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  Boonzie had left his reading glasses at home in Italy, and had to peer closely at the paper to read what Ewan had written on it. The upper third of the page was a scrawl of notes Boonzie didn’t really understand. Something about ‘Louis d’or’, and some dates and other names that meant little to him. Below that were some jottings about local history, dating back to the eighteenth century, featuring a few famous names that Boonzie did recognise, though it was unclear why Ewan had been taking such an interest in the subject. The notes at the bottom of the page switched away from history and were about illegal salmon fishing in the area. Underneath Ewan had scribbled in capitals the words ‘WHO IS THE POACHER??’ and underlined them so hard he’d scratched right through the paper.

  Boonzie smoothed the page flat, folded it neatly and put it in his pocket. Then turned to look around him at the wrecked room. Until now he’d managed to keep a handle on his emotions. The image of Ewan in the intensive care unit flashed into his mind, and he thought how his nephew might never awaken from the coma these people had put him into. Rage boiled up inside him.

  ‘Bastards,’ he muttered.

  Boonzie put his hand on his chest as he suddenly felt an odd sensation behind his ribs, followed by a jolt of pain that made him let out a low groan. He swayed slightly on his feet and reached out to support himself on the back of a chair. He waited a few seconds for the pain to subside, then walked slowly into the kitchen to find a glass and fill it with tapwater. He used it to gulp down the last couple of pills from one of the little bottles he now carried everywhere with him. He hated taking them. There was a fresh bottle in his pocket. He tossed away the empty.

  When he felt better, he went to pick up Ewan’s landline phone and called Mirella. ‘It’s me. Just checking in. You okay?’

  She was happy and relieved to hear from him. They spent very little time apart, as a rule, and she told him how much she was missing him.

  ‘Listen, hen, there’s bad news. It’s aboot Ewan.’ Boonzie quickly filled her in on all that had happened, and shared his belief that the same people who killed Ross Campbell had tried to kill him, too. He told her about his meeting with the cops, and how he’d decided to pursue this himself.

  Mirella was shocked and worried, but her greatest anxiety was for her husband caught up in the middle of this situation. ‘Promise me you’ll take care.’

  ‘You know I will. Always.’

  ‘How do you feel? Are you taking your medicine?’

  ‘Och, I’m fine,’ he said, brushing off her concerns. ‘Strong as an ox.’

  Mirella knew how stubborn he was, and that he didn’t like being fussed over. More matter-of-factly she said, ‘Something came for you. An email, from your nephew. He sent it last night. I only saw it today.’

  ‘From Ewan? What aboot?’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll read it to you.’ A pause, while Mirella carried the phone over to the computer and pulled up the email. ‘Okay, here it is. It just says, “Ross found this. It gets weirder. Hope you get here soon.”’

  ‘Ross found what?’

  ‘There was an attachment with the email. I opened it. It’s a photo of an old coin. It looks like gold. Why would he send you that? Has this got something to do with what’s happened to him and his friend?’

  Boonzie didn’t want to burden Mirella with more concerns, so he reassured her that it would all be sorted out soon.

  ‘I hate you not being here,’ she said with a sniff.

  ‘I’ll be back home before ye know it, pet.’

  ‘Call me every day. Don’t let me sit here worrying.’

  ‘Twice a day,’ he promised. Then he repeated once more how much he loved her. Which he truly did, no less than the day he’d first laid eyes on her and fallen hard. He reassured her that things would be fine and not to fret. It was hard to say goodbye.

  When the call was over, Boonzie sat thinking for a long time. These damned gold coins just wouldn’t go away. They were clearly vital to understand what was going on here, but he wouldn’t know where to start with something like that. By contrast, Ewan’s notes about salmon poaching had given him an idea. If he could find the poacher, he could begin to unravel this whole thing. And there was no better time to start than right away.

