Smoke of Skye

SMOKE OF SKYE

a Novel by

LANE MANNING

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Smoke of Skye © 2012 by the author, Lane Manning.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, eBook, Audio Book, print editions, photocopies or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For information email the author - lanemanning@me.com

ABOUT SMOKE OF SKYE

Irish crime boss, Reagan, reaches into Scotland to target a family for abductions, millions in stolen cash, and murder. Tiger kidnap jolts Inspector Red Campbell and Detective Sanja Rao. They are stymied by death threats, silence of a family full of suspects, and pointed interference by a police superior.

A reconstructed crime scene reveals the stark act of murder. The assailant, having posed as a postal employee, shoots David MacGregor dead on the front porch. The MacGregor’s have guarded their privacy, but that ends in the public glare of a high-profile case.

Hope for justice dims when Red Campbell is injured in a Donnybrook with another officer and suspended from duty. Sanja Rao is promoted, but the rookie’s task is daunting. Her hunter’s instinct is tested when the plot twists in unexpected directions.

Emily makes a frantic alliance to move her children beyond Reagan’s grasp. Faith, the turncoat, chooses to re-unite with her criminal associates. Red Campbell is cleared, but tonight a terrorist has fused the bomb set to kill Red and Sanja. They face the darkest hours of a Scottish night …

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Appreciation to the following reference sources:

"Essay on Superstitions of the Highlands," by Anne Grant (Stuart) 1811

"By Sundown Shores – Studies in Spiritual History," by Fiona MacLeod, 1902

Cover photo by Ian Salas. www.pics.cl

Cover design by Val Manning at Bright Ideas Marketing. terranorte@aol.com

Assistance and encouragement by Rebecca Combs, Kyle Beachy and John Dalton.

Webmaster and hosting by Wayne Keenan. wkeenan@keenansites.com

Smoke of Skye (Website) www.smokeofskye.com

Editorial assistance by Carol Cochran.

Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting - bob_houston@hotmail.com

Inspector Campbell Series

~Book Details~

Inspector Red Campbell: Scots-Irish detective, assigned to Grampian Police District, Northern Scotland. Age, mid-thirties; friend of the MacGregor family, and David, the murder victim. Lives in Nairnshire.

Sanja Rao: Graduate of Scottish Police College, rookie detective. Age, mid-twenties; her parents are Pakistani immigrants, own a furniture business on High Street in Nairn.

Reagan: Crime boss and sociopath, early 40’s with an IRA past. His gang targets the MacGregor family and their business, Royal Gregor Distilling. Gang members include Ewan, Tito, and Juliet, all mid-20’s.

The MacGregor Family: Includes David (deceased), Yvonne (his American wife), and siblings, Dr. Roy (chemist), and Countess Tara, (socialite and gambler).

Rick and Emily MacGregor: (David’s son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren, Gordon and Davie Mor), abducted by Reagan in Tiger Kidnap scheme.

Faith Coogan: Age 25, from Ulster, Northern Ireland. Companion and domestic servant of Countess Tara. Lives with her employer at Beauvallon Towers, in Edinburgh.

Frank Ishikawa: Age, early-sixties, a Japanese businessman with a criminal association.

Commander Aberdeen: A corrupt police official and sex trafficker. His protégé is Detective Gilchrest, a racist and Red Campbell’s nemesis.

Tiki Jackalo: A Namibian girl, 17, caught up in a cruel web of exploitation.

Angus: 80-something, Downstairs Dean and faithful retainer of MacGregor family.

Lt. Iverson: An officer of the Nairn sub-station of Police, friend of Red & Sanja.

Corporal Ellison: An officer at The Pier, a police station in the City of Inverness.

Doctor Douglas: Cares for Red and Frank, when they need it most.

Haskins: 60’s, corporate solicitor and legal advisor to MacGregor family.

Raymond: police cadet and admirer of Detective Rao.

Sergeant Frasier: Member of Red and Sanja’s detail.

The Brown man: Sanja’s informant and Jenna’s father.

Bertie O’Neill: Innkeeper and former IRA criminal.

Froggie & Crooked Suit: Reagan’s accountant and mouthpiece.

PROLOGUE

Tiger Kidnapping: the taking of an innocent hostage to make a loved one or associate of the victim do something against his will, e.g. a child is taken hostage to force the shopkeeper to open the safe; the term originates from the prior observation of the victim, like a tiger does with its prey. (Wikipedia)

"The police shorthand term, tiger kidnap, refers to the predatory nature of the beast, and the crime which often involves stalking."(Scotland Yard)

The Times has called tiger kidnap the point where old-fashioned crime meets modern terrorism. There are common elements of intimidation, coercion and a refined sense of psychological cruelty. When criminals adopt terrorist tactics, the lines blur. Like sexual assault, it may be greatly under-reported to police for fear of reprisal.

