My money, my girl, a crippled leg, and now a dead brother.
Were those four strikes reason enough for cold, calculated murder?
Outside again in the darkness I stood for a moment, shivering. The drone of an approaching car swelled above the moaning wind. Headlights flashed back from the workshop windows, blinding me so that in my grief and anger for a moment I was disoriented, not knowing from which direction it was coming.
And in that instant, as the car went past, it all clicked, came neatly together; that loose wing mirror that needed fixing, the flash of reflected headlights, big Dougail Gaunt and his liking for cards and drink. I grinned bleakly, tossed the workshop keys to Frank, and, ignoring his direct gaze, thumped up the narrow wooden staircase to that cramped room Chrissie Stewart had once been happy to share.
But that was before Dougail Gaunt had set lecherous eyes on her and stayed half sober for the seven days it took him to lure her away with smooth talk and a fat wallet. I brooded over that, and a bottle of Glenfiddich, while overhead the loose asbestos sheet slapped in the wind and every corner of that mean room was dark and empty.
By the time I crawled into my lonely bed I knew how I was going to kill him. I had it all worked out.
Next day was raw, the wind moaning in from the snowcapped peaks of Ben Nevis far away to the northeast. Roads everywhere were treacherous, and over on the Fionnphort road as it snaked down towards Pennyghael, the wind funnelling through the mountain passes of Glen More made safe driving ten percent skill and ninety percent luck. And that was for a sober man. For the man heading home with a dozen whiskies under his belt and his mind on the hot blonde keeping his supper warm, the skill went out the window and landed smack in the lap of the gods. It was midwinter, dark by four thirty. And if certain factors beyond the poor sucker’s control presented him with a situation that was utterly without precedent, his reactions were likely to be too slow altogether, or fast enough, but wrong. Either way, he was dead.
And this was Friday.
The old truck came clattering past as I was dipping the underground fuel tanks, backfiring as it lurched on down the hill into Craignure. Right then, knowing what I was about to do, the tenseness set in. I’d caught a glimpse of Chrissie’s blonde head on the passenger side. She’d spend the morning shopping and gossiping in the village, then catch the Fionnphort bus back at lunchtime. Dougail would stay behind for his afternoon of poker and hard drinking. Before that, though, he’d rattle back up the hill and leave the truck with us the way he did every Friday. Frank would hose it down and pump grease into the nipples, and tack-weld any bits that happened to have worked loose during the week.
I put the long brass dipsticks back on their hooks and went into the office, feeling a tightness in my chest. Frank was warming his hands over the paraffin heater. The coffee cups were steaming on the desk.
He was short and chunky, iron grey hair over a craggy face. He dragged a pipe out of the top pocket of his dirty overalls and cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Over it?”
I grunted, jotting the petrol readings in the book. When I slammed the drawer and reached for the coffee, he had his pipe going, and the air in the office was as thick as Highland mist.
I eased a haunch onto a corner of the desk.
“Doug Gaunt’ll be in around ten,” I said, fiddling with the spoon. “There’s a couple of things I want done on his truck.”
“You want done, or he wants done?” He was puffing thoughtfully when I looked up, his eyes searching my face. “And Doug Gaunt comes in every Friday and he always gets here at ten, so what’s new?”
“Frank...”
“Okay, Will, I’ll hacksaw through his steering tie-rod and disconnect a brake hose...”
“You’re talking nonsense, Frank.”
“Then what goes on?”
I rubbed my left leg and sipped the hot coffee. All I could think of was Dougail Gaunt, crouched in the cab of the truck with his black eyes on that wing mirror as Jamie roared up behind him with the heel of his hand setting the Land Rover’s air-horns wailing. I saw the fiendish glint in those eyes, the calculated drift forcing the Land Rover’s wheels off the gravel shoulder. And I saw Jamie’s broken body as they winched the vehicle off his chest and stretched him out on the crisp, springy heather.
“I want you to give it the usual greasing,” I said tightly. “Then fix a mirror in the cab and weld the bracket on that wing mirror. This time Dougail Gaunt is going to see exactly what’s happening.”
“And what’s that, Will?”
He’s going to see two bright headlights, I thought grimly; and I tossed back the remains of the coffee, dropped the cup in the sink, and went to the door.
“That’s all,” I said gruffly.
But I kept my face turned away because Frank was all right and I hated to deceive him.
After that the day dragged. I wandered about the workshop, picking things up and putting them down and generally mooning around. All the time, one half of my mind was shearing away from the terrible thing I’d worked myself up to do, trying to wriggle out of it. The other half kept throwing up Jamie’s dead, twisted body and boosting up the hate.
And somehow I kept an eye on Frank, making sure he did the things I’d told him to do. I wasn’t too concerned about the welding on the wing mirror because that was just a blind. But when he started on it, I had to be there.
The lunchtime Fionnphort bus gave a toot as it labored up the hill. When I straightened from the tube I was vulcanizing I caught only the steamed up rear windows and dirty number plate, so I missed Chrissie and that blackened my mood.
About four the darkening skies cleared and the temperature really plummeted. I heated more coffee, and went into the workshop where Frank was just about finishing Gaunt’s truck.
It was an old Ford fifteen-hundredweight flattop, and he’d bolted a brand new mirror in the cab and was about to weld the bracket holding the wing mirror. I took the oxyacetylene torch from him and watched him wander away for his coffee, and once I was sure he’d gone, I set to and finished the job.
That was the easy bit. The next move was dangerous. Listening uneasily for his returning footsteps, I shut down the oxygen and opened the acetylene valve until the flickering torch flame turned smoky yellow. Black smuts drifted as I played that flame over the wing mirror. I watched the bright, reflective surface disappear beneath a film of greasy soot.
I cut the flame, turned the gas off at the bottles, and hung the torch on the hook. Then I poked around in the cluttered cab of the truck and found Gaunt’s old leather holdall, lifted that out, and dropped it on the floor well back by the side of the bench.
Frank strolled in and handed me my almost cold coffee and I steered him away from Gaunt’s truck because I didn’t want him inspecting that mirror. We chatted for a while, and then it was just a matter of waiting.
About six I saw Gaunt weaving his way up the hill, hunched up inside a parka, hands deep in his pockets. My heart began to thump. I’d backed his truck out by that time. Frank was tinkering with the Lister diesel from the lobster boat. I watched Gaunt puffing up the hill, his breath white in the still air. From the shadows outside the office I kept one eye on him and one on Frank. The timing had to be just right. If Frank found the holdall before Gaunt pulled off the forecourt, the whole plot crumbled.