by Val McDermid
* * *
Lawson stared at the phone. Macfadyen had crossed the line. He should have seen it coming but he had failed. Now it was too late to put him out of circulation. This had all the potential to spiral out of control. And who knew what might happen then? Struggling to maintain the semblance of calm, he called the force control room and asked for a report on what was going on at Halbeath.
As soon as he heard the words, "Silver Volkswagen Golf," his brain replayed the walk up Macfadyen's path, the car parked in the drive. No question about it. Macfadyen had lost it.
"Patch me through to the officer in charge at the scene," he ordered. He drummed his fingers on the desk till the connection was made. This was the scenario from hell. What the hell was Macfadyen playing at? Was he taking revenge on Gilbey for the supposed wrong against his mother? Or was he playing a deeper game? Whatever the agenda, the child was at risk. Normally, when babies were snatched, the abductor's motivation was simple. They wanted a child of their own. They would take care of the child, smothering it with love and attention. But this was different. This child was a pawn in whatever sick game Macfadyen was playing, and if murder was what he thought he was avenging, then murder might be his endgame. The consequences of this scenario didn't bear thinking about. Lawson's stomach contracted at what it could mean. "Come on," he muttered.
Eventually, a voice crackled on the line. "This is DI McIntyre," he heard. At least it was a woman DI who was on the ground, Lawson thought with relief. He remembered Cathy McIntyre. She'd been a sergeant in CID when he'd been a uniformed superintendent at Dunfermline. She was a good officer, always did things by the numbers.
"Cathy, it's ACC Lawson here." "Yes, sir. I was just about to call you. The mother of the kidnapped baby, a Mrs. Lynn Gilbey? She's been asking for you. She seems to think you will know what this is all about."
"It was a silver VW Golf that the abductor drove off in, is that right?"
"Yes, sir. We're trying to get an index number from the CCTV footage, but we've only got footage of the car in motion. He parked right up behind Mrs. Gilbey, you can't see his number plates when the car was stationary."
"Keep someone on it for now. But I think I know who's responsible for this. Graham Macfadyen is his name. He lives at 12 Carlton Way, St. Monans. And I suspect that's where he's taken the child. I think a hostage situation is what he's aiming for. So I want you to meet me there, at the end of the road. Don't come mob-handed but have someone bring Mrs. Gilbey in a separate car. Radio silence with her. I'll organize the hostage negotiation team at this end, and brief you fully when I get there. Don't hang around, Cathy. I'll see you in St. Monans."
Lawson ended the call, then clenched his eyes tight in concentration. The freeing of hostages was the hardest task police officers faced. Dealing with the bereaved was a cakewalk by comparison. He called the control room again and ordered the mobilization of the hostage negotiation team and an armed-response unit. "Oh, and get a Telecom engineer there too. I want his access to the outside world terminated." Finally, he rang Karen Pirie. "Meet me in the car park in five minutes," he barked. "I'll explain on the way."
He was halfway to the door when his phone rang. He debated whether to answer it, then turned back. "Lawson," he said.
"Hallo, Mr. Lawson. It's Andy down in the press office here. I've just had the Scotsmanon with a very peculiar tale. They say they've just had an e-mail from a guy who claims he's abducted a baby because Fife Police are shielding the murderers of his mother. It specifically blames you for the situation. It's apparently a very long and detailed e-mail. They're going to forward it on to me. They're asking if it's true, basically. Do we have a child abduction in progress?"
"Oh Christ," Lawson groaned. "I had a horrible feeling something like this was going to happen. Look, we've got a very sensitive situation going on here. Yes, a baby has been abducted. I don't have the full story myself yet. You need to talk to the control room, they can give you chapter and verse. I suspect you're going to get a lot of calls on this, Andy. Give them as much of the operational detail as you can. Call a press conference for as late in the afternoon as you can get away with. But go strong on the line that this guy is mentally disturbed and they shouldn't give credence to his ramblings."
"So the official line is that he's a nutter," Andy said.