  The first thing Boonzie needed to do was sort himself out some wheels. He went back to the utility room with the broken window and looked again at the camper van parked in Ewan’s back yard. It was old and dirty and neglected-looking, but ideal for his purposes. He didn’t want to stay in the house. If he’d thought the men who had ransacked it might return, he’d have felt differently and wanted to lie in wait for them, but he knew they wouldn’t be coming back here. The camper van would give him a mobile base from which to pursue his objective, wherever it led him.

  Boonzie was a man of many talents, even if a lot of them were underused these days. Among the skills he’d learned in the regiment was fixing old vehicles, the kind that soldiers making their way deep behind enemy lines might have to commandeer. He found the camper keys on a hook in the hallway and went out to inspect it.

  A quick look around the vehicle confirmed his first impressions. The camper was equipped with two berths, sleeping bag and blankets, a stove, heater, and even a tiny washroom with a chemical cassette toilet. A little travel-stained and threadbare, but not too grotty and sheer bloody luxury compared to some of the places he’d been forced to make camp in his life. The engine wouldn’t start at first, but an hour later he had the corroded battery connections fixed up as good as new and the diesel glow plugs switched for a new set he found in the house, and the old girl coughed into life at the first twist of the key. He left the engine running to put charge into the battery, and returned to the house.

  It was mid-afternoon and the light was already beginning to fade. After living in Italy so long he’d almost forgotten how early the winter evenings fell, this far north. Back in the house he worked through the plan that was coming together in his mind. Certain additional items were required in order to put it into action. He dug a copy of the Yellow Pages out of the wreckage of Ewan’s living room and soon found what he was looking for. The place he had to go next was more than an hour’s drive away, but he would make it.

  Boonzie locked up the house, climbed aboard the camper and drove out of the yard and into the street. By nightfall, he’d have the things he needed.

  Then he’d be ready to go hunting.

  Chapter 11

  While Boonzie was making his preparations, another phone conversation was going on between the same two individuals as before.

  The underling reported, ‘There’s been another development, chief.’

  His superior replied, quite irritably, ‘What kind of development?’

  ‘Someone else is on the scene. An old guy. A relative of McCulloch’s.’

  ‘I thought McCulloch didn’t have any family.’

  ‘Turns out he does. An uncle. His name’s McCulloch, too. Lives in Italy. Arrived here this morning.’

  The superior heaved an impatient sigh. ‘Okay. Now tell me why I need to be concerned about some old guy who lives in Italy.’

  ‘Because he’s isn’t just any old old guy. He’s probably twice as fit as most men half his age. A right hard case.’

  ‘And why is this a problem?’

  The underling said, ‘Firstly, he isn’t buying the accidental drowning theory about Campbell. He seems to think the cases are connected.’

  ‘I wonder where he got that idea. The poacher?’

  ‘His nephew told him the whole story.’

  ‘To be expected, I suppose. Go on.’

  ‘Uncle McCulloch’s got a bit of an attitude problem. Not a happy chappie. And he’s intent on pursuing his own investigation.’

  ‘I see. One of those.’

  ‘But here’s the worrying part, chief. The guy is ex-military. Retired British Army non-com. We tried to get into his MoD file and hit a brick wall. Classified shit. You know what that means.’

 
; ‘Why the hell should I know what that means?’

  ‘It means trouble,’ the underling replied. ‘Now, it so happens that I’ve got a brother-in-law who works for the Ministry. I was able to call in a favour and—’

  ‘I’m a busy man. Why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me what you found out?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got McCulloch’s whole bio here in front of me. And like I thought, it turns out this bastard was no ordinary soldier. I really think you should listen to this.’

  ‘Let’s hear it, then.’

  ‘Born in Glasgow in 1953. Joined up at seventeen and was accepted into the Parachute Regiment two years later, in 1972. Did five years with them before he passed selection for 22 Special Air Service in February, 1977.’

  ‘You’re telling me that this moron Ewan McCulloch had an uncle in the SAS. Great. Just great.’

