Midnight Runner by Jack Higgins Read Free Book Online Page B

Skye to the north. They descended to an old World War Two airstrip with a couple of decaying hangars and a control tower. A station wagon was parked outside the tower, a man in a tweed suit and cap beside it. Lacey taxied the Lear toward him and switched off. Parry opened the door, dropped the steps, and Lacey led the way down. The man came forward.
    "Squadron Leader Lacey, sir?"
    "That's me."
    "Sergeant Fogarty. They've sent me from Oban."
    "Good man. The lady is Detective Superintendent Bernstein from Scotland Yard. She and Mr. Dillon here have important business at Loch Dhu Castle. Take them there and do exactly what the Superintendent tells you. You'll bring them back here."
    "Of course, sir."
    Lacey turned to the others. "See you later."
    T hey approached the castle in twenty minutes, still as imposing as they remembered it, and set well back from the road. The walls were ten feet high, and smoke curled up from the chimney of the lodge. The gates were shut. Dillon and Hannah got out, but there were no handles, and when he pushed, nothing happened.
    "Electronic. That's an improvement from the old days."
    The front door opened and a man appeared with a hard, raw-boned face. He wore a hunting jacket and carried a sawed-off shotgun under his left arm.
    "Good afternoon," Hannah said.
    He had a hard Scots voice. "What do you want?" He sounded decidedly unfriendly.
    "Now then," Dillon told him. "This is a lady you're dealing with, so watch your tone. And who might you be, son?"
    The man stiffened, as if sensing trouble. "My name's Brown. I'm the factor here, so what do you want?"
    "Mr. Dillon and I were here some years ago for the shooting," Hannah told him. "We rented Ardmurchan Lodge."
    "We know you're running adventure courses for young people at the castle these days," Dillon said, "but we wondered if Ardmurchan Lodge might not still be available. My boss--General Ferguson?--would love to rent it for the shooting again."
    "Well, it isn't, and the shooting season's over."
    "Not the kind I'm interested in," Dillon told him amicably.
    Brown took the shotgun from under his arm. "I think you'd better leave."
    "I'd be careful with that--I'm a police officer," Hannah said.
    "Police officer, my arse. Get out of here." He cocked the shotgun.
    Dillon raised a hand. "We don't want any problems. Obviously, the lodge isn't available. Come on, Hannah."
    They went back to the car. "Drive on just out of sight of the gate," Dillon told Fogarty.
    "What happened back there is an intelligence matter, Sergeant, you understand?" Hannah said.
    "Of course, ma'am."
    "Good, then pull in," Dillon told him. "I'm going over the wall and you can give me a push."
    They stopped and got out, Fogarty joined his hands together, and Dillon put his left foot in them. The big Sergeant lifted, and Dillon pulled himself over the wall and dropped into the trees on the other side and moved toward the lodge.
    B rown was in the kitchen, the gun on the table, and dialing a number on the wall phone, when he heard a slight creak and felt a draft of air. Brown dropped the phone and reached for the shotgun and then became aware of the Walther in Dillon's right hand.
    "Naughty, that," Dillon said. "I might have shot you straight away instead of just thinking about it."
    "What do you want?" Brown said hoarsely.
    "You were phoning the Countess of Loch Dhu in London, am I right?"
    "I don't know what you're talking about."
    Dillon slashed him across the face with the Walther. "Am I right?" he asked again.
    Brown staggered back, blood on his face. "Yes, damn you. What do you want?"
    "Information. Act of Class Warfare. School parties, right? Kids having a nice week in the country, climbing, canoeing on the loch, trekking. That's what you offer?"
    "That's right." Brown got a handkerchief out and mopped blood from his face.
    "And what about the other courses for the older ones?"
    "I don't know what you mean."
    "The guys and girls who like to hide their faces with balaclavas and