"Pretty much. But we're treating it very seriously. A child's life is at stake here, I don't want irresponsible reporting sending this guy over the edge. Is that clear?"
"I'm on it. Talk to you later."
Lawson cursed under his breath then hurried toward the door. This was going to be the day from hell.
* * *
Weird asked the taxi driver to make a diversion to the retail park in Kirkcaldy. When they got there, he handed the driver a wad of notes. "Do me a favor, pal. You can see the state I'm in. Go and buy me a mobile phone. One of those pay-as-you-go jobs. And a couple of top-up cards. I need to be connected to the world."
Quarter of an hour later, they were back on the road. He fished out the sheet of paper on which he'd scribbled the mobile numbers for Alex and Lynn. He tried Alex again. Still no response. Where in the name of heaven was he?
* * *
Macfadyen stared at the baby in perplexity. It had started crying almost as soon as he'd brought it indoors, but he hadn't had time to deal with it then. He had e-mails to fire off, to tell the world what was going on. Everything was prepared. He only had to get online and, with a few mouse clicks, his message would go out to every news organization in the country and most of the Internet news sites. Now they'd have to pay attention.
He left the computers and returned to the living room, where he'd left the baby carrier on the floor. He knew he should stay with it to prevent the police separating them in an assault on the house, but its cries had driven him to distraction and he'd moved it so that he could concentrate. He'd drawn the curtains there, as he had in every other room in the house. He'd even nailed a blanket over the bathroom window, whose frosted glass was normally uncurtained. He knew how sieges worked; the less the cops knew about what was going on inside the house, the better for him.
The baby was still crying. Its wails had died away to a low grizzle, but as soon as he'd walked in, it had started screaming again. The sound went through his head like a drill, making it impossible to think. He had to shut it up. He lifted it up gingerly and held it to his chest. The cries intensified, to the point where he could feel them resonating in his chest. Maybe it had a dirty nappy, he thought. He laid it on the floor and unwrapped the blanket that swaddled it. Underneath was a fleece jacket. He undid that then opened the poppers that ran up the insides of its legs, then unfastened the vest underneath. How many layers did the fucking kid need? Maybe it was just too hot.
He fetched a roll of kitchen towel and knelt down. He unpeeled the tapes that held the nappy secure around the child's belly and recoiled. God, that was revolting. It was green, for Chris's sake. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he removed the dirty nappy and scrubbed away the remains from its bottom. Hastily, before anything fresh could erupt, he dumped the baby on a thick wad of kitchen towel.
All that, and it was still crying. Jesus Christ, what did it take to shut the little bastard up? He needed it alive, at least for a while yet, but this noise was driving him crazy. He slapped the scarlet face and earned a brief moment's respite. But as soon as the shocked child had filled its lungs again, the screams intensified.
Maybe he should feed it? He went back to the kitchen and tipped some milk into a cup. He sat down, cradling the baby awkwardly in the crook of his arm as he'd seen people do on TV. He poked a finger between its lips and tried to dribble some liquid in. Milk trickled down its chin and onto his sleeve. He tried again, and this time it struggled against him, the tiny hands fists, the legs kicking. How could the little bastard not know how to swallow? How come it acted like he was trying to poison it? "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he shouted. It went rigid in his arms, wailing even more.
He struggled for a while longer, without success. But all of a sudden, the crying stopped. The baby fell asleep instantly, as if someone had turned off a switch. One minute, it was whinging, the next its eyes were shut and it was spark out. Macfadyen inched off the sofa and placed it back in the carrier, forcing himself to be gentle. The last thing he could stand right now was a reprise of that hellish noise.
He went back to his computers, planning to log on to a couple of Web sites to see if they were running the story yet. He wasn't entirely surprised to see his screens displaying the message, "Connection lost." He'd expected them to cut off his phone lines. As if that would stop him. He took a mobile off its charger and connected it to his laptop with a short cable, then dialed up. OK, it was like going back to traveling on a mule after you'd driven a Ferrari. But even though it took a criminally long time to download anything, he was still online.
