by Lin Anderson
Panic at this swept in, pushing all reason away … but not completely.
Analyse, she told herself. Think. You’re a scientist.
She wasn’t bleeding to death. She was no weaker than when she had first come to. If she was bleeding at all, the flow wasn’t serious. Rhona forced her mind back to that first memory and relived it, trying to urge it on to the next stage.
I was lying on the floor amid the broken glass and then what?
It came like a rush from the darkness, sweeping all rational thought before it. The thing in the corner of the room. Conor’s shadow man. The demon from the painting.
Rhona choked on the memory, stomach acid rising in her throat as she relived the terror of that moment.
I was hallucinating from the drugged wine, her rational voice told her as it strove to take back control. Common with date-rape drugs.
That thought brought another. Had she been raped while unconscious?
Rhona drew her focus from trying to remember the sequence of events to attempting to interpret her injuries. Working her way downwards, she established each pain point that signified bruising or cuts. Her feet were fastened together, her ankles, like her wrists, bitterly complaining at the cutting tightness of their bonds, but, as far as she could tell, her clothes were intact and she was experiencing neither vaginal nor anal discomfort.
Besides, if the intention had been only to drug and sexually assault her, then why go to the bother of bringing her here?
Because once wasn’t enough?
Which prompted another thought as her head began to clear. When and how had the white wine been doctored? The first time she’d had a glass from it, she’d been fine.
She’d assumed Sean had bought it for her, after the incident with the bottle of red, but she recalled the interrupted phone call – I didn’t get to ask him. Whatever way the bottle had got into the fridge, it had definitely been doctored between then and last night, which meant someone had entered her flat.
Maybe even been there waiting for her when she’d returned from the lab.
Just as she couldn’t remember how she’d got here, neither could she remember who had brought her. No spoken words, no distinctive scent of her captor had imprinted on her memory. None of her senses had registered anything after the shadow man.
It was that image, Rhona realized, that had caused her descent into darkness.
Manoeuvring herself into a sitting position, she tried to work out where she might be. As her eyes became accustomed, might she be able to at least make out the walls of her prison?
Staring pointedly ahead, she imagined she did see a light. A pinpoint only, but growing brighter. Surely it was coming her way?
Rhona attempted a shout, only to have the gag swallow the sound. She tried again, and this time some of it did escape. At a third attempt, the remnants of her cry escaped to echo against – what? Rock, concrete?
The light had become a round beam, still small but piercingly so, with the power of her forensic torch. Someone was coming.
Rhona went from elation to dismay in seconds. There was no reason to assume it would be anyone other than her captor. The need to do something made her scramble backwards, but it only took moments for that passage to end. Throwing her head back for traction, it hit an obstacle with a crunch that brought tears to her eyes.
In the meantime the torch beam had grown bigger and rounder, approaching more swiftly than before. Footsteps began to echo from the walls. Her own breath rasping, and with no chance of retreat, Rhona took a chance and rolled her body, first right to swiftly meet another obstacle, then left.
Expecting a third wall, she was suddenly met with air. The floor fell here, she realized, into what, she had no idea. Had she been free to do so she would have dropped a stone and listened for its fall.
But if this was a constructed tunnel, why would there be a sheer drop?
The footsteps were nearly on her now. She had to make up her mind. Face her attacker or disappear.
Rhona rolled once, twice, feeling the crumbling edge give way under the pressure of her body. Then she was slithering downwards in a rush of soil and stones and running water, as the torch beam played the darkness.
70
‘She hasn’t responded to any of my emails or answered my calls.’
McNab could hear the growing alarm in Chrissy’s voice and wanted to reassure her. He thought he knew where Rhona might be, but having been sworn to secrecy, he could hardly tell Chrissy where that was.
‘I was at Rhona’s yesterday,’ he said instead, ‘and she was fine, although well pissed off about being taken off the case. I went round to talk to her about the strategy meeting. Sean was there,’ he added as though that made his visit more legitimate.
Silence followed, then a reluctant, ‘Okay, but if she contacts you, you’ll let me know?’
McNab promised that he would.
‘Where the hell are you anyway?’
‘Aviemore, looking for Ellie.’
That news had obviously cheered Chrissy up.
Ringing off, McNab immediately pulled up Rhona’s number. He understood why Rhona might not be responding to Chrissy’s calls, until the deed was done, but he might not get the same response.
Half a dozen rings later it switched to voicemail and McNab left a message urging Rhona to contact either Chrissy or himself as soon as possible.
‘And I haven’t told her anything,’ he added.
Emerging from the station, he contemplated his next move and decided it would be to eat. Abandoning the original idea of heading for the Italian restaurant on the outskirts, he decided to go for the beef burger instead. Although he would take it far enough away from the West Coast tent before settling down to eat. If, as Ollie had said, Symes was somewhere in the vicinity, it would likely be there. He would have to trust the Harley Ladies to let him know if or when Ellie turned up.
Carrying his lunch back to the bike, he took a seat on a large rock that looked as though it had just rolled off Cairngorm, and set about both filling his empty belly and working out his next move.
