Jack Higgins - Midnight Never Comes

'I'm not sure, but one thing's for certain. He handled Fergus too damned competently for any university lecturer. Go on, off you go to bed. I'll see you in the morning.'

Ruth Murray hurried away, filled with a sudden aching fury and when she reached her room, flung herself facedown on the bed in an agony of rage and frustration. The girl-that damned girl. It was just as it always was-the moment she appeared, everything else faded into insignificance. It was as if he had forgotten her very existence.

And Asta, having heard every word of the conversation outside her door, lay very still in her own bed, eyes closed, aware of Donner peering in. And when at last the door closed and his footsteps faded, she reached out to switch on the lamp and sat up, a frown on her face. Suddenly, and for no accountable reason, she was afraid.

The waters of Loch Dubh were as dark as the name suggested, still and calm in the pale, early morning sunshine and on the island in the centre, the grey, broken ramparts of the castle walls lifted above its trees through a faint, pearly mist that drifted across the surface.

There was no sign of life on the island, not that he had expected to see any and he lit a cigarette and took his time over fitting the fishing rod together. Behind him, the heather followed the slope waist-deep to meet the dark line of the trees above him and somewhere a plover called as it lifted into the sky.

A small wind stirred the surface of the water and within moments, small black fins appeared in the shallows where the flies danced. Suddenly, a trout came out of the deep water beyond the sand bar, a good foot into the air and disappeared again.

For the moment forgetting everything else, Chavasse tied the fly Duncan Craig had recommended, apparently one of the old man's own manufacture, and went to work.

Lacking practice, his first dozen casts were poor and inexpert affairs, but gradually, as some of the old skill returned, he had better luck and hooked a couple of quarter-pounders.

The sun was up now and warm on his back. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip and cast and, out by the end of the sandbank, a triangular black fin sliced through the water.

Two pounds if it was an ounce. His cast, when it came, was the most accurate he had ever made in his life, the fly skimming the surface no more than a couple of feet in front of that black fin. The tail flicked out of the water, the tip of the rod bent over and his line went taut.

His reel whined as the hooked fish made for deep water and he stumbled along the sandbank, playing it carefully. Suddenly, the line went slack and he thought he had lost it, but it was only resting and a moment later, the reel spun again.

He played it for all of ten minutes, moving up and down the sand bar, and in spite of the fact that he wasn't wearing waders, stumbled knee-deep into the water at the end to bring his fish to the landing net.

He turned to wade back on shore, an involuntary smile on his face and a harsh voice said, 'Well and good, me bucko, and a fine dinner we'll make of that.'

The man who had spoken was old-at least seventy, but he stood there in the heather like a rock, a shotgun crooked in his left arm. He wore an old tweed suit, patched many times and white hair showed beneath the dark green glengarry bonnet. His face was the colour of oak, seamed with a thousand wrinkles and covered with an ugly stubble of grey beard.

Behind him, the heather stirred and two men rose to stand at his shoulder. One of them was a tall, well-built lad with ragged black hair and a wild reckless face, his mouth twisted in a perpetual smile. The other was Fergus Munro, still clearly recognisable in spite of the livid bruise down one side of his face, the smashed and swollen mouth.

'That's him, Da, that's him!' he cried, his eyes wild, raising his shotgun waist-high.

'Easy now, Fergus. Easy,' Hector Munro said and moved down the bank to the shore. He paused a couple of feet away from Chavasse and looked him up and down. 'He doesn't look much to me, Fergus,' he said calmly and his right fist swung suddenly.

Chavasse was already turning and it connected in a glancing blow, high on his left cheekbone, the force half spent, but still sufficient to send him flat on his back into the shallows.

He came up on his feet with a rush and the old man's shotgun lifted menacingly. 'Not now, my brave wee mannie. Ye'll get your chance, but not here. Just walk slow and easy before me and mind how ye go or this thing might go off.'

Chavasse held his gaze calmly for a moment, then he shrugged and moved up out of the water and across the beach. 'Have you ever seen the like of that now?' Rory Munro demanded and burst into a gale of laughter.

'Nothing to how he'll look when I've done with him,' Fergus said and as Chavasse passed him, he gave a violent shove that sent him staggering along the path through the heather.

As they topped the hill, Chavasse saw smoke rising on the far side of the trees and heard the voices of children calling to one another at play. So-they weren't taking him to Donner, so much was evident and he realised that he had made a grave miscalculation. At the very least he could expect a bad beating and from the looks of them, neither Rory nor Fergus Munro was the type who knew when to stop.

They skirted the trees and moved down into the hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old and battered with patched canvas tilts and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything, from the ragged clothes worn by the four women who squatted round the fire drinking tea from old cans, to the bare feet of the half dozen children who played in the far meadow where three bony horses grazed.

Fergus gave Chavasse a push that sent him staggering down the hill into the hollow and the women scattered quickly. Chavasse came to his feet and turned to meet the three men as they followed him.

Hector Munro sat himself on an old box vacated by one of the women, placed his shotgun across his knees and took out a clay pipe. Fergus and Rory moved in to stand on either side of Chavasse.

'An attack on the one of us is an attack on all, Mr. Chavasse, or whatever your name is,' Old Hector began. 'The great pity you weren't knowing that before, now, isn't it?'

'It is indeed,' Chavasse said.

His right elbow sank into Fergus's stomach and he swung to the left, chopping Rory across the right forearm so that he dropped his shotgun with a startled cry of pain. In the same moment, Chavasse turned to run and stumbled headlong as one of the women stuck out her foot.

He rolled desperately to avoid the stamping feet, aware of the women's voices, the stink of their unwashed bodies, old Hector's roar rising above all. And then another voice, strangely familiar, high and clear like a bugle call, lifted into the morning and hooves drummed across the turf.

The women broke and ran and Chavasse staggered to his feet backing against the steps of one of the caravans as Asta Svensson and Max Donner rode down into the hollow. Chavasse was aware of Fergus slipping under one of the caravans, disappearing into the heather like a wraith and then Donner arrived like a descending angel, his face dark with wrath.

The hooves of his horse scattered the fire and he kicked the shotgun from Hector Munro's grasp, a blow from his mount's hindquarters sending the old man staggering. He continued across the hollow and up the other side, reining in sharply, but of Fergus there was no sign.

Asta swung to the ground and ran to Chavasse. She wore cream jodhpurs, leather jacket and white blouse, open at the neck and her hair was plaited into two short pigtails.

'Are you all right, Paul?' she said anxiously, unaware in the excitement of the moment that she had used his first name.