’ve been asked to do a job, I just wanted to know if you’d be interested – you and the
rest of them?’
‘Could be boss, what is it? I take it not the usual tug and shunt?’
‘Nahh, it’s a ‘find and float’ salvage job. Right up our street, but we need to move pretty
quickly because we only have this weekend. I was hoping to get on it tomorrow morning, but
we’re going to be on this job for most of the night. We could peel off for fuel at about 05:00
and leave the Maid to it – she could hold them on her own if the weather’s fair and be able to
have them in position to tie up by 07:00 at the latest. We can always subby in the small tug
that operates out of the Nigg yard, which would do to push the moorings about. That would
help the Maid, if she ran into any snags. Deadline is 09:00 alongside and secure, so there’s
loads of time.
Our job means us working through without a break – the boys can have a rest when we get
out of the Firth proper. You think they’re up for it? I’ll double their wages for the job?’
‘Yeah boss, I think they’ll do it, I’ll give them a shout once we push off’.

With that the 1st mate left the bridge and went out onto the wings to supervise casting off and
then dish out a couple of blocking’s. The twin diesels roared into life from the mild tick-over
contented grumble that they had settled in at for the last two hours while warming up.
Dan spun the wheel to port and applied a bit more throttle, engaged bow thrust and the
Atlantic Star pushed herself away from the wall, followed shortly by her sister ship at 16:30
on the nose. For the next six hours both tugs and crews were hard at it – three of the four
tankers were berthed alongside securely. Now that the tide was retreating rapidly, all they
could do was wait.
These large ships, although they had relatively flat bottoms, would ground out very easily
because of their deep draught, when fully loaded as they were. The narrows in the Sound
would next be navigable at about 04:00, but the escort tugs had to remain with their charge,
because at low revs the tanker was helpless in the water – it takes about 2 miles for one of
these ships to make a full turn unaided – without the tugs guiding her in against the tide and
current, she would flounder and block the channel. It would cost, easily hundreds of
thousands of pounds to shift a grounded ship of this size, not to mention the possible
pollution catastrophe that was likely if it did.
The tide was fully out by the time tanker number 3 was squared away, “time to have a cup of
tea, and a chat with the men” thought the Skipper. Dan went to the internal comm’s panel
and opened a channel to all quarters. ‘OK men, Skipper here, unless you have anything
necessary underway, I would like you to clear all lower decks and muster on the bridge in
five minutes time.

7
McBain drove down from Kinlea Wood, along Harbour road and onto the A9, past the
Caledonia Thistle football ground. The traffic was heavy down the bypass and slow moving,
but compared to some city approaches, at least the traffic was actually moving. He turned off
at the Culloden intersection and headed into Raigmore to Police HQ.
Following a radical spruce up of his personal hygiene and appearance, he looked and felt a
different person, he rose at sunrise, and had a long hot shower, whilst doing so tried to inspect
the large scar where the 9mm bullet had creased a trough of skin down his back and left
buttock, it did indeed look like he had three cheeks, ‘Bastard!’ McBain swore under his
breath. He dried himself and dressed with a grey shirt, black suit and black and silver tie,
donning his charcoal overcoat, breezed out of his flat, and went to look for his Audi.
By the time he got back last night he couldn’t get a parking space near his flat for about
several hundred yards in any direction. Well, at least it had stopped raining, which was a
relief and pleasant surprise. As it continued to grow light, McBain set off to check out the
field where Lundgrin was discovered last night – see if he couldn’t make some sense of how
he got there or discover anything new at all.
The crime site was completely bare; it looked like the forensic team had done their job
well. The area had been precisely combed and was still cordoned off with blue and white
police tape, but the lone officer in uniform, left to guard over the site had been stood down
once daylight had appeared. It was obvious that the body was only deposited here for
someone to make a grim discovery, no attempt had been made to conceal it and that would
have been very easy to do out here, with so few cars using this road – it’s not like it went to
any hub of the community, just some isolated farmsteads and croft holdings, all in similar
condition to this one.
He drove back to HQ absorbed in his own thoughts, the trademark grin crossing his face
momentarily as he remembered his embarrassing collision with Amanda.

