Suddenly he knew how he could be sure: his camera. He turned back to where it sat on the arm of the Channings’ printed sofa and grabbed it. He flipped furiously through the images on his memory card, desperately trying to find the set of photographs he wanted. He was sure – something inside him was screaming that he was right – but he had to see it. He rattled through the images, going past what he was looking for and back again, past the dog cut in half on Swanston Street, past the severed head in Cambuslang, past Dunbar’s severed hands on Mansionhouse Drive, past the photographs at the Western and The Rock then back until he came to the photographs he had taken in Greg Deans’ house on Vancouver Road.
There it was. The image he’d taken uninvited from the framed photo on the Deans’ mantelpiece: Deans with his wife and daughter at a wedding. The blonde wife in her pillar box hat and the flame-haired daughter with the unmistakable heart-shaped rhinestone necklace.
‘Deans,’ he said out loud.
CHAPTER 54
Narey had only seen photographs of Peter ‘Paddy’ Bradley from his student days and she’d never seen him with his throat cut and swathed in blood but there was no doubt whatsoever that he was the man sitting dead in the car in front of her right then.
She closed the car door and turned to look at the stunned faces around her. She decided that the best of a bad bunch on the lakeside was a sensible enough guy in his mid-thirties, broad in his red ski jacket and intimidating enough to make others do what they were told.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked him, showing him her ID.
‘Bruce. Bruce Gleeson.’
‘Okay, Mr Gleeson. You’re in charge. No one other than a police officer opens that door. Can you do that for me?’
‘Um, yes. No problem.’
‘Good. Thank you. And you . . .’ she said to a boy in his late teens. ‘I need you to run to the top of the road or else the first police officer you see and get them down here. Tell them what’s in the car and get them to inform Strathclyde Police as well as Central. Got that? Strathclyde.’
The kid nodded and ran off in the direction of the road, panic and determination written all over his face.
‘The rest of you get back from the car. It’s not a show. Go.’
As the crowd backed away, sure to return, Narey broke into a run and sprinted across the car park to the side of the hotel where it met the lake. Her stay there with Tony seemed so long ago and yet it had been the start of all this. Any thoughts that might have turned to regret were dismissed as soon as she saw the frozen lake. The sight that greeted her pushed all other considerations aside: it was teeming with people.
There were so many of them that even trying to put a figure on it seemed impossible. Three thousand? Six? The ice swarmed with bodies: all shapes, sizes and ages. They crawled over the frozen lake like multi-coloured ants, scurrying this way and that, blurring together and moving apart. They were skating, sliding, walking, curling, running. They were everywhere. And somewhere in the middle of them, seen but unseen, was Greg Deans.
It was obvious now that Deans had abducted Bradley rather than the other way round. Of course it was possible that Deans had overcome his captor and killed him in a struggle but that wouldn’t have explained the mark of zip ties round Bradley’s wrists. It had been Deans all along. He had played them and he was still playing them. The return trip to the Lake of Menteith was all part of his grand production, which meant the final drama had to be played out on the island. The only thing that he couldn’t have accounted for was the number of people there and that, perhaps, had thrown his plans into disarray.
Narey took her mobile from her pocket to check how far away her back-up was but saw that she had no signal and remembered Tony’s constant complaining about not being able to use his phone when they’d been at the hotel.
She could wait or she could go after Deans alone. The deciding factor was her dad: she’d said she would fix this for him and she would. His last case would be closed.
She knew Deans couldn’t be far ahead of her and desperately tried to spot him among the thousands on the ice – so many of them taking the chance to walk across to Inchmahome. The difference was that Deans would be on his own; almost everyone else was in couples or groups. Her eyes searched deeper into the lake, over sledges and dogs, teams of curlers, kids playing impromptu ice hockey, nervous couples tiptoeing across the frozen playground. It was hopeless. She’d never see him. Looking around she saw a couple standing on the shore, about twenty yards away, watching the action, and noticed that the man had a pair of binoculars round his neck. She ran over, shouting to them as she went.
