Ken McClure - Deception

Steven looked around for a suitable stick to use as a probe and saw one about three metres away. He moved cautiously towards it, his eyes glued to the ground ahead, pausing to separate the long grass with his hands where necessary. He felt happier with the stick in his hand, which he continually swept in an arc in front of him before risking further progress. In the next twenty metres or so he came across four more traps. Two had dead rats in them, one another rabbit and the fourth the source of the whimpering, a small white dog.

The dog, a King Charles spaniel, had his right front paw caught in a large spring-mounted trap. From his bedraggled appearance and the damage to the surrounding area on his leg where wet fur had merged with dried, encrusted blood, Steven could see that the beast had been struggling for some time. It was no great test of deductive power to work out that his name was, Patch and that he’d been there overnight.

‘Well, you’ve got yourself into a fine mess, haven’t you?’ murmured Steven as he cleared an area round about the dog where he could squat down and set about freeing it. He could see that its leg had been broken by the impact of the hammer bar on the trap. ‘You’re going to need a vet, old son... and the bad news is that there isn’t one locally any more... Easy does it... There we are... Steven freed the dog and stopped him trying to stand up on his damaged limb. He looked around for twigs and found what he was looking for within easy reach. It wasn’t often that he found his expertise in field medicine called upon but right now he was going to fashion a splint for Patch.

Whether it was the fact that he was thinking about the last time he’d had to tend to an injured colleague and the mission that they’d been on at the time or whether his nerves were strung like piano wire after the events of the last forty-eight hours, Steven reacted like lightning when a hand touched his shoulder. His assailant had barely time to utter a word before Steven had hammered his left elbow back into his stomach, spun round to bring the edge of his right hand down into the side of the man’s neck and was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and holding the barrel of his automatic at the side of his head.

‘Jesus,’ said the man. ‘Was it something I said?’

Steven took in the fact that the man beneath him was wearing camouflage fatigues and a military beret. When he had relaxed enough to look up he saw that four other soldiers had joined them. One of them, with lieutenant’s pips on his shoulders moved to the front.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

‘I might ask you the same question,’ said Steven. He realised that every eye was on the gun in his hand. He got to his feet and put it back in its holster before getting out his ID and showing it to the officer.

‘ Doctor Dunbar?’ exclaimed the man. ‘Ye gods, if that was an example of your bedside manner, I hope you don’t do house calls.’ He turned to the soldier sitting on the ground, rubbing his neck and asked, ‘All right Kincaid?’

‘Yes, boss,’ replied the soldier.

‘Our job is to clear the entire area of wild animals,’ said the lieutenant, who now introduced himself as Lt Adrian Venture. ‘I thought you would have known that,’ he said with a glance at Steven’s ID as he handed it back.

‘I knew about the rat cull with .22 rifles. No one told me about the traps.’

‘I think they wanted it kept low key, and for obvious reasons’ said Venture with a nod to the traps. ‘Efficiency wins over legality. Didn’t want the save-the-squirrel mob fucking up things if you know what I mean?’

Steven nodded. ‘I guess young Patch here didn’t know about it either,’ he said, looking down at the dog, which one of the soldiers was comforting.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Venture. ‘It’s the sort of operation where you get...’

‘Collateral damage,’ completed Steven. He turned to the soldier he’d felled and said, ‘Maybe I should take a look at your neck, soldier?’

The soldier backed away.

‘He is a doctor,’ said Venture.

‘Bet you don’t get too many complaints down your surgery,’ said the man and the ensuing laughter took any remaining tension out of the atmosphere. Steven examined the man and pronounced to his and everyone else’s relief that no lasting damage had been done. He turned back to Venture and pointed out that it was still the time of the school holidays in the area. There was a risk of youngsters making the same mistake that Patch had made. If that happened, the shit really would hit the fan.

‘I see what you mean,’ agreed Venture. ‘We can’t put up notices advertising the traps but we could make it more difficult to reach this bank, perhaps put wire up on the parapet?’

‘Good idea,’ said Steven. ‘Who’s in charge of this operation by the way?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Venture. ‘Ours is not to reason why...’

Steven approached the soldier who was cradling the dog in his arms and asked Venture if the man might be allowed to assist him while he reset the dog’s leg and applied a makeshift splint to it. It would be an easier operation with someone else holding the animal. Venture readily agreed and it was done quickly, although not without a communal wince from the onlookers. Venture asked about the dog and Steven told him about the poster in the village. The soldier looked worried but Steven assured him that the owners needn’t know just how the animal had come to have its leg broken. ‘I’m sure they’ll just be delighted to have him back.’

Steven made his way back to the bridge, carrying the dog in his arms and with the soldiers leading the way. They helped him up and over the parapet where they parted on good terms. Steven walked down into the village and went into the Post Office where he explained that he’d found the missing dog up by the canal banks with a broken leg. It matched the description of ‘Patch’ on the notice outside, could the Post master telephone the owners and look after the animal until the owners came down to pick it up?

‘It’s no ma problem,’ said the surly man behind the counter. ‘Ye canny leave it here. This is a post office, no’ a cat and dog home.’

Steven had to swallow hard to keep his temper. This was the community the Clarion had described as ‘the close-knit community of Blackbridge’, the one that had been ‘stunned’ by Ian Ferguson’s death.

‘Will you at least make the phone call?’ he asked in a calm voice.

‘If you’ll pay for it. That’ll be 10p.’

Steven held the dog in one hand while he searched for change in his pocket with the other. He found a fifty-pence piece and tossed it at the man. ‘Keep the change,’ he said in an even monotone. There was a moment when the man behind the counter looked like saying something else but the look in Steven’s eyes informed him correctly that he might regret it. He lifted the phone and Steven went outside to wait.

A woman, driving a Citroen estate car with two children in the back arrived at the kerb within ten minutes and was effusive in her thanks. She left to take the dog over to a vet in Livingston and Steven drove back to Edinburgh.

Eve phoned just before three in the afternoon: she sounded excited. ‘I’ve got some news,’ she announced. ‘Trish has asked Childs and Leadbetter to move out of Crawhill.’

‘Has she now,’ said Steven thoughtfully.

‘She arrived back home this morning and spoke to a deputation of village people about the protest over GM crops at Peat Ridge. They all wanted to know if she was still going to support them in ‘their struggle’ as they called it. She told them yes but I got the impression her heart wasn't in it.’

‘I think she was probably told to say that,’ said Steven.