8
DC Rawlins was attractive and looked on the sunny side of thirty. She had eyes that were
olive-green – incisive and clear. Her thick burgundy hair would have fallen about her
shoulders had it not been secured in a ponytail. It framed the warmth of her face. The
woman looked healthy and unblemished. She had a genuineness that radiated a striking
personal confidence.
She was waiting for McBain in the incident room on the 2nd floor. She was taking notes
from her notebook, summarising the events from the night before. She studied the
photographs that the forensics team had given them, hanging on the operations pin
board. The man, evil to others or not, looked a mess, and he must have been in considerable
pain at the time of the assault and subsequent death. There appeared to be no head wound of
any type so she assumed that Lundgrin was fully conscious either when he had his eyes
gouged out, and was hacked up.
McBain stopped at the coffee machine in the corridor and drew two cups of black with two
sugars, and pushed the door to the incident room open with his rear, wincing as he did so.
‘Bastard!’ he exclaimed – this was habit forming.
‘Actually, no! I have a mum and a dad, both alive and well, living in Edinburgh as it happens
– not together admittedly, but they are still living, so, no bastard in this room’ PC Rawlins
stated with a wry grin.
‘Not you…,Charlie Lundgrin!’ ‘I keep getting my arse banged and it hurts like hell’
‘You want to stop going to those gay clubs then, it can’t be doing you any good, why don’t
you find a nice girlfriend?
‘With all due respect, fuck off Rawlins! - In the nicest possible way of course’. ‘Look can we
get on? We’re not here to discuss your female fantasies – we’re here to find out who killed
Lundgrin and why’. ‘Not that he’s any great loss to mankind, but a murder has been
committed, and I would like to know who did it – just out of mild curiosity mind’.
McBain continued ‘…firstly, after this morning’s briefing, we go to his house and check for
any disturbance there, then knock on a few doors to see if we can find out when his last
movements were’ ‘You got his last known address in your book? I know he moved several
times since I last kicked his door in’.
‘Also, Lundgrin had a soft spot for his pet Doberman and I use the term ‘pet’ very lightly, it’s
called ‘Günter’ would you believe’, He took the dog everywhere with him, except to the
grave I should imagine, so wherever it turns up, may give us a clue as to his last
whereabouts’.

9
Rawlins sat behind the wheel of the pool car, a rough looking Ford Focus, and headed
west. McBain sat in the passenger seat watching the streets whip past. He glanced at the
speedometer out of the corner of his eye and saw that they were doing 60 in a 40 limit; He
smiled to himself but said nothing. Traffic was light at this time in the morning – it seemed
to build at about 08:30 and stay heavy for an hour and a half or so, then thin out till knocking
off time at about 5. You could practically set your watch by it.
McBain’s mobile started blaring the theme tune to ‘Mission Impossible’, he dug it out, and
glanced at his DC, he switched it off and stuck it back in his pocket. Rawlins spoke out of
the corner of her mouth.
‘That’ll be Bryce after you then?’
‘Nope’
‘The delectable Dr Clark then?’
Silence.
‘Ha!, that’ll be Clarkie then’
‘Don’t you worry about it Rawlins, that’s who we’re going to see next - at the morgue’
‘Oh great!’, ‘hey, but you’ll be looking forward to that won’t you?
‘Don’t be presumptuous’
Rawlins smirked contentedly and continued to watch the road - but not the speedometer,
apparently. Five minutes later, they pulled up outside some decrepit looking council flats on
the west side of the city towards the harbour area the ‘social work savannah’ of
Inverness. Rawlins took her notebook out and flipped it open.
‘42c Haldene Gardens…, there’s Haldene gardens over there, wonder what floor 42’s on.’
McBain got out of the car, stretched his limbs and tentatively rubbed his rear end. ‘Bastard!’
he cursed under his breath.
‘D’you think the car’ll be safe enough parked here Sarge?’
‘Who cares, if someone nicks it, which I very much doubt – more likely it’ll get torched, the
pool’ll get a new one, and we’ll just call for a squad car for a lift back, so to be on the safe
side I wouldn’t leave anything of any value in it’. McBain mused.
They crossed the road dodging a large puddle that had been created during the night. There
must have been some severe flooding here judging by the tidemark a foot up the telephone
box. It was one of the new ones that you could send email from. Whatever possessed BT to

put one here is anyone’s guess – selected by post code probably – the box didn’t have a
telephone in it any more – and he doubted if there was much demand for sending any emails
from it. By the looks of things it only got installed the week or two before and was full of
used crisp poke’s with dregs of Evostick glue along with a multitude of butane lighter fuel
cans lying on the floor – a solvent sniffers rendezvous. Rawlins glanced hesitantly back at
the Ford, but only out of mild curiosity.
Inside the lobby of the block of flats, the sign above the lift indicated that 42c was on the
fourth floor of six. McBain turned and motioned ‘lift or stairs?’ Surprise, surprise, the lift
responded with a ‘ping’ when Rawlins pushed the button. The doors jerked, then swished
open and both of them were hit with a foul wall of stench. Piss, puke and human shite all
rolled into one. It smelt like someone had died in there, come back to life then changed their
mind and went back to rotting quietly in the corner. Rawlins put her hand over her mouth
and started to boak. McBain quickly grabbed her and dragged her backwards towards the
main door and outside again.
For the next couple of minutes, both of them propped up the wall outside, gasping in large
lungful’s of fresh air.
‘That’ll be why the lift works then sir, no bastard wants to use it in that state, even the
vandals won’t go up and down in it’. ‘Want a tab serge?’
‘Yeah, go on then, better had’.
‘You got none of your own I’ll bet’
‘Me?, I don’t smoke…’
Both of them stood in silence and smoked their cigarettes.
‘Ok the stairs it is’ said McBain, nipping his cigarette half way and sticking the rest in his top
pocket.
Side by side they puffed up the stairs to the third floor. On every landing there was a mess of
pavement-pizza vomit and human shite, and a mingling ammonal aroma of piss.
‘For god’s sake, who’d live in a dump like this?’ Rawlins intoned, waving the flies away
from her face. ‘It’s just one big lavatory’
‘Nothing wrong with this place, it’s the animals they put in it – seems it’s become a dumping
ground for all the social rejects and retards from elsewhere – this used to be quite a nice neck
of the woods when it was not long built, nice views over the old ferry to North Kessock and
down the Beauly Firth – bloody social workers have a lot to answer for y’know – they
bleeding ruined this part of town. This could have made a nice, wee, quiet complex for new
families growing up – families who do give a toss. There’s a nature reserve just round the
corner you know, not that any of these cunts would know – or care. It’s a fucking travesty,
that’s what it is’
‘You consider many of the areas suffering from social deprivation up and down the country,
they were all right once, until the bloody goody-goody social workers started chucking every