If they thought they could shut him up that easily, they had another think coming. He was in this for the long haul, and he was in it for victory.
43
Alex's enthusiasm was growing thin. All that kept him going was a dogged conviction that the answer he so desperately sought was out there somewhere. It had to be. He'd covered the south side of the loch and now he was working his way round to the north shore. He'd lost count of the number of fields he'd looked into. He'd been stared at by geese, by horses, by sheep and even, once, by a llama. He vaguely remembered reading somewhere that shepherds put them in with their flocks to act as a defense against foxes, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out how a big lazy lump with eyelashes a model would die for was going to deter anything as fearless as the average fox. He'd bring Davina out here and show her the llama one day. She'd like that when she was bigger.
The track he was driving down passed a pathetic-looking farm. The buildings were down at the heel, guttering sagging and window frames peeling. The farmyard resembled a graveyard for machinery that had been moldering quietly into rust for generations. A skinny collie with a mad look strained against a chain, barking furiously and fruitlessly at his passage. A hundred yards past the farm gate, the ruts deepened and grass straggled feebly up the middle. Alex splashed through the puddles, wincing as a rock crunched against his chassis.
A gateway loomed up in the high hedge to his left, and Alex pulled in wearily. He walked around the front of his car and leaned over the metal bars. He looked to his left and saw a handful of dirty brown cows mournfully chewing the cud. He gave a cursory glance to his right and gasped. He couldn't believe his eyes. Was this really it?
Alex fumbled with the rusty chain that held the gate shut. He let himself into the field, and looped the links back around the post. He picked his way down the field, not caring about the mud or the dung that clung to his expensive American loafers. The closer he got to his goal, the more certain he was that he'd found what he was looking for.
He hadn't seen the caravan for twenty-five years, but his memory told him this was the one. Two-tone, like he remembered. Cream on top, sage green below. The colors had faded, but it was still possible to match them to his recollection. As he grew closer, he could see it was still in decent repair. Breeze blocks piled at either end kept the tires above the ground, and there was no moss clinging to the roof or the sills. The brittle rubber round the windows had been treated with some sort of sealant to keep it watertight, he saw as he circled it cautiously. There was no sign of life. Light-colored curtains were drawn across the windows. About twenty yards beyond the caravan, a wicket gate in the fence led to the lochside. Alex could see a rowing boat drawn up on the shore.
He turned back and stared. He could hardly believe his eyes. What were the chances of this, he wondered. Probably not as remote as it might at first seem. People got rid of furniture, carpets, cars. But caravans lived on, assuming an existence of their own. He thought of the elderly couple who lived opposite his parents. They'd had the same tiny two-berth caravan since he'd been a teenager. Every summer Friday evening, they hitched it to their car and headed off. Nowhere far, just up the coast to Leven or Elie. Sometimes they'd really go for it and cross the Forth to Dunbar or North Berwick. And on Sunday evening, they'd return, as thrilled with themselves as if they'd crossed the North Pole. So really, it wasn't such a surprise that PC Jimmy Lawson had hung on to the caravan he'd lived in while he'd built his house. Especially since every angler needs a retreat. Most people would likely have done the same.
Except, of course, that most people wouldn't have been hanging on to a crime scene.
* * *
"Now do you believe Alex?" Weird demanded of Lawson. The effect of his words was tempered by the fact that he was huddled into himself, his arm across his ribs trying to stop them grating against each other in spasms of agony.
The police hadn't been far ahead of Weird, and he'd arrived to find apparent chaos. Men in bulletproof vests with field caps and rifles milled around, while other officers bustled hither and thither on obscure tasks of their own. Curiously, nobody seemed to be paying him much attention. He limped out of the taxi and surveyed the scene. It didn't take him long to spot Lawson, leaning over a map spread on a car bonnet. The woman cop he and Alex had talked to at police headquarters was at his side, a mobile to her ear.
Weird approached, anger and apprehension acting as painkillers. "Hey, Lawson," he called from a few feet away. "You happy now?"
