Weird stood his ground, not taking his eyes off Karen Pirie. "You heard the man," he said. "Tell Jimmy Lawson to reel in his line and keep us alive."
Chapter 38
James Lawson slit open the belly and plunged his hand into the cavity, his fingers closing on the slippery guts. His lips twisted into a moue of distaste, the slithering of vital organs against his skin an offense against his basic fastidiousness. He drew the entrails out, making sure the blood and mucus stayed within the confines of the newspaper he'd spread out in preparation. Then he added the trout to the other three he'd caught that afternoon.
Not a bad result for the time of year, he thought. He'd fry a couple for his tea and put the others in the caravan's tiny fridge. They'd make a good breakfast before he set out for work in the morning. He got up and switched on the pump that supplied the little sink with a stream of cold water. He reminded himself to bring a couple of replacement five-gallon bottles the next time he came out to his bolthole on the shores of Loch Leven. He'd emptied the spare into the tank that morning, and although he could always rely on the local farmer who rented him the pitch in an emergency, Lawson didn't like to impose on his goodwill. He'd always kept to himself in the twenty years since he'd moved the caravan up here. That was the way he liked it. Just him and the radio and a pile of thrillers. A private place where he could escape the pressures of work and family life, a place to renew his energies.
He opened a tin of new potatoes, drained them and diced them. While he waited for the big frying pan to heat up for the fish and potatoes, he folded the newspaper fussily around the fish guts and thrust it into a plastic bag. He'd add the skin and bones after his meal, then tie the handles tightly and leave it on the caravan steps for removal in the morning. There was nothing worse than sleeping in the stink of the detritus of his catch.
Lawson dumped a chunk of lard in the pan, watched it sizzle into translucency then added the potatoes. He stirred them around, then, as they started to brown, he carefully placed the two trout in the pan, adding a squeeze of juice from a Jif lemon. The familiar sizzle and crackle cheered him up, the smell a promise of the delight to come. When it was done, he tipped his meal onto a plate and settled in at the table to enjoy his dinner. Perfect timing. The familiar theme tune of The Archers bounded out of the radio as his knife slid under the crispy skin of the first trout.
He was halfway through his meal when he heard something he shouldn't have. A car door slammed. The radio had covered the sound of the approaching engine, but the closing of the door was loud enough to be heard over the everyday story of country folk. Lawson froze momentarily then reached for the radio and turned it off, straining his ears to catch any sound from outside. Stealthily, he eased the curtain back a fraction. Just beyond the gate into the field, he could make out the shape of a car. Small-to medium-sized hatchback, he thought. A Golf, an Astra, a Focus. Something like that. It was hard to be more accurate in the dark. He scanned the gap between the gate and his caravan. No movement.
The rap at the door made his heart leap in his chest. Who the hell was this? As far as he was aware, the only people who knew exactly where his fishing lair was were the farmer and his wife. He'd never brought colleagues or friends here. When they'd gone fishing, he'd met them farther along the shore in his boat, determined to maintain his privacy.
"Just a minute," he shouted, rising to his feet and moving toward the door, pausing only to palm his razor-sharp gutting knife. There were plenty of criminals who might feel they had a score to settle, and he wasn't going to be caught unprotected. Keeping one foot behind the door, he opened it a crack.
In the sliver of light that spilled out on to the steps stood Graham Macfadyen. It took Lawson a moment to recognize him. Since their last