Killing the Shadows

FOURTY-NINE

Waiting was not something Fiona could bear. Not when she feared for Kit’s life. Galloway had tried to be reassuring, but it hadn’t gone anywhere towards calming the torment. She knew there was no point in trying to follow Galloway’s advice to get some sleep. All that would happen if she went to bed was that she’d toss and turn restlessly, riven with anxiety. She might as well stay up and try to figure out a way to help Kit.

If only she knew where his bothy was. Given that whoever had Kit captive would have to drive up from London, the chances were that they were nowhere near Loch Shin yet. If she could find the exact location, it might be possible to head them off before they ever got there.

Whatever Galloway had said about there being plenty of time, Fiona knew she couldn’t rely on that. In each murder, the killer had deviated from the template provided by the book when it had suited him better. Keeping Kit alive for a week was clearly a huge risk to take, and from what she had seen of this murderer’s work, he was a man who liked to minimize jeopardy. The sooner she could get to Sutherland, the more chance she had of finding Kit alive. Waiting for Galloway to grind into action in the morning was too big a chance to take. She had to do whatever she could as soon as she could. Of course, it was too late now to find anywhere that could sell her an Ordnance Survey map of the Loch Shin area to check out possibilities. Fiona poured another glass of wine and logged on to the Internet. She entered the keywords ‘Loch Shin’ into her search engine and impatiently scanned the results. There were websites where amateur photographers displayed their photographs of the area; websites for those who believed the Loch Ness Monster had relatives in Loch Shin; websites for holiday cottages with views of the loch; websites that offered advice on fishing; and even a website devoted to the hydroelectric power station. But no large-scale map. The on-line version the Ordnance Survey offered was too small to show any useful detail.

She had even taken time out to torment herself with the ghoulish gossip of Murder Behind the Headlines. Fiona knew even as she was logging on to the site that it would give her no peace, but like an itching scab demanding to be picked, she had to see what Georgia’s death had provoked. At last, confirmation from London of what anybody with half a brain already knew. Yes, there’s a serial killer out there preying on the weird and the wired who spend their days writing fiction about surprise, surprise, serial killers. Although it sounds a bit like biting the hand that feeds you, it’s true! Even more amazing was the confession that stopped a police press conference in its tracks. As the police revealed to the world that British crime writer Georgia Lester’s butchered remains had been found in a disused freezer in London’s Smithfield Meat Market, a man claiming to be the killer distributed a FLYER to the waiting hacks that outlined his motives for the series of gruesome killings. The confessor is a wannabe writer called Charles Cavendish Redford, who alleges that the three writers in question plagiarized manuscripts he had sent them in the hope of winning their support in getting his books published. Redford, 47, once worked as a hospital porter, which may be where he picked up his murderous skills. He’s now in custody, under arrest, but so far hasn’t been charged. The discovery of Lester’s remains provided incontrovertible evidence of what some of us had already deduced. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde; One Drew Shand is unfortunate. Two Jane Elias looks remarkably like coincidence. And three Georgia Lester is a series…Lester went missing over a week ago. Sceptics said she’d deliberately staged a disappearance as a publicity stunt, as Queen of Crime Agatha Christie did herself back in the 1920s. And it’s true that Lester had been complaining that her publishers weren’t taking proper care of her. She’d demanded bodyguards for her latest book tour, but had been spurned by publishers with more sense than money a rarity in itself these days. But when we read the accounts of her disappearance the deserted car in the country lane, the apparent lack of any signs of violence, the absence of any witnesses those of us with a sensibility tuned to these things felt the creep of dread, remembering the fate of the victims in And Ever More Shall Be So, tester’s only serial killer novel, which was made into a film. Word is that the London cops got the tip to search Smithfield from a psychological profiler one of those legendary Clarice Starlings (and we all know what happened to Clarice, don’t we???) who figure out what the bad guys are going to do next. Mind you, it doesn’t take a doctorate in psychology to work that one out. All it takes is the ability to read. Still, there must be a few thriller writers sleeping easier in their beds tonight. Because if Redford hadn’t conveniently spilled the beans, you can bet your bottom dollar it would have been a long time and a few more bodies before the police managed to nail him.

REMEMBER YOU READ IT FIRST ON MURDER BEHIND THE HEADLINES

Angry with herself for succumbing to the insidious nastiness of the website, Fiona disconnected from the Internet. It had taken her almost an hour to get no further forward.