Control Risks Group has documented a 300 per cent increase of Tiger Kidnap offenses in the UK and Europe during recent years. Referred to as Home Invasion in the US, these crimes may include grand larceny, murder, rape, child abuse and arson. Kidnap for ransom is epidemic and uncontrolled in Latin America. Kidnap, the Western World’s crime of choice in the twenty-first century, is one of history’s oldest.

CHAPTER 1

…bad watch feeds the wolf.

NAIRN SHIRE, SCOTLAND:

2:30 pm ,WEDNESDAY

REAGAN POLISHED UP NICELY, if still rough-cut. He could picture himself wearing a suit to work, a dignified life on the other side. Honest labor with regular hours, a sweet Molly waiting at home. But he used thuggery to mask disappointed ambitions. And his criminal actions today would dash any daydreams of normalcy, probably for good. This late summer day began early for the three Irish gangsters.

At home, in North Dublin, they often worked all night. Today, Reagan and his associates, Ewan and Tito, played golf at one of Scotland’s prestigious clubs, the Nairn Dunbar. Reagan had studied styles and natty attire from the British Open, and they were dressed for the occasion. But it was only a cover, and golf wasn’t really their game. At 3:05 pm they neared the objective. The links-style fairway home of Rick MacGregor, lay at 14 Walker Cup Road.

Tito left the golf cart near the property line and entered the back garden. He appeared to seek a lost golf ball. When Emily opened the atrium door a few inches to warn him from her bed of asters, Tito jammed his Haig Ultra seven iron into the narrow door opening. Before she could react, he wrenched the door open, easily breaking a brass-plated safety chain. The rude golfer sauntered into her kitchen, followed by the more ominous Reagan.

Emily surprised both men by screaming when she saw the second intruder. Tito narrowed the distance between them. He aimed a right fist straight at the point of her jaw, knocking her down before she could shriek a second time. Reagan was quickly over her, attaching nylon restraints to her wrists and ankles.

The last of the threesome, Ewan, had waited a chip shot away. He now drove his cart over the garden, asters and all. He moved the first cart from the fairway, leaving both out of view on the side of the house. When he entered the atrium he found Emily on the kitchen floor, hand-cuffed and gagged.

She had turned off the home alarm system at 3:00, as she usually did. The children were scheduled home, on a Stagecoach bus, in twelve minutes. Abduction of the MacGregor family had begun, the most dangerous job any of the three had ever touched.

Nice bum on that one, Ewan said, stepping over the prone hostage. He wore the more resplendent of the golfing costumes, a pair of tartan golf slacks topped with a black Izod muscle shirt and fashion shades.

Reagan knelt next to the woman as her ragged breath wheezed through the gag. He put a rough hand on her throat and spoke close to her ear.

I could snap this lovely neck, Ducky, unless you follow instructions, he said.

Emily heard him, but continued to kick and fight the nylon restraints until her wrists were bleeding. He left her face-down on the floor, where resistance was least effective. Violence was complicit to control, the first level of intimidation.

Davie Mor, age six, and his year-younger brother Gordon, blinked in surprise at the men and the black automatic weapon Ewan produced from his golf bag. When freed of her restraints, Emily stopped stressing, and began to calm the lads. Reagan saw this, and pointed to the after-school tea platter the woman had prepared for schoolboys Davie and Gordon. Conditionally, the children set aside fear in favor of food.

Their schedule was tight, punctuated by the clock. The men would leave with their hostages within minutes, but rain augured. Ewan located storm gear on hooks in the foyer for their captives, as well as several larger hoodies for themselves.

Emily stood motionless, her eyes stark. At last, for lack of options, she gave some limited cooperation. At Reagan’s direction, she added snacks, meds, overnight supplies to a travel tote. Tito dragged the woman to the alarm console in the hall. He placed the barrel of his own Mac-10 against her left breast.

Imagine a weapon like this one, pointed at your husband’s handsome head, he said. Now, punch in your security code. He watched the familiar display. Next, touch the ‘Away’ button.

Tito couldn’t be certain Emily had correctly re-armed the system, but jostled her roughly through the front door. He tightened her seatbelt in the first cart where Reagan waited behind the wheel. Ewan stood each boy against a golf bag, and secured the straps. Tito joined them in the second cart. They crossed Walker Cup Road in a light rain, through the parking lot and onto the nature trail through Old Maggot Park.

