Killing the Shadows

FIFTY-TWO

As Fiona drove north out of Inverness, the weather slowly began to clear. She’d found road maps and Ordnance Survey sheets in the glove box of the car, and she headed up the Ag with the map spread over the seat next to her. Over the spectacular bridge that carried the road above the mingling of waters of the Beauly Firth and the Moray Firth, across the richly fertile farming land of the Black Isle, the sky gradually shifted from grey to blue, the morning mist burning off under the weak warmth of the autumn sun.

She checked the settlements against the map as she drove on along the quiet road. Not that there was much possibility of going wrong. Up here, there were scarcely enough major roads to allow a wrong turning. Alness. Invergordon. Then the bridge across the Dornoch Firth, the dun sands spread wet below her, before the turn inland to Bonar Bridge, leaving behind the low flatlands of the coastal region for the high hill country ahead.

Then she was driving along the narrow inlet of the Kyle of Sutherland, the dark water lined with heavy conifer forests, making somehow sinister the sunlit route into the wilderness that spread out ahead of her. As she turned up the River Shin towards Lairg, she could see she was entering the north-west Highlands proper, with sudden vistas opening ahead of rounded hills brown with heather, their rocky outcroppings grey and random. Scattered in the landscape were the ruined walls of croft houses, often just a pair of battered gable ends left standing. This was the landscape of the Highland Clearances, that brutal depopulation of the countryside where crofters had been driven off their land by rich landowners eager to make the easier money that came with rearing Cheviot sheep. Now the fragments of their homes were the only sign that this land had been the starting point for the Highland diaspora that had colonized the British Empire.

Fiona had never walked this side of the watershed, although the Assynt region in the west of Sutherland had been her destination on a couple of walking holidays in the past. She knew the springy feel of heather beneath her feet, the treacherous pull of peat hags, and the hard clatter of ancient stratified rock beneath her boots. If she was going to venture into the back country where Kit’s bothy was, she’d have to make a stop in Lairg. The light shoes and town clothes she had with her would be no match for this terrain.

Lairg was coming to life as she drove down the main street. Shops were opening up, a handful of people were out and about, making the most of the thin warmth of the morning. She found a parking space across the road from a mountain sports shop and jumped out of the Land Rover. Before she headed for the shop, she checked the storage area behind the seats. As well as three five-gallon cans of diesel, there was a lightweight fleece and a waxed jacket. Fiona picked up the fleece and held it to her face, drinking in Kit’s familiar smell. Please God, let him be all right, she said to herself.

Reluctantly, she replaced the fleece and jacket. They would be far too big for her, but they’d do, she decided. Then she crossed to the shop. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, wearing fleece-lined Gore-Tex trousers, a lightweight thermal polo-neck shirt, a dark-brown fleece hat, hiking socks with cushioned soles and a pair of summer walking boots that had been reduced for a quick sale. They weren’t designed for this time of the year, but they were so flexible they wouldn’t need the breaking in that a heavier pair of boots would take. It was a reasonable trade-off, since she didn’t envisage having to travel far in them. She would be comfortable if she had to do any walking or scrambling, and that was the main thing. She’d also bought a handful of high energy emergency rations, instant heat packs and a first-aid kit. She had a good idea what might lie ahead of her, and she wanted to be prepared for all eventualities.

Back at the Land Rover, Fiona added Kit’s fleece and jacket to her ensemble, tossing her discarded work clothes into the storage space. There was one last thing she had to do. The time had come to recall The Blood Painter in all its details. She needed to be equipped for what she might find. She bought a pair of bolt cutters, a chisel and a lump hammer from the hardware shop. As an afterthought, she also added a craft knife with a retractable blade to her shopping basket.

Walking back to the Land Rover, she saw it was no longer alone. Parked behind it was a familiar Honda saloon. Leaning against the bonnet, Caroline stood, arms folded, a stubborn smile on her face. Fiona closed her eyes in frustration. When she came close enough to speak, she said, “This is not funny, Caro.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here. If you won’t let me come with you, at least let me cover your back. Let me be there to make sure you come out of this alive. Please?”

Fiona opened the back of the Land Rover and stowed her purchases. When she turned back, she said, “Have you got a mobile?”

Caroline grinned. “You think there’s any chance of a decent signal up here?” she asked, gesturing at the hills rising round the town.

Fiona managed a rueful smile. “Silly question. OK. Here’s what we do. You follow me up to the point where I turn off. It’s a mile or so out of town. There’s no point in you trying to go any further. According to Kit, the road’s too bad for anything other than a four-wheel-drive. You give me an hour.” She opened her bag and took out a notepad and pen. She opened the pad and scribbled down Sandy Galloway’s office and home numbers. “If I don’t come back inside that hour, it means I’m probably in need of help or else I’ve managed to get through to the police on Kit’s satellite phone. Either way, you call this number and ask for Superintendent Galloway. You tell him where I am and what I’m doing. I did send him a fax, but he might not think it was that urgent. Just a minute, I’ll give you the directions.” She opened the driver’s door and reached under the map for the e — mail she’d printed off what felt like half a lifetime ago. She held the sheet of paper out to Caroline, then snatched it back. “Hang on,” she said. “You have to promise that, no matter what, you will not attempt to come in there after me.”

Caroline gave a reluctant nod of agreement. “I promise. OK?”

“Mean it.”

Caroline held Fiona’s eyes for a long moment. “I swear on Lesley’s life.”