reprobate and his dog into them, turned them into no-go-zones for normal people – mini
Beirut’s some of them’.
‘Anyway, no need to get philosophical about it, the worst of their kind live here, the ideal
place for the likes of Lundgrin to hide himself away’.
Upon reaching the fourth floor, McBain had to stop for a rest, wincing at the pain in his
rump. McBain cursed under his breath, ‘Bastard!’
‘OK, which way is it? Left or Right?’
‘Right, I think sir, hang on I’ll check’ Rawlins walked along the outside passageway looking
for numbers on the doors, ‘Here it is sir, number 42c, the one at the end’.
‘Any sign of life?’, McBain asked as he caught up ‘And you can cut out callin’ me sir’.
‘There’s a light on, but all the curtains are drawn – you want, we should chap the door?’
‘Yeah, go on then, I’m not expecting anyone to answer anyway – are you?’
Rawlins pushed the doorbell, but no sound emanated back, It wasn’t like some big house in
the middle of the city where, when you haul on the bell, in the very distance, you can hear a
slight tinkle, ringing somewhere in the back of the house. This type of fitting would have a
battery pack on the other side of the door – either the battery was flat, or the electrics were
knackered, or both, but if it worked, it have been obvious.
Rawlins rapped her knuckles on the door, and inside the flat erupted into a cacophony of
barking, as a dog went mental. ‘Looks like we’ve found Günter. He’s probably not been fed
for about week – the bugger’ll be starving. I’m not forcing the door, coz that thing’ll come
charging out an take my leg off – Better call the dog warden from the SSPCA’.
‘I’ll call it in to the office sir’
‘Yeah OK, I’m not taking any chances with it – if its anything like its dead master was in life,
it’ll rip your head off without blinking’.
‘Control from Charlie Papa 2’
‘Control receiving’
‘This is Charlie Papa 2, could you arrange for the SSPCA to be sent to 42c Haldene Gardens,
there appears to be a Doberman locked in a house unattended, possibly been there for at least
a week’
‘Roger that Charlie Papa 2’ ‘Could you give a message to DS McBain, to call Pathology at
Raigmore as soon as possible, Dr Clark wants a word, and ask him if he wouldn’t mind
switching his phone back on?’
‘Copy that, Charlie Papa out’

‘Sir?’
‘Yeah, I heard’ but McBain made no move to switch his phone on. ‘Think we should try the
neighbours?’
‘Might as well, though they’re likely to be hacked off if this dog’s been barking its head off
all day and night – they might be inclined to talk to us if they think Ol’ Devil-Dog’s likely to
get shifted’.
‘Go on, ring the bell’ Rawlins did, but there was no sound here either. ‘Batteries must be in
short supply’. She sighed, and then rapped on the door with her knuckles. They waited
quietly, but no one answered and there was no sign of anyone stirring inside. But as they
were about to turn away the door slowly creaked open an inch.
‘Waddya want? – ah don’t want no police hanging about ma door – Ahv got a reputation to
think aboot’
Harry and Rawlins looked up and down the corridor taking in the graffiti, dog and human
excrement, litter and all the other crap abandoned by residents who didn’t give a toss about
anything. It wasn’t likely they would care about the reputation of some mad old crone living
on the fourth floor of a dump like this either. However, the mere mention of ‘police’ could
shift that position into an entirely different category.
McBain turned to the partially opened door and explained to the occupant that they were
trying to ascertain the recent where-abouts of Charles Lundgrin The woman told them that
she saw Lundgrin come and go now and again with the dog, but didn’t get visitors and she
hadn’t hear a sound from next door for ages except for the ‘bloody dog’ – but then again,
since she’d been curled up on the couch with several bottles of cider and some cheap whiskey
to chase it all down with – all of which was shoplifted out of Lidl’s - she wouldn’t have
known either way, nor would she have cared if they’d have dropped a bomb next door. She
managed to cadge a quid off McBain for her troubles, and they left empty handed.
They took the stairs two at a time to get out of the building as soon as possible, and returned
to the Ford parked as they’d left it. It would have been a different story if it’d been Friday
night when the community indulged in their normal activities of marauding the streets
beating up all those who ventured out and destroying anything of any worth left outside. But
seeing as it was still mid Friday morning, most of the reprobates were still sleeping off last
night’s drinking, drugs or crime spree. This time, the car was apparently untouched.
They climbed in and Rawlins started the engine – she went to put it into reverse when she
noticed that the driver’s side mirror had been smashed. ‘Think you better call the good
doctor at Pathology then, before we get into anything else?’ she enquired slyly.
Harry switched his phone back on and scowled at her while it searched for a signal. He was
just thinking of a suitably sarcastic retort, when the handset vibrated and launched into
‘Mission Impossible’. ‘Oh shit, it is she’.
McBain squirmed in his seat and he could feel his blood pressure rising as he stabbed the
answer key with his thumb.

