The Pretender’s Gold - Scott Mariani Ben Hope

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reassured her that things would be fine and not to fret. It was hard to say goodbye.

      When the call was over, Boonzie sat thinking for a long time. These damned gold coins just wouldn’t go away. They were clearly vital to understand what was going on here, but he wouldn’t know where to start with something like that. By contrast, Ewan’s notes about salmon poaching had given him an idea. If he could find the poacher, he could begin to unravel this whole thing. And there was no better time to start than right away.

      The first thing Boonzie needed to do was sort himself out some wheels. He went back to the utility room with the broken window and looked again at the camper van parked in Ewan’s back yard. It was old and dirty and neglected-looking, but ideal for his purposes. He didn’t want to stay in the house. If he’d thought the men who had ransacked it might return, he’d have felt differently and wanted to lie in wait for them, but he knew they wouldn’t be coming back here. The camper van would give him a mobile base from which to pursue his objective, wherever it led him.

      Boonzie was a man of many talents, even if a lot of them were underused these days. Among the skills he’d learned in the regiment was fixing old vehicles, the kind that soldiers making their way deep behind enemy lines might have to commandeer. He found the camper keys on a hook in the hallway and went out to inspect it.

      A quick look around the vehicle confirmed his first impressions. The camper was equipped with two berths, sleeping bag and blankets, a stove, heater, and even a tiny washroom with a chemical cassette toilet. A little travel-stained and threadbare, but not too grotty and sheer bloody luxury compared to some of the places he’d been forced to make camp in his life. The engine wouldn’t start at first, but an hour later he had the corroded battery connections fixed up as good as new and the diesel glow plugs switched for a new set he found in the house, and the old girl coughed into life at the first twist of the key. He left the engine running to put charge into the battery, and returned to the house.

      It was mid-afternoon and the light was already beginning to fade. After living in Italy so long he’d almost forgotten how early the winter evenings fell, this far north. Back in the house he worked through the plan that was coming together in his mind. Certain additional items were required in order to put it into action. He dug a copy of the Yellow Pages out of the wreckage of Ewan’s living room and soon found what he was looking for. The place he had to go next was more than an hour’s drive away, but he would make it.

      Boonzie locked up the house, climbed aboard the camper and drove out of the yard and into the street. By nightfall, he’d have the things he needed.

      Then he’d be ready to go hunting.

       Chapter 11

      While Boonzie was making his preparations, another phone conversation was going on between the same two individuals as before.

      The underling reported, ‘There’s been another development, chief.’

      His superior replied, quite irritably, ‘What kind of development?’

      ‘Someone else is on the scene. An old guy. A relative of McCulloch’s.’

      ‘I thought McCulloch didn’t have any family.’

      ‘Turns out he does. An uncle. His name’s McCulloch, too. Lives in Italy. Arrived here this morning.’

      The superior heaved an impatient sigh. ‘Okay. Now tell me why I need to be concerned about some old guy who lives in Italy.’

      ‘Because he’s isn’t just any old old guy. He’s probably twice as fit as most men half his age. A right hard case.’

      ‘And why is this a problem?’

      The underling said, ‘Firstly, he isn’t buying the accidental drowning theory about Campbell. He seems to think the cases are connected.’

      ‘I wonder where he got that idea. The poacher?’

      ‘His nephew told him the whole story.’

      ‘To be expected, I suppose. Go on.’

      ‘Uncle McCulloch’s got a bit of an attitude problem. Not a happy chappie. And he’s intent on pursuing his own investigation.’

      ‘I see. One of those.’

      ‘But here’s the worrying part, chief. The guy is ex-military. Retired British Army non-com. We tried to get into his MoD file and hit a brick wall. Classified shit. You know what that means.’

      ‘Why the hell should I know what that means?’

      ‘It means trouble,’ the underling replied. ‘Now, it so happens that I’ve got a brother-in-law who works for the Ministry. I was able to call in a favour and—’

      ‘I’m a busy man. Why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me what you found out?’

      ‘Well, I’ve got McCulloch’s whole bio here in front of me. And like I thought, it turns out this bastard was no ordinary soldier. I really think you should listen to this.’

      ‘Let’s hear it, then.’

      ‘Born in Glasgow in 1953. Joined up at seventeen and was accepted into the Parachute Regiment two years later, in 1972. Did five years with them before he passed selection for 22 Special Air Service in February, 1977.’

      ‘You’re telling me that this moron Ewan McCulloch had an uncle in the SAS. Great. Just great.’

      ‘He served with them for twenty-six years. Counter-hijack and counter-terrorism specialist. A hell of a record, chief. I mean, you name it, he’s been there and done it. Operation Nimrod, 1980. The Iranian Embassy siege. Then the following year in Gambia, he was one of the special ops team who went in and rescued the President’s wife and kids from leftist rebels. Falklands War, 1982, he was with D Squadron for the famous assault on Pebble Island, when they destroyed half the Argentine air force in just thirty minutes.’

      ‘Oh, wonderful.’

      ‘In ’87 he was taking out IRA insurgents in Northern Ireland. Same year, his SAS unit got deployed to end the Peterhead Prison riot, here in Scotland. Blew their way in and stopped it before the rioters even knew what was happening. Four years after that, it was Operation Desert Storm, search-and-destroying SCUD missiles the Iraqis were trying to lob into Israel. Then in Bosnia in 1997 he was with the unit that shot dead a Serb war criminal called Simo Drljaca.’

      ‘This just keeps getting better.’

      ‘The following year they did a snatch mission in Serbia against another war criminal, Stevan Todorovic. Tracked the guy to a remote hideout in the mountains, kidnapped him in the dead of night and whisked him back into Bosnia to be arrested. After that, in 2001, yer man was sent to Afghanistan for Operation Trent, fighting against the Taliban—’

      ‘All right, all right, I get the picture.’

      ‘There’s probably more, all kinds of black-ops crap that nobody without a top-grade security clearance even knows about. He finally retired in 2003, rank of Colour Sergeant. Moved to Italy with his wife, been living there ever since.’

      ‘And now he’s honouring us with his company here in Scotland. Lucky us.’

      ‘It’s a worry. Someone with this bastard’s skills could be dangerous, if he starts sniffing around.’

      ‘I’d call that an understatement. All thanks to you, I might add.’

      ‘Chief, this guy would’ve turned up even if we’d killed McCulloch. In fact that would’ve probably made things worse.’

      ‘I’d say it’s bad enough as it is, don’t you? Where is he now?’

      ‘At his nephew’s house. Baird followed him there earlier and he’s watching the place. I spoke to him just before I called you. The

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