Free Lie of the Land by Michael F. Russell

at Carl. He went behind the reception desk. ‘The ID machine’s broken, I’m afraid. We’ve been trying to get a technician out for weeks.’ He smiled and slid a ledger across the counter. ‘You’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.’
    Carl signed his name, scanning the rest of the entries as he did so. The previous signature was dated two months before.
    â€˜Did you drive here?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    There was a glint in the man’s eye. When Carl looked up from the ledger he saw it fade. There was a stag’s head mounted over the reception desk. That’s enough information for you, you nosey old bugger.
    â€˜You don’t get many tourists here then?’
    The man raised his bushy eyebrows, amused. ‘Not by car, no.We still get the odd busload and even a few by boat, but the last tourists to arrive here under their own steam was nearly a month ago, a party of Canadians in the bunkhouse, backpackers, and a German couple staying in one of the holiday homes.’ His mouth drooped. ‘That’s been more or less our season.’
    He looked at the name in the book. ‘Mr Shewan,’ he said. ‘I’m George Cutler, the owner.’ He handed Carl the key to Room 14. ‘Come on and I’ll show you up.’
    The hallway of the hotel had a musty smell. Paintings of old soldiers – the braid-and-wig brigade – hung on the walls. A fat fish mounted in a glass case. A shiny brass handbell stood on a dark-wood side table. A stained-glass panel lit the staircase to the first-floor landing.
    Cutler opened the door of Room 14. ‘Coffee over there,’ he said, pointing to a kettle and basket of sachets. ‘It’s old stuff but it should be okay.’ He pointed at the TV. ‘We’ve got satellite, broadband that works, just about. Would you like breakfast?’
    Carl nodded, inspecting a tatty brochure that listed local attractions: walks, heritage centres and archaeological sites. Half-eight was the time agreed for breakfast.
    â€˜You can have something to eat now, if you want?’
    â€˜Sounds good. What is there?’
    Cutler smiled, his soft colourless face cracking. ‘Plenty of fish. Potatoes and veg. I think there’s some venison pie left as well. It’s good stuff.’
    Not exactly the seaweed gruel that Carl had been expecting.
    â€˜Venison pie it is. I’ll be down in ten minutes, if that’s okay?’
    Cutler said that was fine. As he made his way out, he stopped, reached into the pocket of his fleece.
    â€˜Oh, this was left for you at reception yesterday.’ He handed over an envelope which had CARL SHEWAN printed on the front, nothing else. Carl turned it over a few times. There was something inside.
    â€˜Thanks,’ he said absently.
    Cutler closed the door and Carl ripped open the envelope to see what was inside. It was a memory stick, and nothing else.
    He unzipped his bag and took out his palmpod, and inserted the stick. At the password prompt he thought for a second.
    He typed ‘SCOPE’.
    Bingo. There were two video files. He played the first one.
    On his palmpod screen, inside what looked like a tent, a bald man in his fifties sat cross-legged, his tightly muscled face sombre, downcast. He cleared his throat, adjusted the camera.
    â€˜Hello, Mr Shewan. If you’ve come this far, then I thank you for that. I hope to Christ I’m wrong, but . . . anyway, my name is Howard Brindley and I am – was – senior head of research at GeoByte Support Services. You probably haven’t heard of us, we did some work on SCOPE, just the GPS telemetry.’
    Howard Brindley shifted position. He clearly wasn’t used to sitting cross-legged on the ground inside a tent. He rubbed his stubbled face, clearly exhausted.
    â€˜You had some financial concerns about SCOPE, Mr Shewan,’ Brindley said, looking away. ‘My concerns are more . . .