  ‘He served with them for twenty-six years. Counter-hijack and counter-terrorism specialist. A hell of a record, chief. I mean, you name it, he’s been there and done it. Operation Nimrod, 1980. The Iranian Embassy siege. Then the following year in Gambia, he was one of the special ops team who went in and rescued the President’s wife and kids from leftist rebels. Falklands War, 1982, he was with D Squadron for the famous assault on Pebble Island, when they destroyed half the Argentine air force in just thirty minutes.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful.’

  ‘In ’87 he was taking out IRA insurgents in Northern Ireland. Same year, his SAS unit got deployed to end the Peterhead Prison riot, here in Scotland. Blew their way in and stopped it before the rioters even knew what was happening. Four years after that, it was Operation Desert Storm, search-and-destroying SCUD missiles the Iraqis were trying to lob into Israel. Then in Bosnia in 1997 he was with the unit that shot dead a Serb war criminal called Simo Drljaca.’

  ‘This just keeps getting better.’

  ‘The following year they did a snatch mission in Serbia against another war criminal, Stevan Todorovic. Tracked the guy to a remote hideout in the mountains, kidnapped him in the dead of night and whisked him back into Bosnia to be arrested. After that, in 2001, yer man was sent to Afghanistan for Operation Trent, fighting against the Taliban—’

  ‘All right, all right, I get the picture.’

  ‘There’s probably more, all kinds of black-ops crap that nobody without a top-grade security clearance even knows about. He finally retired in 2003, rank of Colour Sergeant. Moved to Italy with his wife, been living there ever since.’

  ‘And now he’s honouring us with his company here in Scotland. Lucky us.’

  ‘It’s a worry. Someone with this bastard’s skills could be dangerous, if he starts sniffing around.’

  ‘I’d call that an understatement. All thanks to you, I might add.’

  ‘Chief, this guy would’ve turned up even if we’d killed McCulloch. In fact that would’ve probably made things worse.’

  ‘I’d say it’s bad enough as it is, don’t you? Where is he now?’

  ‘At his nephew’s house. Baird followed him there earlier and he’s watching the place. I spoke to him just before I called you. The old guy is still there. What should we do? You want him taken care of?’

  ‘If I said yes, what makes you think you’re up to the job, after last time?’

  ‘This will be different. No more screwups.’

  ‘He needs to disappear. Gone. Vanished. Not a trace. The sooner the better, before he starts talking to too many people and drawing attention.’

  ‘Baird can handle it. Knife job, quick and dirty, no witnesses, while the old guy’s still at the house. He won’t even see him coming.’

  ‘No. Baird’s just a violent retard. From what you say, the old guy will chew him up and spit out the bones. I think you’d better pull Baird off McCulloch’s tail before he gets spotted or somehow manages to mess things up for us. I have other plans.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It takes a pro to deal with a pro. I’m sending in Hacker.’

  Chapter 12

  The Normandy coast

  Two days later

  Ben Hope had always been a runner. In his mindset, if you weren’t constantly moving forwards, you were going backwards. That had never been an option for a person of his restless disposition, who needed to keep pushing hard from one challenging goal to the next. Somewhere deep in his mind he believed that, like a Great White shark, if he stopped moving, he’d sink to the bottom and die. He’d made himself physically fit from his mid-teens onwards, running and cycling and rock-climbing as though he was being chased by demons. That was before he’d joined the British Army and stern, shouty men in PT Instructor insignia took him to the next level and beyond. During his career he’d been able to achieve a degree of fitness, motivation and commitment that was off the charts. Now, all these years later, he still ran every day.

  He liked to vary his routine. Sometimes he could be found pounding the woodland tracks and undulating wildflower meadows around the rural thirty-acre compound he co-owned here in France, a place called Le Val. Other times, he would drive out to this long, lonely stretch of beach just a few miles away on the coast. The beach was where he’d come today, to stretch his legs and put himself to the test during some downtime.