Erm... Hi doc, McBain here… I believe you’ve been looking for me?
‘I know fine who it is, I have your number in my phone, so don’t muck about’. ‘At long
last… where have you been hiding Harry? I’ve been trying to get hold of you – have you
been avoiding me? I haven’t got all day to play teenage games. Besides, if you want some
information on this corpse, of yours; you better get over here to the Morgue after lunch’
‘Think I’ll skip lunch if it’s all the same to you’
‘Hmm, I thought you might like to meet up actually, we have a few things to discuss – where
have you been anyway?’
‘Erm, following up a line of enquiry’.
‘Well the post mortem on your body is scheduled for 14:30. If you want, we could meet at
The Fluke on Culcabock Road for a sandwich at one, do you think you can make it there on
your own’.
‘I’m not on my own, I’m with a DC’.
‘Well get him to drop you off and I’ll give you a lift to the morgue, are you clean, or are you
still in the god awful state you were in yesterday?’
‘Fresh as a daisy’ McBain replied sourly – and it’s not a ‘him’ DC, it’s a ‘her’ DC.
‘Well, I’ll see you at one o’clock then, in the lounge bar.’ ‘Tell your ‘her’ DC not to lose
you’
‘Yeah, OK’
Dr Clark rang off without another word.
‘Jeeez’ McBain shook his head.
Rawlins eyed McBain sceptically, ‘Got a date then sir?’
McBain scowled, ‘Mind your own business; you really don’t want to know about it!’
‘I’ve got to be at the Morgue for 14:30, for the post mortem, but have to meet Dr Clark
before that – can you drop me at The Fluke for just before one o’clock and then I’ll meet you
back at HQ this afternoon about 15:30,
‘You don’t want me to go too sir?’
‘No, I have some information I want you to follow up on – you can put your degree to some
good use. You can learn to do some background research. Nothing particularly interesting
I’m afraid, but it’ll keep you out of trouble for a while’
McBain took a lift to The Fluke, half hoping that Amanda would have been called away at
last moment, but the way his luck was running, he doubted it. It’s not that he didn’t like the

idea of getting things sorted out with Amanda; it’s just that there was some baggage that he
didn’t want opened, and McBain didn’t fancy the idea of raking over old ground – not just
yet.
McBain first met Amanda, about ten years previously when they were both at Glasgow
University – Amanda in her third of eight years of study in Pathology, and McBain, six years
older, in Post graduate year studying Criminal Psychology.
It was love at first sight, they got engaged pretty quickly, had a passionate eight months of
life together, and then it all fell apart. A close friend of McBain’s died in a motorcycle
accident, the guy was so close, and he was like a brother. He just could not come to terms
with the loss, and turned to alcohol for comfort. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but he took to
massive binge drinking, which he couldn’t handle.
All those that were close suffered the most, and were locked out. No matter how she tried,
she could not get through the barriers that McBain had put up. He became a horrible person
and lashed out at her like a fool, he threw all that was dear away. Amanda, terrified, ended
the engagement and McBain disappeared into himself, which took him to the brink of total
destruction as result.
Having pushed everyone away, McBain dropped out of university and disappeared down
south. Amanda, couldn’t be expected to wait forever, and picked up the threads of her life
and eventually met someone else, fell in love and got married – a marriage that was not
destined to last. Sometime later, he eventually got his act together again and came to terms
with the harsh reality of what he had done, and lost as a consequence.
He got a job with the Thames Valley force and buried himself in his work for nine years. He
made detective sergeant and shortly thereafter, shifted back north, to Scotland where he was
most comfortable.
He had gone to attend an autopsy of a four-year-old girl who had been pulled from the River
Ness, having been sexually abused, drowned and discarded off a footbridge near the
‘Islands’. McBain’s heart stopped beating, when Amanda Clark walked through the door.
McBain worked his way to the back of the room, out of the circle of light thrown out by the
over table lamps, where he was hoping he wouldn’t be spotted. Unfortunately, for the benefit
of the tape recording, the pathologist states the names of those present, and Dr Clark did so,
including his, without batting an eye. She faltered slightly on seeing him for the first time in
ten years, but moved on with the business at hand.
This was her first job for the Northern Constabulary, she knew that McBain was on the force
here, but that he was off work following some accident that occurred on a house raid – she
had intended to go and see him, but was sent on an assignment to The Greater Manchester
Police Authority, to do a crash course on ‘Wound ballistics and the study of effects on the
human body produced by penetrating projectiles’. It seems that she arrived back in Inverness
at about the same time he started back at work.
The attraction that was there when they first met, stirred in the pit of her soul. McBain felt it
too. Clark stopped in mid-sentence. There was some clearing of throats and shuffling round
the table as the other witnesses became aware that something was going on. She composed