Frustrated, she tried Steve’s numbers again. No change. He was still out of reach. Fiona closed her eyes and massaged her temples. Somewhere locked away in her mind, she must know something that would lead her to the bothy. Think about anything else, she told herself. Let your subconscious do the work. Easier said than done, though, when all she could think of was Kit and the ordeal he could be going through.

A walk, that would do it. A quick turn through the local streets, where she could force herself to look at the details of the houses and gardens. That might just free her mind sufficiently to open the door to the information she knew must be there.

Glad to have something positive to do, Fiona jumped up and grabbed her mac, still lying on the bed in the damp heap where she’d thrown it when she came in. She pulled it on, picked up her mobile and practically ran out of the door and down the stairs into the street.

She turned to her right and started walking along the terrace, looking intently at the houses as she passed, glancing down into basement areas and taking stock of what people had done to make them attractive. She checked out curtains, appreciated a particularly vigorous Russian vine, made a mental note of an elaborate door knocker. Knitting for the brain.

At the end of the street, she turned left and walked down the hill towards Stockbridge, describing the tall sandstone buildings to herself as she passed them. At the bottom of the hill, she stared in the off licence window, making a mental selection from the bottles on display. She crossed the road and walked back up the hill, never faltering in the catalogue of her surroundings.

She was halfway along the street where her hotel was when her mind released the treasure she’d known was in there. “Lee Gustafson,” she said out loud in a tone of wonder. Then she was running, racing back to her hotel room to apply the gift she’d just been given.

Oblivious to the appalled stare of the night porter, Fiona sprinted across the reception area and up the stairs. Almost before her door was closed, her mac was thrown into a heap again and she was back in front of the laptop. Lee Gustafson was an American crime writer who wrote ecological thrillers. He shared the same US publisher as Kit. They’d been sent on a promotional tour together a couple of years previously, where they’d drunk their way round the mystery book shops of the Midwest and forged a friendship that endured through e — mail. Just over a year ago, Kit had lent Lee the bothy so he could do some background research into conservation of rare species in the Highlands. Lee Gustafson must know exactly where the bothy was.

Now all she had to do was find Lee.

Glasgow was an amber gleam over to the west. But Kit knew nothing of that. He’d suffered the agonies of cramp in the arm he’d been leaning on and managed to shift so that he was now lying on his stomach. It had eased the pain in his shoulders and the pins and needles in his leg, but it wasn’t helping the dull ache that still occupied his skull.

He had no sense of time. All he knew was that he had been trapped in this moving vehicle for at least two hours. He only knew that because, in an exquisite form of torture, he’d been forced to listen to his own voice spelling out in his own words what he feared was going to be his own fate. By his estimate, there was another hour of the talking book of The Blood Painter to go.

He’d tried to tune it out, singing his favourite songs inside his head. But it didn’t work. The relentless story kept intruding, forcing itself into his consciousness. Ironic that he was trapped by the power of his own gift.

At least while they were still travelling, there was hope. At some point, his captor would have to stop for fuel. It would be his chance. He could try to kick the tailgate, or the boot, or the back door, whatever it was that was keeping him from rolling out on the road. He cast his mind back. What did he have on his feet?

His heart sank. He’d been in the house all day. Moccasin slippers, that’s what he had on his feet. Even with the full power of his legs behind them, the only sound they’d make would be a dull thud. Hardly audible among the throbbing motors of the petrol pumps. And he didn’t think anyone as careful as the man who had captured him was going to park up in the middle of a busy service area and leave Kit behind while he went off for a burger and a coffee.

There must be something he could do. After all, he had constructed the trap himself. If there was any escape, he should be able to figure it out.

It would help if he didn’t have to listen to his own voice condemning him to death.

Getting Lee Gustafson’s phone number had posed no significant problem to Fiona. International directory inquiries had him down as ex-directory, which didn’t surprise her. It was only politeness that had made her try that route first. But in reality, she had no compunction about calling one of the handful of crime writers whose numbers were stored in her personal organizer. She told herself it didn’t matter that it was getting on for one in the morning. Nevertheless, she deliberately chose Charlie Thompson first. Charlie lived alone and she knew him to be a night owl. Chances were he was lying sprawled in his armchair watching a horror video, cat on his chest, glass of Armagnac to hand. Rather him than someone who would be panicked out of sleep by her call.

The phone was answered on the fourth ring. “Greetings, earthling,” a deep bass voice rumbled in her ear.