Reagan steered past the same storm drain, where the men had stopped a few hours earlier. Ewan had used a steel sewer wrench from his golf bag to release and raise the grill, while Reagan placed a sealed Ziploc bag on the inner ledge. The bag contained the pistol and ammunition their inside informant had demanded. This particular sewer connected directly to the plan.

They were soon above the tamarisk-lined cove on River Nairn where the fiberglass fishing boat bobbed in quiet concealment. This useful craft had been included with Ally’s Shrimp, their rented fishing lodge.

Under gunpoint, the MacGregor hostages were pushed into the blacked-out cabin. Tito and Ewan returned the carts to nearby Merryton Gardens, as the golf course requested. Reagan worked the craft free of its mooring. He had the inboard warmed and ready to travel when his gang members returned.

Tito piloted the launch slowly up the middle of the swift river, then made a portside turn into the smaller Findhorn tributary, a prime salmon fishery. After making several oxbow bends, Reagan saw the weathered cedar boathouse below Ally’s Shrimp. He checked the elapsed time on his Wenger chronograph, the trinket he had once muscled from a Swiss tourist.

1:41 start-to-finish, well within the time allotted. Reagan felt relief with the first step taken, the information proven reliable. His brash confidence never wavered, but he worried about the next phase. The night ahead of them was dark, even for predators.

Emily, Gordon and Davie were led blindfolded into the lock-tight room above Ally’s Shrimp. Tito climbed the exterior stairway behind them, carrying drinking water, supplies, and meds. The mother and children would be closely confined with Tito, an evil companion for the ensuing hours. The boys wept when their mother did, but the three settled in to wait with dread.

5:30 pm , WEDNESDAY

TWO BULKY MEN WAITED in the grey Volvo saloon, the model favored by Scottish police services for unmarked patrol. From their vantage point, on southbound A95 half a mile from the Royal Gregor Distillery junction, the men could observe vehicles entering the 4-way in either direction.

Subject is right on clock. One of the men checked his watch and passed the binoculars to the driver who focused on the burgundy Ford Explorer. Watching the Fordie accelerate, the driver could see big car clearly now. Couldn’t be anyone else.

Description is perfect. He’s alone, no surprise there.

The saloon matched its speed to that of the SUV and the men followed Rick MacGregor from 200 metres, toward town in the drizzle of an early evening rain. The Volvo quickly overtook the Explorer, in thin traffic on the outskirts of Nairn. The vehicle pulled alongside, its dashboard and rear-deck rotator lights now activated and pulsing with a blue strobe effect.

Rick MacGregor looked nervously toward the police vehicle, when one of the men turned the half-shield on the dash beacon, and gestured for him to turnout at the approaching slip road. The Explorer stopped along Tradespark Road, and both men, wearing police-style caps and high-visibility safety jackets, were quickly at the driver's window.

It’s about your wife, Mr. MacGregor. I'm afraid there's been a serious accident.

He grimaced in sympathy, the bearer of bad news.

Please lock your vehicle and come with us, the policeman said.

One of the bulky men climbed into the rear seat of the saloon, beside Rick.

Rick leaned forward as the driver related details of an automobile accident earlier this afternoon. Behind his vision, the second policeman abruptly struck him a stunning blow across the back of his head. His weapon was a shot-filled, leather sap, the type of weapon police and pub bouncers call a slapjack.

Rick’s head and shoulders sagged into the open space between the Volvo’s forward seats. The driver’s sympathetic expression faded while the second man wrenched the victim’s hands and forearms behind his back. He secured them within loops of nylon-tie handcuffs.

The stunned man began to recover, but his assailant withdrew a syringe from the plastic case in his pocket. He re-attached its 22g needle, and injected a dose of ketamine hydrochloride, the animal tranquilizer, directly into Rick's carotid artery. MacGregor moaned, not unpleasantly, as he drifted off. The driver started the Volvo’s engine, and made a wide turn around the Explorer as both men scanned the area for a chance witness.

It’s Special-K, my man, the bogus policeman explained to Rick in a friendly tone. This junk is going to really make your day.

The driver re-entered A95, wipers rhythmically sweeping Scottish mist from the deep-tinted windscreen. The saloon retraced its route toward Inverness until it reached Bracken junction. There it turned south into rural Nairnshire, an area of well-kept, small farms and rural hamlets along county road B9090.