Lawson spun round, a guilty thing surprised. His jaw dropped as recognition filtered through the damage to Weird's face. "Tom Mackie?" he said uncertainly.
"The same. Now do you believe Alex? That maniac has his kid in there. He's already killed two people and you're just standing by in the hope he'll make it easy for you by making it three."
Lawson shook his head. Weird could see the anxiety in his eyes. "That's not true. We're doing everything we can to get the Gilbeys' baby back safely. And you don't know that Graham Macfadyen is guilty of anything else except this offense."
"No? Who the hell else do you think killed Ziggy and Mondo? Who the hell else do you think did this to me?" He raised a single finger toward his face. "He could have killed me last night." "You saw him?"
"No, I was too busy trying to stay alive."
"In that case, we're exactly where we were before. No evidence, Mr. Mackie. No evidence."
"Listen to me, Lawson. We've lived with Rosie Duff's death for twenty-five years. Suddenly, her son turns up out of the blue. And the next thing that happens is that two of us are murdered. For pity's sake, man, why are you the only one who can't see that's cause and effect?" Weird was shouting now, oblivious to the fact that several cops were now staring at him with watchful, impassive eyes.
"Mr. Mackie, I'm trying to mount a complex operation here. You standing here throwing out unfounded allegations really doesn't help. Theories are all very well, but we operate on evidence." Lawson's anger was obvious now. At his side, Karen Pirie had ended her call and was moving unobtrusively closer to Weird.
"You don't find evidence unless you start looking for it."
"It's not my job to investigate murders that are outside my jurisdiction," Lawson snapped. "You're wasting my time, Mr. Mackie. And, as you point out, a child's life may be at stake."
"You are going to pay for this," Weird said. "Both of you," he added, turning to include Karen in his condemnation. "You were warned and you did nothing. If he harms a hair on that child's head, I swear, Lawson, you are going to wish you had never been born. Now, where's Lynn?"
Lawson shuddered inwardly, remembering Lynn Gilbey's arrival at the scene. She'd hurtled out of the police car and thrown herself at him, raining blows on his chest and screaming incoherently. Karen Pirie had stepped in smartly, wrapping her arms round the frantic woman.
"She's in that white van over there. Karen, take Mr. Mackie over to the armedresponse unit vehicle. And stay with him and Mrs. Gilbey. I don't want them running around like loose cannons when we've got marksmen all over the place."
"See, whe
n this is all over?" Weird said as Karen steered him away. "You and me are going to have a reckoning."
"I wouldn't bank on it, Mr. Mackie," Lawson said. "I'm a senior police officer and threatening me is a serious offense. Away you go and lead a prayer meeting. You do your job and I'll do mine."
* * *
Carlton Way looked like a backstreet in a ghost town. Nothing stirred. It was always quiet during the day, but today it was preternaturally hushed. The night-shift worker at number seven had been rousted from his bed by a hammering at the back door. Befuddled, he'd been persuaded to get dressed and to accompany the two police officers on his doorstep over the fence at the bottom of his garden and through the playing fields to the main road, where he'd been told of events so unlikely that he'd have thought it was a wind-up if not for the overwhelming presence of the police and the roadblock that cut off Carlton Way from the rest of the world.
"Is that all the houses empty now?" Lawson asked DI McIntyre.
"Yes, sir. And the sole communication into Macfadyen's house is a dedicated phone line for our use only. All the armed response team officers are deployed round the house now."
"Right. Let's do it."
Two marked police cars and a van drove single-file into Carlton Way. They parked in a line outside Macfadyen's house. Lawson got out of the lead vehicle and joined the hostage negotiator, John Duncan, behind the van, out of sight of the house. "We're sure he's in there?" Duncan said.
"So the techies say. Thermal-imaging, or something. He's in there with the baby. They're both still alive."
Duncan handed Lawson a set of headphones and picked up the phone handset that would give him a line into the house. The phone was answered on the third ring. Silence. "Graham? Is that you?" Duncan said, his voice firm but warm.
"Who's that?" Macfadyen sounded surprisingly relaxed.
