Killing the Shadows

FIFTY-SEVEN

Caroline checked her watch. It felt as if half a lifetime had passed while she’d been sitting in the reception area of the police station. Whatever was going on, it was taking long enough.

At last, the door in the far wall opened again and the PC returned, followed by a man who looked as grey and monolithic as some of the rocky outcroppings on the nearby mountain. His light-grey suit was creased in all the places it should have been smooth and he showed no sign of pleasure at Caroline’s presence. “I’m Sergeant Lovat,” he said. “You’re lucky I’m here. I only popped round with a message for Sammy here.”

“Has he explained the situation?”

“Well, he’s told me what you told him, which doesnae sound like much of an explanation to me.” He leaned against the counter and cocked his head, as if assessing her and not much liking what he saw.

Caroline was conscious that she was not at her most prepossessing. Her hair was a mess and she knew she was probably almost as crumpled as Sergeant Lovat. Nevertheless, she needed to make an impression. “I’ve never been more serious in my life, Sergeant,” she said. “I really do think something untoward has happened to Fiona Cameron.”

“Untoward, eh?” Lovat said, chewing the word as if it were spearmint gum.

“Look, I know it sounds like a bizarre tale, but Dr. Cameron is not a woman who wastes police time. She’s worked as a consultant with the Metropolitan Police for years and I don’t think they’d be…” Her voice tailed off as a possible solution to her dilemma presented itself. She’d been so busy worrying about getting her message across, she’d lost sight of the obvious lateral route. She took a deep breath and smiled at Lovat.

“Detective Superintendent Steve Preston,” she announced. “New Scotland Yard. Please, call him. Tell him what I’ve told you. He’ll know this isn’t some wind-up.”

Lovat looked faintly amused. “You want me to call Scotland Yard on your say-so?”

“It won’t take you more than a few minutes. And it could save at least one life. Please, Sergeant Lovat.” She forced a cool smile. “It would be so much better coming from you than from me. But if you won’t make the call, I’ll have to.”

Lovat looked at the PC and raised his eyebrows. “What are you waiting for, Sammy? This should be a good one.”

The rock walls closed around them, about a dozen feet tall, producing a narrow channel that twisted away to the left. As soon as they were inside the sheltering defile, Kit urged Fiona ahead. “Go, now. Just leave me. I’ll find a place to sit down.”

She threw her arms round him in a quick hug. “I love you,” she said. Then she was gone, moving swiftly along the base of the passage. Sure-footed and driven, Fiona moved with the easy confidence of a regular traveller in the rough terrain of hill and mountain. Within minutes, she could see the defile start to widen out, opening into a rocky slope with patches of heather and bracken pushing through. She paused, checking out the lie of the land.

The stream cut its own channel through the peat hag, its banks a rich, dark chocolate-brown fringed with the yellow of rough upland grasses and the cinnamon of bracken. It was, as Kit had said, about a dozen yards from the final cover of the low cliff. There was no way of checking whether Blake had figured out where they would eventually emerge or if he was just scanning the hillside in frustration, wondering where they’d disappeared to.

She considered for a moment. If she ran across to the stream, the very speed of her movement might attract attention. The fleece was a bright scarlet. But the thermal polo neck was mid-grey, her trousers a dark olive-green. If she shed the fleece, she would be pretty well camouflaged against the rock. It was worth a try.

Fiona pulled the fleece over her head and tossed it to the ground. Then she remembered her knife and retrieved it, making sure the blade was retracted before she put it in her trouser pocket. She dropped to her knees, then spreadeagled herself against the rock. In an agonizingly slow commando crawl, feeling hideously exposed, she crossed the dozen yards to the stream, crabbing round as she reached the bank so she dropped in feet first. The water was so cold it took her breath away for an instant. She crouched in water that came up to the middle of her calves, her head barely above the bank. She scanned the hillside, looking for Blake’s vantage point.

“Gotcha,” she said softly. From this side, he was entirely unprotected. She could see the outline of his body against the hillside, the gun barrel protruding like an obscene prosthesis. He had a hand up to his eyes, as if he was looking through binoculars. Fiona made a rough calculation of where she needed to be so that she’d emerge above and behind him. The burn took a sharp left bend a few yards beyond where she wanted to be. Taking that as her marker, Fiona ducked down below the banks and started up the burn.

It was a treacherous ascent, the stones of the stream bed slippery with algae and too uneven to make her passage anything other than slow and awkward. More than once, Fiona lost her footing altogether and sprawled full length in the chilly waters. After the third or fourth ducking, she decided she couldn’t get any wetter and started using her hands and arms to move her along faster, scrabbling up the burn like a chimpanzee.

So fiercely was she concentrating on her progress that the bend in the burn was upon her before she realized how far she’d come. She squatted on her haunches, trying to get her breath back. No chance of a stealthy approach if she was panting like a dog on a summer’s day.

Slowly, cautiously, Fiona peered over the lip of the bank. She frowned. She was pretty sure she was looking in the right direction. But there was no sign of Blake. She sighted down the burn, to make certain she’d come far enough up. There was no doubt about it. She was exactly where she’d planned to be, which meant Blake should have been about a hundred yards away from her, maybe fifteen feet down the mountain. But he wasn’t.

The tight hand of panic gripped Fiona’s chest. She stood up, scanning the mountainside. There was no sign of her quarry. “Fuck,” she moaned, scrambling out of the water course and on to the rocky side of the bank. Even with this higher vantage point, there was no mistake. Blake had vanished from the landscape.

That could only mean one thing, she thought. He’d panicked when they disappeared and made his way down to the last place he’d seen them. Where Kit was lying, vulnerable and weak as the runt of the litter.

Fiona took off like a mountain hare. Heedless of her safety, she hurtled across the steep slope at an angle she hoped would bring her to the beginning of the channel in the rock where she’d left Kit. Her wet boots squelched, skidded and slipped as she ran, and only the sharpest of reflexes stopped her pitching headlong down the slope.

As she raced down the hillside, what had started as a dark line in the rock gradually defined itself as the gap. From this angle, it looked like a giant split in a massive slab of stone. The closer she approached, the more Fiona realized she had misjudged her line. She was actually going to hit the edge about halfway along. She adjusted her course slightly, but the going was too steep now for it to be possible to make much of a correction.

She slowed to a walk, stepping sideways until she was at the edge of the drop into the defile. She looked back towards the beginning, but the angle of the bend was too sharp for her to see all the way to where she’d left Kit. Without the concentration of the downhill run to protect her, fear coursed through her like electricity.

Fiona forced herself to breathe deeply and started the treacherous scramble back along the rock. Halfway to her destination, she came to an abrupt halt. She could hear a man’s voice raised in anger. She inched forward so she could see over the edge again.

What she saw made her stomach clench in pure terror. Down below, about fifteen feet away, Kit was sprawled on the ground, half sitting, propped against the rock wall. With his back to her, Francis Blake stood above him, hefting the shotgun in his hands. She couldn’t make out his words, but his intent was clear. He took a step back and started to raise the gun.

Without pause for thought, Fiona sprang into action. She took a short run up along the edge of the defile and launched herself through the air.

As the gun levelled out, Fiona crashed on top of Francis Blake, the momentum carrying them both in a heap on top of Kit.

The crack of a gunshot split the mountain air.