Ollie’s news regarding Symes possibly being involved in the course had intrigued him. Added to that, there had been a voicemail from Magnus asking him in no uncertain terms to give him a call.
McNab took a slug of the large coffee he’d bought to accompany his food, knowing that although there was a lot of liquid, it was less caffeine than he needed. He’d have to locate somewhere he could get a proper shot.
From memory he’d passed a real coffee shop opposite the supermarket on his ride through the village. McNab decided to go there, top up his current drug of choice then give Magnus a call.
Fifteen minutes later, the caffeine headache had been replaced by thoughts which were equally taxing. Magnus had been openly agitated, something McNab hadn’t encountered since the first job the profiler had been brought on board for.
The one he screwed up on.
Among the psychology speak, McNab had caught a possible truth. At least one that rang with him.
He scrolled through the notes and rough sketch of the area around Glasgow University which Magnus had sent in the aftermath of their one-sided conversation.
Note the geographical cluster
Claire and Jackson both lived in West End close to park and university.
Jackson attending sleep clinic at university.
Marshall’s funeral parlour on upper Sauchiehall Street in the vicinity.
[HD Bike shop near Mitchell library]
The likelihood is that the perpetrator lives/works in the same vicinity.
Perpetrator
Both deaths were non-sexual with no bodily interference, bloodless, no evidence of violence.
Intelligence and forensic knowledge on display.
He managed to draw both victims to the chosen locations, so well planned and thought through.
Symbolism of bread and wine was used as a marker, but for what purpose?
Neither body wa
s actively hidden.
McNab pulled up short there. ‘What about the bloody tunnel?’ he mouthed to the screen.
I believe it was the perpetrator who alerted the police to the body in the tunnel. The first kill was out of his/her geographical area because Jackson was drawn there by the Cosworth. If Ellie was right and there was a pulse, the perpetrator was possibly still at the locus. The arrival of the girl bikers was (probably) a surprise, although if he/she had a plan, which they undoubtedly did, then they would have already noted the bike tracks round the wreck. Harleys have very distinctive tyre treads specially made by Dunlop for each model. Was he/she aware of this? Is there a Harley connection?
McNab halted and waved at the waiter for a refill, his heart upping a beat.
There is therefore a possibility that he/she saw Ellie and could recognize her again. Ellie will know by now that Jackson’s death was murder. And that Claire Masters (who probably saw the perp) is his/her second victim. It’s imperative you locate Ellie Macmillan for her own safety.
Rhona
How did the perpetrator gain access to Rhona’s DNA and the type of PPE suit she favours?
He/She works close to Rhona or attends the course or is a personal friend or acquaintance or knows someone who is?
He/She has gained access to Rhona’s flat by invitation or otherwise.
71
The fall had achieved one thing in her favour. It had loosened the gag enough for her to spit it out.
It had also knocked the wind from her and it had taken until now for Rhona to fill her lungs enough to even attempt to call out.
And shout she did, even in the knowledge that she was wasting her time. Whoever had shone the torch in her direction was long gone.
It hadn’t been her captor. Rhona was pretty certain of that. Had it been, surely they would have known about the drop and, finding her missing, used the torch to check it out?
It seemed someone else had been wandering around down here. Probably one of the Urbex explorers Chrissy had talked about. Someone who could have freed her from her bonds and helped her out of here.
So, in her panic, she’d simply escaped one prison for another smaller and wetter one, her fall having been cushioned by soft soil through which a stream of water ran. A stream she was now sitting in.
Leaning back, Rhona rested her head against earth this time rather than rock. The idea that she was in an old railway tunnel was dissipating. Tasting the damp soil on her lips, Rhona imagined she could detect metal or maybe charcoal. Glasgow was pockmarked by old mine workings. This could be one of them.
If Jen had the soil, no doubt she could pinpoint exactly where they were by the constituents of the mud in Rhona’s mouth.
If only.
Rhona rolled over and stuck her face into the trickling water. Letting it flow in and around her mouth, before spitting it out and taking a long cold welcome drink.
The earlier nausea had eased and she could almost think straight and form words again. What she couldn’t do was remember what had happened. Well, not in its entirety, or in a way that made sense.
The demon.
She did remember the demon in the corner of the room. She’d thought she was hallucinating and the creature was a creation of her fear under the influence of the drug. The face, the red eyes, just like in the painting, but …
She had seen it rise, extend itself and move towards her. Then it had taken human form, with a demon face.
A mask?
Rhona recalled the figure above her as she’d lain on the glass-strewn kitchen floor. Definitely human, but male or female she couldn’t say, although it had been tall, that much she did remember.
After that, nothing.
Yet she had been removed from her home and brought here, and whoever had done that definitely hadn’t been a figment of her drug-fuelled imagination.
Refreshed by the water, with logical thought returning, Rhona considered her next move, which should be to try and remove her bindings. If an Urbex explorer could get in here, then she could definitely find her way out.
Rhona couldn’t imagine her captor would choose to leave her here indefinitely. Surely they would return? To do what? The answer to that lay, of course, in the reason she’d been drugged and brought here in the first place.