herself and carried on with the post mortem on the little girl. At the end of the examination,
the assisting pathologist switched the main lights on, McBain had already left, afraid of the
imminent confrontation.
McBain had problems; he had just become separated from his wife and was going through a
very messy divorce. He was now living in a bed-sit flat and was on shaky mental ground
again.
Amanda had done some homework on him; she knew McBain would be attending the post
mortem examination, as senior officer on the case. She had convinced herself that when they
met, she would be able to deal with it. She was not that tough however, when she laid eyes
on him for the first time in a decade, all the original feelings came flooding back.
Now, possibly the stronger of the two, Amanda had decided to meet him head on and bring
him screaming back from her past – though she didn’t realize how much of an effect it would
have on her at the time – she had to come to terms with the past, and sometimes the best way
to do that was to meet it head on.
She, thought about the appointment she had just imposed on him.
‘Shit!, I screwed up at the first turn. I guess I could have suggested a better place to meet than
a pub with Harry’s past in mind”.
Anyway, it was too late to do anything about that now, it was five to one, and knowing him
as she did, he would walk in the door any second – a bit of a stickler for punctuality, always
insists on being where ever he’s expected to be, five minutes before he’s expected to be
there. McBain senior had instilled in him the belief that if he was ever less than five minutes
early or, god forbid, he should ever arrive late, was tantamount to committing a criminal
offence. It was always a bit of a pain in the neck, because Amanda had a dreadful habit of
being late all the time, usually at least five minutes funnily enough.
At that thought, in he walked – ‘Christ, he had made an effort, she thought, ‘He’s scrubbed
up pretty well. He always did look drop-dead handsome in a dark suit, she thought’. McBain
saw her across the room, smiled and strode easily across to her. Amanda detected a slight
limp in his step and filed the thought away for future reference. She rose to her feet with a
teenage trepidation.
She always got butterflies in her stomach when in his company. He dropped his overcoat on
the nearest chair and pulled her to him in a tentative embrace, she could feel him starting to
quake at the knees, and she knew he felt the same as she did. Though both were older, both
were unsure and still young at heart. She pulled back slightly, and he kissed her lightly on
the lips. Her head swam and she struggled to focus. They both lowered themselves onto a
leather couch and sat side-by-side facing each other.
What happened in here? This used to be a good pub; I hope the food’s not gone downhill like
the décor. What made you want to come here?
Oh, I don’t know, I thought you’d think it more like home-from-home, being a coppers pub
and one that’s also used by hospital staff.

‘I think we have a lot to talk about’ he whispered hoarsely. He cleared his throat and went
on. ‘I don’t know where to start, and I don’t think this is the time or the place to do it –
besides we don’t have nearly enough time’
‘It’s OK, we have all the time in the world, let’s not rush anything’ ‘firstly, I need a drink,
how are you placed?’
‘Not for me thanks, I’ll just have a Coke’ ‘Oh, it’s OK, I do drink, but only very occasionally
now – to be honest, I can take it or leave it, but I don’t go for it in a big way like I used to if
you know what I mean?’ McBain looked down at the floor sincerely embarrassed.
A waiter came and took their order, Amanda settled for a Gin and Tonic and McBain asked
for a Coke – both with ice and lemon – there was an uncomfortable moment when the waiter
left and a tentative, uncertain conversation resumed. Amanda decided to avoid the topic of
alcohol for the time being, she would press him on it later. Though happy to be in his
company again after all these years.
He had hurt her badly, but through time it was something she had forgiven him for. His
behaviour, though having some mitigating circumstances, couldn’t be dismissed easily. As
long as McBain was able show that he had got over the episode, and that it wasn’t likely to
reoccur, Amanda was content to see where the winding road of life took them. If it happened
to be along with him for company then she would be happy to her dying day. Though
judging by his appearance the day before, her mind was crowded with doubt.
‘You looked rough yesterday, what happened to you’. ‘Looked like you had woken up from
a heavy nights drinking session, lying in a bush at the bottom of the garden’.
‘Wha?, Oh, no, nothing like that’ he explained that he had just returned to work the week
before after being shot. Amanda, was shocked and grasped his arm ‘I heard you were off
work, but I didn’t realize it was that bad’. He then told her about the shitty week had had
trying to settle in again. Coming back to work to find that whoever was organizing the
holiday rota had severely screwed up, and there weren’t enough officers to cover the
caseload. He had to pick up several jobs and finish them off, then do all the associated
paperwork’.
‘It’s done now, but I didn’t have time to draw a breath’ ‘when you saw me yesterday, it was
at the tail end of everything concluding at once, and then this fresh corpse turns up in peculiar
circumstances – which just happened to coincide with me needing a haircut and a shave,
which I was about to get done before being called out to Newtonhill’.
She smiled ‘it wasn’t as bad as I imagined then’, ‘I thought perhaps, because you’d seen me
at the girls autopsy for the first time in years that you’d gone off on one again and that
nothing had changed’, ‘I’m glad I was wrong’.
‘I can’t say it didn’t shake me up when I saw you – I thought I was imagining things, then
when you spoke. I didn’t know what to do, I just stood there quietly bubbling – I knew that
you had seen the state of me so when you finished, I legged it, drove out to Rosemarkie and
walked along the beach for an hour or two’. ‘The sea breeze cleared my head a bit, but you
left a lasting impression – I had the shakes for ages’