“Hello, Charlie. It’s Fiona Cameron.”

“Good Lord. Shouldn’t you be a pumpkin at this time of night? Or are you in fact speaking from the fruit and veg department of Tesco’s?”

Fiona gritted her teeth and tried not to shout at him. “I’m sorry to bother you, Charlie, but Kit’s out of town and I need Lee Gustafson’s number.”

“Fiona, darling, if you want a man to whisper sweet nothings in your ear when Kit’s away, you don’t have to pay international call charges. I’d be happy to oblige.” He chuckled.

“I’ll bear that in mind, Charlie. Do you have Lee’s number?”

“Spurned again, eh? Hang on, Fiona, it’s in the other room.” She listened to the sound of furniture groaning, a cat protesting, then heavy footsteps fading off. Charlie, the only man she knew who wore biker’s boots round the house. A long minute passed, then the footsteps thudded again. “You still there? Got a pen?”

“Yes to both.”

He read out Gusta’fson’s number, repeating it to make sure she had it down. “Enjoy yourself with Lee,” he added. “But not so much that you forget my heart still burns for you.”

“I could never forget that, Charlie,” she said, forcing herself into the standard flirtatious banter that went with their friendship. “Thanks again.”

“No problem. And tell that man of yours he owes me an e — mail.”

“Will do. Good night.”

“I’ll do my best.” The line went dead and Fiona immediately rang the number Charlie had given her.

The single tone of the American phone system purred in her ear. Once, twice, three times. Then the click of an answering machine. “Hi. You’ve reached Lee and Dorothy. And you’ve missed us. We’re out of town till Monday morning. So leave a message and we’ll get back to you when we get home.”

Fiona couldn’t believe her ears. It was beginning to feel like the universe was in a massive conspiracy against her and Kit. She had been so convinced that Lee Gustafson was the answer.

In frustration, she dialled into her e — mail program, clutching the last fragile hope that Galloway had been right and Kit had sent an e — mail that had somehow been trapped in cyberspace. Maybe his e — mail provider’s server had been down and all the mail had been held up as a result. But of course, there was nothing.

On an impulse, since she was using Kit’s laptop and it was set up for his e — mail account, she checked his mailbox. He might possibly have sent her mail to his own box by mistake. She couldn’t imagine how that might happen, but she was prepared to clutch at any straw, however frail.

There were a dozen messages waiting for him. Most seemed to be from fellow crime writers, and most seemed to be about Georgia. There was nothing there that could conceivably have come from Kit himself.

More worryingly, judging by the timing of the messages in the mailbox, he hadn’t picked up his own mail since early that afternoon. And that was as much out of character as his failure to contact Fiona. Instead of consolation, she’d found even more reason to fret.

She broke the connection and carried on staring at the screen. Suddenly, something flickered at the corner of her memory. Just before Lee had visited the bothy, she and Kit had been on holiday in Spain. Kit, as usual, had taken his laptop. He could no more stay out of touch with his e — mail than he could stop breathing. And while they’d been away, he and Lee had been communicating about the bothy.

Eagerly, she opened up the electronic filing cabinet that kept a record of all Kit’s e — mail, sent and received. She clicked on the Copy of Sent Messages tab. 2539 messages arranged by date. The program offered her the chance to arrange the messages in alphabetical order of the recipient, so she selected that option. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop as she waited for it to complete the task. Then she scrolled down to Lee Gustafson’s name and began to check through the mail by date. She knew the month she was looking for, and she soon came to it. Kit had sent Lee nine messages that month. She began at the beginning and worked her way through.

And there it was. Take the A839 out of Lairg. About a mile out of the town, you’ll see a track on the right signed Sallachy. Carry on up the track (it’s pretty rough going, you’ll appreciate why I’m lending you the Land Rover) for about five and a half miles. You cross a river gorge, the Allt a’ Claon. There’s a left turn up ahead, which you take. About half a mile up this track, there’s another left turn. The track takes you back across the river ravine on a rope bridge. It’s a lot stronger than it looks, but better not go faster than five miles an hour. You cross the river into some trees and the bothy’s about a mile ahead of you. I’d say you can’t miss it, but you’d probably shoot me.

Relief coursed through Fiona. She knew where the killer was taking Kit. And now she knew how to get there. Sod Sarah Duvall and her blinkered certainties. Sod Sandy Galloway and his soothing platitudes. And sod Steve, who wasn’t there when she really needed him. She’d find Kit, with or without their help.