  Winter was the season in which Ben liked running the most. A cold wind was blowing in off the sea, carrying pockets of squally rain that soaked him to the bone. This was his element, and the physical discomfort just made him push harder. The adverse weather on this chilly December day meant that the beach was totally deserted except for him and his German Shepherd, Storm, who loved nothing more than to tag along after his master on these punishing workouts with his tail wagging and his long pink tongue lolling out. Ben loved the emptiness. It allowed him to run at his peak and be alone with his thoughts.

  A couple of times a week, as he was doing today, he liked to raise the endurance bar an extra notch by carrying a bergen weighed down with forty pounds of sand. Back in the day, he and his Special Forces comrades used to hump much greater loads than that for endless miles both in training and in combat. This was taking it easy by comparison. But it was enough to keep him in better shape than most of the much younger guys who came to be put through their paces at Le Val.

  Ben co-ran the tactical training facility with his business partner and close friend Jeff Dekker. Jeff’s career had followed a parallel course to Ben’s, serving for years in the Navy’s Special Boat Service. Along with ex-soldier Tuesday Fletcher and the rest of their team they were kept busy by all the military, police and private close protection personnel who travelled to their quiet corner of rural Normandy from all over the world to hone their skills and learn from the best.

  Ben finished his run and returned to where he’d parked his new car among the dunes on the approach to the beach. It was the latest in a line of BMW Alpina high-performance sedans, dark metallic blue. As much as he favoured the marque, he seemed to keep trashing them. The last one had been shot to pieces in a gun battle outside Alençon, a few months earlier. He blipped the locks open as he trudged up the loose sand. His body felt loose and pumped. Ten hard miles, and he was barely out of breath. Not too shabby. The dog was more tired than he was.

  Ben dumped his bergen in the back of the Alpina, drank half a litre of bottled spring water, then changed out of his sandy running shoes. As he was getting ready to head back to Le Val he saw that he had a new voicemail message waiting for him on his phone.

  It was from Jeff. He didn’t sound very happy, but that was no surprise since he’d fractured a bone in his wrist during a training exercise two weeks earlier, and was currently confined to desk duties with a cast and sling. Yet Ben could tell instantly from his tone that something else was wrong. Jeff sounded uncharacteristically worried. All he said was, ‘Call me back soon as.’

  Ben did, right away. ‘Got your message. What’s up?’

  ‘Boonzie’s wife called the office number just now.’

  ‘Mirella?’

  ‘Yeah
. Tuesday got the call and passed it on to me. There’s some kind of problem. She seemed pretty upset.’

  ‘Did she say what kind of problem?’

  ‘No, she wanted to speak to you about it. I think you’d better talk to her, mate. It sounds serious.’

  It made sense to Ben that Mirella would rather talk to him, since Jeff didn’t know Ben’s old comrade Boonzie and his Italian wife as well as Ben did. But it didn’t make sense to Ben that it was Mirella, rather than Boonzie himself, who’d called. Something was obviously wrong.

  Rather than let it wait until he got home, Ben punched Boonzie and Mirella’s landline number into his mobile. He sat in the car, watching the waves rolling in as the call connected and he heard the Italian dial tone. Storm had jumped into the back and was panting hot breath in Ben’s other ear and trying to lick his face. He gently pushed the dog away as Mirella’s voice came on the line, saying, ‘Pronto?’

  Jeff had been right. She didn’t sound good at all.

  Boonzie had learned Italian shortly after moving to Campobasso, and rather stubbornly insisted on speaking it with her all the time, so Mirella had never got to perfect her English. Which was fine, since Ben spoke Italian very well. ‘Mirella, it’s Ben.’

  She sounded even more distraught, on the point of tears, as she thanked him for calling back so soon.

  He asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Archibald.’ Mirella never called her husband by his nickname. Given that Boonzie would typically threaten dire violence against anyone else who dared to refer to him any other way, very few people did.

  Ben steeled himself for the news that his dear old friend had fallen critically ill, or had received some terrible medical diagnosis, been given a week to live or was already dead. Not that Boonzie was particularly ancient. Even if he had been, the grizzled old warrior was one of those people you expect to live for ever, carved out of granite and as enduring and immutable as a mountain range.