At Dreadnaught village, near the famous Castle, the driver turned onto an unimproved road which followed the Findhorn River to a remote sector of the estate. Ally's Shrimp, named for an irresistible salmon fly, was one of the half-dozen self-catering properties let by the Dreadnaught owners to tourists and corporate groups. Reagan had noticed a colorful advert in a business magazine, describing the lodge as a hideout.

Reagan used a shell corporation, registered in the Channel Islands, to book Ally’s Shrimp. He chose it not for its amenities or for salmon fishing, but for strict privacy and access to the MacGregor compound. The fishing lodge, as a corporate retreat, was equipped with several telephone lines and broadband internet access. Comfortable, yes, but the place would quickly outgrow its usefulness.

Reagan slid from behind the wheel, and with each man pulling, they dragged MacGregor from the rear seat into the lodge. They dropped him, not at all carefully, onto the Italian leather couch away from the front windows.

Watch him, and I mean every minute. Reagan pointed a finger at Ewan. One mistake and I'll tie the two of you together. Unless he has killed you with a golf club first.

He now snapped on his LED torch and walked down the dirt road leading into Ally's Shrimp, examining the road surface. He found signs of an earlier visitor on the road going behind the structure, closer to the forest. Imprinted in the soft bank of the road was a sharply-cut tire tread, most certainly not there when they left the estate earlier to intercept Rick MacGregor.

Reagan deliberated. An innocent passer-by, perhaps, or could they be onto us already? He shivered and shook his rain gear. Reagan was cautious and distrustful by training, and he had feared an ambush from the beginning. The ‘insider’ information he’d been given was much too good, too detailed and complete.

The track in the mud might be the housekeeper, or a ghillie, paid by the estate to guide fishermen and shooters. But the roast goose, dropped on his plate by the Scottish woman, smelled of a trap. If the visitor was a local constable, he might be at the estate office right now, checking rental records. When a computer search led in circles, he would likely return.

Fitting his brutal business, Reagan maintained a boxer’s ropy musculature and hard fists. He pushed away from 40, with heavy dark brows cross-hatched with scar tissue. His nose had been broken, but straightened by a rural veterinarian. Regardless, women loved his face for the risks it implied, its undertone of danger.

Reagan had an instinct for changing up at the right time, and moved quickly in and out of drugs, cigarettes, and diesel laundering. He prospered from gambling and strong-arm extortion. His gang did whatever a criminal enterprise could do to make money. He thwarted the best police efforts to make positive identification of himself as a crime figure.

His IRA career had ended in the late 90’s. The Good Friday Agreement left Reagan a leader without a cause. Now, he preferred to operate with the few associates he trusted. He avoided the exposure of politics or paramilitaries.

The evening’s rain onto the dark river made the forest setting of Ally’s Shrimp all the more opaque and unknowable. The plan’s weakness was its linear structure, each phase must segue smoothly into the next. Too damned much could go wrong. The three men had reviewed Phase Two of the operational plan several times, gathering behind the Sony laptop as Reagan keyed the narrated PowerPoint slide show.

Each screen was linked to a high resolution, satellite photo of the subject area, fading to the image of a count-down clock. The software tracked movements, accumulated time, gave them accounting of how long each part would require. Ewan has been Reagan's protégé, trained to examine every job, weigh every criminal venture with caution. He took nothing for granted, even when the target appeared vulnerable or under-defended.

Their method was to develop alternate paths to approach any target, and at least as many ways to escape. Ewan weighed the risks of exposure and used his senses to detect a trap. Some obstacles could not be anticipated, but each of the men could think on his feet. Threading the way through an urban combat zone was in their blood.

So how's your patient now? Reagan asked burly Ewan, whose deep-set, glowering eyes correctly indicated a menacing personality.

Ewan and Tito were street-hardened kids, half Reagan’s age. Both were veterans of Belfast neighborhood warfare. It was Tito’s uncle, the Serbian guerilla Colonel, who invited them for terrorist training in the Balkans. Tiger Kidnap was the school’s specialty. The MacGregor opportunity in Scotland had come along less than a year later.

Ewan was watching Rick closely, as instructed. He reached under the still-sleeping Scot and rudely rolled the man over to inspect the nylon handcuff harness. Glancing at his own wristwatch, he counted Rick's pulse for fifteen seconds.

He's still on a trip, feeling no pain. Ewan dropped the wrist, and listened to the man's chest. Heart rate and breathing seem OK. He turned Rick face-up on the leather couch. That Special-K is funny stuff, but he'll be coming around inside of an hour. He may not even remember the lamp I give him in the car, but his head is going to be sore.

He better remember the combination to that stinking vault, else we'll be giving you that date-rape drug on the way home, Reagan said. There was a college girl at Queen’s was slipped some Special-K, and raped by the rugby team. She didn’t remember a thing, just sore in the morning -- and not her neck.