And that had to have something to do with the Jackson case.
Feeling about in the cold water, she searched for a stone sharp enough to use on the zip tags, but felt only round ones, rubbed smooth by the action of the stream.
As her eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, Rhona began to sense the shape of her surroundings. Her prison was small, barely two yards square, she estimated. The water appeared just behind her. Bubbling from below, running under her body and past her feet, to where, she didn’t know.
As Rhona moved her exploration a little further she encountered something of interest. Making a grab for it, she yelped in pain as the sharp object cut into her hand.
It was glass of some description and not blunted by the water’s action.
A sudden memory swept in. She hadn’t meekly submitted to the demon figure. Instead she’d grabbed at the shards of the broken bottle littered around her, although the action had done her little good. Rhona winced, remembering the angry grunt as the shard had met material, then the skin of her attacker.
She’d been thrust flat on the floor then, a foot in her back, her hands beneath her.
But not before I’d put the glass in my pocket.
72
McNab braked as the Glide approached the barrier. Supplied with a registration tag by Fran, he was about to meet his first security check. More used to producing his ID to get in pretty well anywhere, McNab had to restrain himself, while he and the bike were given the onceover.
‘You heading for the camp ground?’
McNab nodded. ‘Looking for a friend who’s already there.’
The guy checked McNab’s tag number against the bike’s and, satisfied, said, ‘The place is almost full. You could wander around in there for some time and never find them. I’d call them first for directions.’
How McNab would love to do that. Call Ellie and ask her where she was. Tell her he was coming and know she would be pleased.
‘Thanks for the tip,’ he said, before roaring through.
Having viewed the camp from a distance, he now saw up close what the guard was talking about. The large area was chock-a-block with motorhomes and tents, interspersed by bikes, loads of bikes. He could wander about in here forever.
Alternatively he could cook up a story and start asking questions. Ellie was distinctive enough with her tattoos without a photograph. Besides, it looked like most folk were recognized by their bike.
Having cruised around for a bit, McNab parked up on a grass verge and, skirting a line of young trees, walked into the camp. He’d come up with a story, and chose the first person he met to try it out on.
The tale of love and a surprise visit went down pretty well with the large bearded biker, who immediately asked what bike his girlfriend had. When McNab told him a Fat Bob, he nodded. ‘Aye, the lassies like that one. You’ll find a few of them around. What does she look like, this girlfriend of yours?’
McNab’s glowing description brought a smile to his face.
‘If she’s travelling alone, she’d probably set up camp next to a group for company, and safety. We look after our own in the Harley family.’
McNab wasn’t sure if the last remark was to reassure him or warn him, but he said thank you anyway then began his sweep across the field, one layer at a time, like they did when out searching for a missing person.
An hour later, he’d located six Fat Bobs and a dozen solo tents, none of which belonged to Ellie. It would have helped had he had any idea what colour and model her tent was, but since he’d scorned even thinking about camping, he didn’t.
McNab checked his mobile for the umpteenth time, and this time there was a message from Fran.
A possible
sighting of your girl last night in the Cairngorm Hotel bar talking to the barman. Will we check it out or will you?
McNab texted back ‘Me’ and, leaving the bike where it was, headed for the main street again. Dressed as he was in biker gear, with the addition of a newly purchased Harley-Davidson skull cap, there was little resemblance to his DS McNab persona. He could, McNab figured, enter and not be taken for a policeman, or be instantly recognized by Ellie or Symes for that matter. He doubted even Rhona would recognize him, he thought with a half-smile.
Cairngorm Hotel was a major drinking and music hub for the rally with a mobile stage set up in the parking lot. McNab bypassed the outdoor kiosks and headed inside. Unlike the bar at the Winking Owl earlier in the day, this place was throbbing with life.
McNab spotted the barman Fran had described behind a busy counter. McNab duly waited his turn, ordered a pint, then gave him the girlfriend story and a description of Ellie, looking suitably contrite that he was late to the party.
It wasn’t difficult to tell that the guy had seen her. It was, McNab thought, written all over the barman’s face, yet for a moment he contemplated denying it.
‘I fucked up big time, mate,’ McNab said. ‘I need to fix this.’
‘You should call or text her,’ the barman offered with a smile. ‘Maybe warn her you’re here.’
‘But it’s a surprise.’
The barman didn’t like that response and glanced at the TV screen then back at McNab.
‘How do I know she wants to see you?’
It was a strange answer and one that worried McNab.
‘Am I the first person looking for her?’ he demanded in what was definitely a detective voice.
The guy was going to clam up. McNab did what had to be done. He pulled out his ID.
The barman looked at it, the colour draining from his face. ‘What’s she done?’
‘Tell me what happened last night,’ McNab demanded.
Emerging ten minutes later, he knew where Ellie would be. He also knew she’d viewed last night’s news and not taken it well.
‘I think the news scared her. The murdered girl in Glasgow. I wondered if she knew her?’
When McNab asked if anyone else had asked about Ellie, the barman had nodded.