They finished their drinks, left The Fluke, and strolled into the car park to Amanda’s car.
Once they had climbed in and settled themselves on the tan leather seats, McBain turned to
Amanda and asked ‘where do we go from here?
“I really don’t know that we go anywhere Harry, I’d rather we were just friends, and that’s
probably all I have an appetite for. Anyway, we better get a move on’ She buckled her seat
belt and switched on the ignition. The car purred into life, she shoved the gear lever forward
into Drive and pulled out of the car park onto the A96. They drove down to the roundabout,
to head towards Raigmore Hospital, to the post-mortem examination room – Northern
Constabulary doesn’t have the luxury of their own mortuary in Police HQ, they use the
facility up the road in the modern and ever expanding NHS Highland hospital.
Fifteen minutes later McBain was back in the company of Charles Lundgrin - deceased. His
body didn’t look its best having been left out in the sun for a week, and then chilled
overnight. His blood was congealed all down his sides and had pooled underneath.
The corpse was a middle-aged man of powerful build. He had been officially identified as
Charles Rudolph Lundgrin, forty-two years of age, previously residing at 42c Haldene
Gardens Inverness. He had long reddish blond scraggly hair that came almost halfway down
his back. It was normally tied in a ponytail, but at the moment was hanging loose. He wore a
full beard, which was also very long, resembling Dusty Hill, one of the guitarists out of heavy
blues band, ZZ Top.
Lundgrin was heavily tattooed, with a Viking scene, including the figurehead of a long ship,
which came up to his throat and neckline from the waistline of his trousers. His arms were
covered in Nordic emblems and symbols and the backs of his hand had tattoos of a blazing
sun on one hand and a crescent moon and stars on the other.
Under the stark white lights above the table, Dr Clark carried out her examination, in the
company and under the supervision of the senior pathologist, as is standard practice under
Scottish law, in the case of unnatural death. As she worked she spoke constantly into the
microphone hanging down above her head.
As was obvious back in the field, the body before them had been subjected to a frantic
assault.
The person who carried out the attack had inflicted massive damage to the abdomen area by
means of a chopping motion using something like a machete. But there were signs of large
cuts and lesions across the belly, caused by a much smaller and very much sharper knife,
possibly a Stanley type or other craft knife.
Both eyes had been removed, and it was confirmed that this was done when the victim was
still alive and possibly very conscious. There were signs that he’d had his hands tied behind
his back, but these bonds had been released after death had occurred.
The body was then turned over, face down for a rear examination, which is when something
more surprising was discovered. The word ‘Mifaru’ had been inscribed in the flesh, with the
same implement as had been used to cut the belly open. Above the ‘inscription’ were two

more tattoos, each about ten inches tall depicting the faces and headdress of Viking warriors
– the man did indeed think he was a Viking.
McBain stepped back out of the light away from the continuing autopsy and took out his
mobile. He scrolled through his contacts and found DC Rawlins, and stabbed call with his
index finger. The call was answered on the first ring.
‘Rawlins, could you do me a favour and…. What?’ ‘OK, Jenny, can you do me a favour and
do a search on the internet for the word ‘Mifaru’?’ ‘It’s been cut into the back of Charlie
Boy…’ ‘What?, Yeah, see what you can come up with and call me back if you find
something – OK thanks… Jenny’. McBain quietly clicked the phone shut and stuck it back
in his pocket. The post mortem procedure went on for about another fifteen minutes and then
Dr Clark snapped off her surgical gloves and stepped back from what was left of the body on
the table. She turned and switched on the main lights and McBain blinked. All those that
were present shuffled out of the room leaving the technician’s to clear up and pack the body
away in a body bag and put it back in the refrigerator.
Just as McBain stepped out of the mortuary into one of the minor passageways of the
hospital, his mobile vibrated and launched into ‘Mission Impossible’. Dr Clark looked at
him, smirked and shook her head, ‘big boys and their little toys… I don’t know’, she
exaggerated a long deep sigh to emphasise exasperation.
McBain, glanced down at the screen as he flipped the phone open – it was the DCI ‘This’ll
be the boss checking up on me – wait till you see’.
He answered ‘Hello sir?’
‘McBain, just calling to tell you that another body’s been found. I wouldn’t bother you
knowing you have your hands full at the moment, but there are some similarities between this
one and the guy with no eyes – thought you’d better go and check it out’. ‘If you get any idea
that there’s a link between the two, as I suspect there is, we got to get the HOLMES Unit set
up and the Incident room properly organised, but I’ll sort that out’.
In 1986 UK Police Forces started to utilise HOLMES in most major incidents including serial
murders, multi-million pound fraud cases and major disasters.
Northern Constabulary's, Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, known as ‘HOLMES’
is an investigation management system which is there to assist SIO’s (Senior Investigation
Officers) in their management of investigating serious crime.
HOLMES enables them to improve efficiency, effectiveness and focus during criminal
investigations. The success of any major investigation requires an organised and methodical
approach and the MIR (Major Incident Room) is central to this. The MIR is where all the
information is gathered from members of the public, enquiry officers and other sources.
All the accumulated information is documented and managed, using a set of administrative
procedures, fed into the HOLMES system and used by the SIO to direct and control the
course of the enquiry.