He'll be all right. Bloke's in decent shape, for a businessman. He must work out a lot, Ewan said.

It's all that bloody golf. Guy's a champion amateur, brought home a Walker Cup for Scotland, a few years back. I'll watch our safe-cracker for a while, if you want a break. There’s nibblies on the sideboard, Reagan said.

The fridge and pantry had been thoughtfully stocked, so guests would not be required to shop for their first several days. It would be more than enough.

After, I want you to arm up and climb the rise to that stand of forest behind us. We had a visitor about two hours ago, looking over the place, and I'd like to know who it was, he said.

Reagan watched Ewan, with his grappler's tatted arms, shrug into his rain shell and shoulder his weapon. After an hour, Ewan returned to the lodge, the light rain now bucketing, and he was drenched.

Nothing moving by in the last hour, but I could smell diesel myself. I listened at the door, sounds like those weans are climbing the wall, Ewan said.

Clean that K-10 if it’s wet, you may need it. Stay in now, it’s almost show time, Reagan looked through the front windows, scanning the misted approach.

Ewan shook like a big dog, much of the rain spattering the leather Chesterfield and Rick, who jumped suddenly and muttered.

He's coming back now, aware of things again, Ewan said.

Reagan sat watching Rick, whom he considered the weakest link in the Royal Gregor security system. Under stress, the man might do anything. The hostage appeared on the edge of the real world, trying to shake off the drug’s dark effects on the brain and central nervous system. Addicts called it the K-pit.

Ewan had stayed close from the beginning, regarding him now as a captured game animal. At Reagan’s nod, he took hold of MacGregor’s arms and stood him upright. He would be kept alive, but no picnic.

Drink that black coffee in front of you, it'll help get rid of the fuzz. You'll need all your wits for what's ahead, Ewan said.

Rick’s jerky movements spilled the coffee on the first try. He yawned and swallowed hard, as if at high altitude, to clear his head of the drug.

First, we're not cops, the man across from him said. But you may wish we were.

Where's my wife? What’s this place? Who’re you people? Rick had found his voice.

The hostage turned abruptly and looked behind him toward the door.

Sit down, Boyo. Reagan was firm, but friendly. I'll explain everything. But let's cut those cuffs off your hands. He gestured to Ewan, holding up his wrist.

Ewan removed the nylon restraint from Rick's wrists with a metal shears from his jacket. He stood over his captive until he returned to his seat on the Chesterfield. Ewan then sat nearby, watching attentively as MacGregor rubbed his right arm and touched the base of his skull, where pain signals probably radiated from the blow of the slap-jack.

We represent a foreign faction… Reagan said.

Reagan began to spin a short explanation of their taking and holding Rick. He bluntly stated their intention to rob the vault at Royal Gregor Distillery later tonight. He placed responsibility for the actions on an un-named paramilitary group seeking freedom from an evil system of injustice.

He moved closer to Rick, sympathetic again. I'm sorry you're caught up in the middle of this business, but here's what ye can do to be a hero. You can save lives and bring everyone home unharmed.

Reagan evaluated the hostage's blank stare and stunned reaction, then nodded to Ewan. The former cage fighter jerked Rick upright, shaking him as a chow might a poodle.

There isn't much time, and Emily needs to talk to you. Reagan’s tone was sharp.

Ewan pushed him across the room to the kitchen sideboard where the Sony laptop was placed. Reagan opened the computer and pressed a key to open the video link Tito had established from the room above. At first the picture was dark, but they could see indistinct figures and Rick heard familiar voices.

One of the figures snapped on a bright light which overexposed the scene, turning the screen white. But when the video camera automatically adjusted its aperture, Rick saw a woman seated on a stool, facing the lens. The camera zoomed closer, and Rick gasped when he recognized his wife. She hunched her shoulders like that when she was scared. She spoke, but her mouth tightened around each word. Emily’s eyes darted between the lens and someone off-camera, a purple bruise growing dark on her jaw.

Rick, we’re all right, Emily called out.

He stared at the screen, the darkened room. Emily sat under a suspended bare light bulb, obviously not at their home. He turned abruptly toward Reagan.

You’ve abducted my wife, you Irish scum? His question was incredulous.

Ewan laid his large hand and forearm heavily across MacGregor’s shoulder. He may have even growled in response to the outburst.

She's not far from here, and safe for now. But you'll never see her again, unless you play your cards right, Reagan said.

Pay attention, Rick, talk afterwards, Ewan said to him.