Fiona ducked her head in acknowledgement. “That’ll do me. Like I said, I should be able to call for help myself if I need it, but it might be that I can’t figure out how to work the sat phone. You’re my back-up.” She handed over the directions and took a deep breath. “Wagons roll.” She climbed into the Land Rover and started the engine. Her hands were sweating on the wheel, her stomach a tight clench. She knew the odds were stacked against her. They’d had a head start on her. They could have made it to the bothy an hour or more ago. She already knew the killer wasn’t totally committed to verisimilitude. Maybe he would drain Kit’s blood in one swift act rather than torture him for days, with all the attendant risks.

Maybe she was already too late.

The smell of coffee woke Steve. He blinked for a moment, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, suffering the dislocation of waking in an unfamiliar place. He pushed himself upright and saw Terry sitting at the table, a mug in her hands. “I was beginning to wonder if last night was too much for you and you’d slipped into a coma,” she teased.

“What time is it?” he asked, unaware as to how late he’d slept.

“Twenty past nine.”

Steve swung his legs to the floor and jumped to his feet. “You’re kidding,” he exclaimed, sounding more shaken than delighted.

“It’s Saturday, Steve. People sleep late.” She grinned. “Even coppers.”

“I can’t believe nobody’s phoned. The surveillance…Neil should have called to say he was going off for the night,” he said, talking more to himself than to her. “And the AC, his plane’s supposed to have been on the ground two hours ago.” He crossed to his phone and pager. He stared dumbfounded at the blank displays. “What’s wrong?” he said, grabbing his phone and frowning at it.

Terry came up behind him and put her arms round his waist. “I switched them off. You need to let go, Steve.”

He pulled away and swung round, his face a mixture of anger and incredulity. “You did what!” he shouted. His mouth opened and closed, words for once failing him.

“The world won’t end if you’re out of reach for a night,” Terry said, a note of uncertainty in her voice.

“I’m in the middle of a major operation,” he yelled. “I’ve got a team on a murder suspect. Jesus, Terry, anything could have happened. How could you do something so fucking irresponsible?” As he spoke, he was reaching for his clothes, pulling on boxer shorts and trousers.

“You didn’t tell me,” she blazed back at him. “How was I supposed to know? Last time we were interrupted, it wasn’t even your case. You gave me no indication that you had anything important on the go.”

Steve paused halfway through buttoning his shirt and gave her a livid glare. “It’s confidential, that’s why I didn’t say. I don’t talk about my work to civilians.”

His words cut like a whip. But rather than making Terry flinch, they sharpened her response. “Unless they’re Fiona Cameron?” she raged.

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous of Fiona?” Steve couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Terry’s voice dropped and she stared evenly at him. “No, it’s about trust, Steve. It’s about openness. It’s about not treating me as if I’m a child. All you had to do was mention at some point that you had something going on that might just interrupt our time together. Fucking hell,” she exploded again. “What about common courtesy?”

Steve thrust his arms into his jacket and grabbed his coat. “I’m a senior police officer. People need to contact me out of hours.”

“Mr. Indispensable. You don’t want a lover, Steve. You want an audience.”

He shoved phone and pager into his jacket pocket and made for the door, shaking his head. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

“You should have told me, dickhead,” she shouted, her anger directed as much at her own impulsiveness as his taciturnity.

His only reply was the slam of the door as he walked out. By the time he got to his car, his hands were still trembling with the adrenaline surge of pure rage. “Fucking unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he threw himself into the driver’s seat. He switched on his pager. Five messages. Steve cursed under his breath as he scrolled through. Two from Fiona from late last night. One from Neil just before eleven. One from Neil a few minutes after six. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said, as the last message revealed itself. The Assistant Commissioner had paged him over an hour ago.

He turned on his phone and called his home number, then keyed in the combination that would release his messages from the answering machine. Fiona again, requesting an urgent call back. Neil, announcing he’d decided to stay on Coyne all night, just in case. Neil again, reporting that he’d handed over to Joanne and would be at the Yard if he was needed for an arrest and search. And a message from the AC, saying he was expecting Steve’s call.

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to calm down to the point where he could make his case for the arrest of Gerard Coyne. After a minute of deep breathing, he decided he was as ready as he’d ever be. He’d just have to lie and say his pager battery had died without him noticing. The hour he’d lost probably hadn’t made much difference. But it could have done.

As he dialled the AC’s number, he felt a pang of regret. He’d had such high hopes for him and Terry. And, as usual, it had crashed and burned.

He could only hope he’d have better luck with Coyne.

Four hundred miles away, Sandy Galloway was picking at a bacon roll in the canteen at St. Leonard’s. He’d been waiting for Fiona Cameron for almost two hours, and he wasn’t best pleased. The woman had been at panic stations when she’d rung him the previous evening, but now she couldn’t even be bothered to make their appointment on time. She hadn’t even left a message for him, either with force control or at the reception desk of her hotel. The hotel that his budget was paying for, he reminded himself crossly.

He’d spoken to Sarah Duvall, as he’d promised. He’d watched the end of his cop show, then called her at Wood Street. She was a bright lassie, that one. She’d gone through the discrepancy between Redford’s statement and what the Dorset police had found in some detail. She’d explained why she’d initially been uneasy, then ran through the reasoning she’d gone through since. It had clearly stilled her qualms, and he was inclined to think she had jumped the right way.

Which meant, of course, that Fiona Cameron was barking up the wrong tree altogether. Galloway was just fed up that she hadn’t bothered to keep him informed of her plans.

It had never occurred to him to check the fax machine that sat behind the secretary’s desk in his outer office.