The DCI gave McBain the location of the new crime scene and hung up. McBain snapped
the phone shut and turned to the Pathologist – ‘There’s been another one, and it seems they
might be connected. You better come too if you can.

10
Dan sat in the skipper’s chair, as was his devout right. The rest of the men gathered on the
bridge to his right. Bob arrived in last and did a swift head count, turned to Dan and nodded.
Dan Marshall cleared his throat. ‘OK lads, we’ve been asked to do a wee job that’s going to
take us all of Saturday and Saturday Night, maybe the entire weekend. I need you all on it,
but if you can’t, or don’t want to, then I’ll swap you over with your opposite number on the
Maid. Is everyone up for a ‘Find and Float’ out in the Sound? The skipper paused and
searched the faces in front of him.
Bob Jameson, the first mate stepped forward, ‘I’m up for it skipper. Can you give us some
more detail so we know what we’re getting ourselves into?’
‘F’raid I can’t tell you what I don’t know Bob. Detailed instructions will only come to us
when we start navigating along a direct route to the site. The customer’ll be watching us by
SatNav. We’ll be tracked from shore and a GPS fix will be given to us once we get close to a
grid reference that they will signal to us. We’ll be guided in the general direction – all I
know is, whatever it is, is sitting on the bottom and that it’s in the deep, fast moving water,
off Lossimouth.
We can navigate over there blindfold and get pinged in on the target before dropping the Dan
Buoy. We’ll take it from there, by doing a recon dive. Next up is usual procedure of
assessing the wreck for sealing off internal compartments and pumping it full of compressed
air. Hopefully, she’ll bob to the surface like a cork in the bath.
‘I believe it’s an old, deep sea, Atlantic fishing vessel. But there’s something funny about it,
because in all the years I’ve been here, I wasn’t aware of a wreck sitting off the point. It
seems it went down at night, recently but couldn’t have made a sound – no mayday signal, no
radio call, no flares nor nothin’. The crew made their way to shore without a peep, and it
hasn’t been reported to either the MCA, or the police. There was a small oil slick reported by
a passing mountain rescue helicopter going into RAF Lossiemouth, but nothing else has been
seen – or heard.
I am told by the customer that sufficient time has passed since it sank, for us to be able to
work unobserved, but we’ve been told to mask our activities in the area, by pretending to do
something else – I haven’t thought about that bit yet, but I’ll come up with
something. Whatever’s on the wreck is none of our concern. I haven’t got a scoobie what it
could be. All I know is the client is paying big money for us to retrieve his boat, and to do it
in the dark so it can’t be seen. We’ve to take it alongside at the old, deserted Ardersier yard
down the Firth and leave it secured to the inner sea wall’.
‘There is enough in this honey pot to give us all a pat on the back and probably save all of our
jobs. The meeting I was at this morning didn’t go too well. The company is having financial
trouble, and this would see us clear of the bank and the taxman. The cost of fuel and
insurances has gone through the roof and so shunting work on its own is uneconomical’.

