He heard movement from a room at the end of the corridor. He gently tried the door. It was locked. Oh, well, thought Lochy with a mental shrug. Here goes. He raised one metal-capped boot and kicked the door open. Harold was in the act of handcuffing Priscilla to the bed.
Harold swung round. Lochy gave him a savage uppercut and knocked him unconscious. Priscilla stared up at him, speechless with horror.
“There now,” said Lochy soothingly. “Let’s get you out of this. Charlie Carter told me to look after you, lassie.” He unfastened the handcuff and helped her to sit up. “Do you want to call the police?”
“Yes. No,” said Priscilla. “The newspapers. The scandal.”
“All right, miss. I’ll just handcuff this bastard. Right. Got anything to tie his feet?”
Priscilla climbed out of bed and staggered over to a drawer where she extracted a leather belt. “That’s the ticket,” said Lochy. “You’d better get the locks changed and a burglar alarm. Do you want me to get rid of this?”
“Don’t kill him,” said Priscilla through white lips.
“I’m no’ in the killing game. But I wouldnae mind a wee dram.”
“Of course,” said Priscilla weakly. “Come through to the sitting room.”
She led the way and Lochy lumbered after her. She poured a generous measure of Glenlivet into a glass and handed it to him, then poured one for herself.
“I feel so stupid,” she mourned. “I should have changed the locks. What happens now?”
“I’ll take him away somewhere and make sure it disnae happen again.”
There came thumps and yells from the bedroom. “Didnae hit him hard enough,” said Lochy. “Back in a minute.”
He went into the bedroom and took a roll of tape out of his pocket, sliced off a section, and pasted it across Harold’s mouth.
Then he returned to the sitting room and picked up his glass. “That should shut him up for a minute. Aye, it was Charlie and Hamish were right worried about ye and asked me to keep an eye on ye.”
“I must pay you something.”
“No, your pa did that.”
Priscilla began to cry. “I’m useless,” she said at last.
“We all make mistakes,” said Lochy sententiously. “Now, I’d better do my job and get him out of here.”
“Won’t the porter call the police?”
Lochy grinned. “He thinks I am the police.”
He went back to the bedroom and ripped the tape from Harold’s mouth. “I’ve got a gun,” said Lochy. “One peep out o’ you and you’re a dead man.” He unfastened the belt from round Harold’s ankles but kept the handcuffs on him.
Harold in all his bullying life had never known such terror. He allowed Lochy to march him past the porter without saying a word. Outside, Lochy shoved him into the passenger seat of his car, got in himself, and drove off.
“Do you want money?” pleaded Harold.
“I want you to shut up. There’s brandy in the glove box if you need some Dutch courage.”
“I’m handcuffed.”
“Poor wee soul.” Lochy jerked the car to a halt. He fished out the flask of brandy, opened it, and held it to Harold’s lips. Harold took a great gulp, not knowing it was heavily drugged. In no time at all, he was fast asleep.
Lochy drove steadily northwards until he reached one of the less salubrious parts of Birmingham. He stopped his car, went round, and hauled Harold’s body out of the car, took off the handcuffs and dumped him on the pavement, and then drove off.
Harold awoke at dawn the next morning. He stumbled to his feet and looked wildly up and down the deserted street. He tried to find out the time but discovered his gold Rolex had gone. Terrified, he felt in his pockets. No wallet, no phone, no driving licence. Nothing.
He saw a sanitation truck coming down the street and stood in the road waving his hands for it to stop. He shouted that he had been mugged.
“You’ll find a police station round the next corner,” said the driver.
Harold thirsted for revenge. But outside the police station, he stopped in dismay. If he told them about Lochy, the man would be arrested, but the whole story of his own attempted rape would come out.
He squared his shoulders and walked in. He told the desk sergeant that he had been drinking in a pub in London when someone must have slipped him a mickey. The next thing he knew, he had woken up in a Birmingham street to find he had been mugged. It seemed to take ages to give a statement to a detective. Then a wait until the firm he worked for started for the day to confirm his identity and say they would send a car for him.
At last, having been told to take the day off, he returned to London to find his apartment had been burgled. He sat down amid the chaos and began to phone to cancel all his credit cards and phone the insurance company and the police.
Charlie was awakened during the night by a call from Lochy and listened in horror to his story of the attempted rape. Before Fiona arrived at the station, he told Hamish what Lochy had said.
“What’s up with her?” howled Hamish. “Why does she always pick losers?”