‘We have to get inventive and to seek sources of income such as this. I have a niggling
feeling that what we are about involves something illegal, but I ‘m confident that if we’re to
be asked about it, our backs’ll be clear. One thing I should say is, we are under strict
instructions not to look too close at anything we might find, and don’t ask any questions
either – the less we know the better. It’s not a difficult job; you’ll be on double wages for the
duration and you’ll get an undefined cash bonus once the jobs done to the satisfaction of the
client. Any questions?’
Dan scanned the faces present.
Pete Thompson raised his hand ‘Skip, I’m up for it. I’ve dived all over the Lossimouth
point. There are some very strong undertow currents down there, everything tends to move
about on the shifting sands – there’s no chance a Dan buoy will hold its anchor, it’ll need to
be secured directly to the wreck. Chances are the wreck will have moved since it went down
as well. Does the client know that or are they just having a guess?’
‘Yeah, Pete, like I said, they have a fix on the boat. It seems they have access to some pretty
sophisticated satellite gear. It could be the client is MoD, or intelligence of some sort,
equally, it could be baddies of some kind. At this juncture, I don’t really care, so long as the
cargo isn’t drugs. Even if it were, we won’t be looking at it. We need the money, and this
job might just keep us all afloat’.
Davie Smithson looked about him and put his hand up too. ‘I’ve got no problem with the job
either boss. But I’ll need to get Ewan to check the compressor over. We haven’t used it in a
while and you’re going to need a hell of a lot of air to get this trawler up off the bottom. I
wouldn’t like to be responsible for it conking out mid-lift.’
‘Good point Davie – Dugald, can you get onto it ASAP?
‘Yes boss, I gave it a going over last week and had the tank pressure tested. It’s got a new
certificate so we should be OK on that front, but I’ll check the mechanics of it to keep Dave
happy. Ewan will give me a hand, won’t you Ewan?’ – The junior engineers Mate gave his
boss the thumbs up and a grin.
OK lads, if there’s nothing else, I’ll give you the instructions as soon as we get them. You all
know what you’re supposed to do, so let’s get to it. Oh, and by the way, I’m glad none of
you opted out, I wouldn’t want any of those tossers from the Maid joining us!’

11
McBain arrived at Amanda’s front door, his finger depressing the bell at exactly 19:27,
having parked the old Audi in her drive. There was no sign of her BMW, so he guessed it
was tucked away for the night in the garage. Amanda was ready and waiting. She opened
the door and they stared silently at each other on the top step.
Inside, the hall clock broke their spell, with a loud chime marking the half hour. Amanda
took McBains hand in hers and drew him into the warmly lit hallway, closing the door behind
him. They embraced. They remained joined as one for several minutes, unable to break
away, neither of them wanting to ruin the moment with speech. Eventually, they slowly
parted, but continued to hold hands. Amanda melted into his deep brown eyes. At last she
cleared her throat and they smiled at each other.
McBain spoke first. He drew a bottle of wine from his great coat pocket ‘Would you like to
put this in the refrigerator before it gets too warm to drink?’
Amanda silently took the bottle and turned towards the kitchen, she took several steps away,
then turned and crooked her right index finger and beckoned him, ‘come with me and I’ll
introduce you to my kitchen.’
McBain removed his jacket and Amanda took it from him then hung it on a hook in the
hall. ‘on second thoughts, let’s go into the lounge and have a drink First – what would you
like Harry?’
‘I’ll have a glass of that wine if you don’t mind?’
Soon they were settled on the sofa next to each other with a glass each. McBain took a sip
and placed it on the coffee table. They came very close, and turned to each other and
embraced once more and kissed tentatively. He moved down her chin and kissed around her
neck. Amanda turned her head to the side and backwards to allow him more room. McBain
moved up slightly then licked and kissed the lobes of her ear.
Simultaneously, they realised what was happening, and they froze, uncomfortably reminded
of the method by which their relationship had previously fallen apart. If they gave each other
what they so badly needed and wanted, it might be like giggling at a funeral. Their desire
was so strong that it overcame their doubts about the propriety of making love to one another.
They kissed tentatively, then hungrily, and it was as sweet as ever. Her hands moved
demandingly over him, and he responded to her touch, then she to his. He realised it was
good and right for them to seek joy together. Their unquenchable desire was the result of
many things, one of which was a profound animal need to prove that they were alive, fully
and unquestionably and exuberantly alive.
By unspoken agreement, they got up from the couch and went into the bedroom.
McBain switched on a lamp in the living room as they walked out; that light spilled through
the open doorway and was the only thing that illuminated the bed in soft penumbral light,

warm and golden light. The light seemed to love Amanda for it didn’t merely fall on her
dispassionately as it did upon the bed; it caressed her and sparkled in her eyes.
His perceptions seemed to extend beyond the range of his own senses, so that he felt almost
as if he were seeing through Amanda’s eyes as well as through his own, feeling with his
hands and her hands, tasting her mouth with his but also tasting his mouth with hers. Two
minds, meshed, two hearts, synchronised.
It had never been sweeter for him, He braced himself above her on his fully-extended arms,
looked down at her exquisite face. Their eyes locked, and after a moment it seemed that he
was no longer staring at her, but into her, through her eyes, into the essence of her, into her
soul. She closed her eyes, and a moment later he closed his, and he discovered that the
extraordinary bond was not destroyed when the gaze was broken.
McBain had made love to other women, but he had never been as close to any of them as he
was to Amanda. Because this coupling was so special, he wanted to make it last a very long
time, wanted to bring her to the edge with him, wanted to take the plunge together. But this
time he did not have the kind of control that usually marked his love-making. He was
rushing towards the brink and could do nothing to stop himself. It was the fact that she was
so special to him, extraordinarily special in a way he had not yet even fully defined, that
made being with her unbearably exciting.
A tremendous tide of tenderness and affection and aching need swept through him, and he
knew that he would never be able to let her go.

My Book - Bloodline assassin

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