The man looked up, startled and confused, but readily agreed to her request when Narey showed him her badge. Armed with the binoculars, she hurriedly began sweeping the arctic panorama, desperate for a sighting of Deans. She flew by anyone milling around the middle of the lake or anyone in a group, looking only for the lone wolf, the single needle in the moving haystack. There a stray skater, there a lone walker heading for shore, there a single figure walking to the island but, just as suddenly, the smaller shape of a child could be seen with them. Back and forth, she trained the binoculars, seeing hats everywhere, brave and foolhardy souls in kilts, ski jackets in twos and threes but no . . . wait. She pulled her glasses back and looked again at the figure she had passed by: a man, on his own, head down under a black ski hat and heading directly towards Inchmahome. He wasn’t stopping to take in the view but was moving, relatively slowly, unobtrusively, towards the island. She had no doubt: it was Deans.
Without a word, Narey thrust the binoculars back into the midriff of their owner and took off onto the ice without a second thought. She made a straight line towards Deans and hurried as fast as the surface would let her. On the ice, the noise was so much greater than it had been on the shore. She was buffeted by the sound of people laughing and screaming, cheering and whooping. And the roar. She knew that curling was known as ‘the roaring game’ but now she suddenly knew why. The rumble of the granite stones being hurled across the hard surface of the ice rose up at her and shouted at her, filling her ears with dire warnings that she ignored. She dashed across one of the makeshift curling lanes, was yelled at by angry players and had to leap over one of the large stones, with its spinning handle, as it sped within inches of her ankles.
She still had a vague sightline on the figure she was sure was Deans, gaining ground on him all the time as he walked and she ran. She was determined to bear straight for him, fearful of losing him if she was forced to change direction. A couple loomed in front of her and she barged apologetically into the shoulder of one of them as she hurtled by. Narey ran on but only another ten yards before her right foot slipped from under her on the ice and she crashed down onto her left knee, pain shooting through it. She got up but it felt as if she were the only one in the world standing still as the rest of the crowd whirled round her. She ran on again but slower now, the ache in her knee signalling some damage. The man in the black ski hat was ahead though and that drove her on.
Abruptly, she saw movement from the corner of her eye and glanced over to see a string of young skaters in their early teens swoop round in a giggling chain. They were arcing across the ice, eight of them hand in outstretched hand, forming a fifteen-yard human barrier. Narey continued to run even though they were only a short distance away from her. She shouted at them to move but the kids were too engrossed in their fun to hear until it was too late and she burst through their chain, sending three of them sprawling onto the ice with angry, high-pitched yelps. It was the combined complaints of their friends that did it though. The noise was enough to make Narey’s prey turn on the ice to see what the commotion was.
The reddish hair peeked out from beneath the ski hat and the eyes were wide. Deans stood for a moment, taking in her presence before turning again, this time breaking into a run. Narey took off after him, her injured knee being compensated for by her fewer years and greater fitness. She was still gaining on him.
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As she watched, Deans moved off to the side towards a family group of parents and two children. For a moment, he vanished from sight and, although Narey was within ten yards, she worried she’d lost him among the crowd.
Just as suddenly, Deans reappeared, holding something large in his hands. She didn’t have time to work out what it was before Deans heaved his arms back then forward, letting the object hurtle across the ice towards her. It was a child’s sledge, all wood and metal runners, and it was on her before she knew it. Perhaps if her knee hadn’t been hurt in the fall, she might have hurdled it but she’d barely got her feet off the ground when the sledge crashed into her shins and sent her flying face first onto the ice.
Narey managed to get her left hand down to break her fall but ended up wishing she hadn’t. She still smacked the side of her head against the rock hard surface but also had an aching pain spreading from the heel of her hand. As she picked herself up again, there was no sign of Deans. The family whose sledge had been taken from them pointed towards Inchmahome but Narey was already sure that was where he’d be heading. She limped towards it, the frosty shores of the island still a hundred yards away across the lake.
The boathouse loomed large in front of her and Narey lifted herself off the ice and onto the snow-covered jetty and the island. Memories came back of her midnight trip there with Tony, their eerie visit in the mist to see the ghosts of nineteen years before. This was different though – very different. One of the ghosts of that winter was here and alive.
There were others on the island too, a handful of couples and groups moving quietly through the newly misty glades and ruins of Inchmahome as if cowed by their surroundings. The only noise that came from them was the sudden breaking of twigs, an unexpected cough or irreverent laughter that echoed off the ancient walls of the priory. They paid Narey no attention and she guessed that they’d been the same when Deans had slipped by them. She’d slowed her pace now, wary of everything and everyone around her and far more concerned by who might step out from behind cloisters, a tree or the remnants of a wall.
Narey tread carefully past the old kitchen and on to the chapter house, the number of shadowy visitors thinning as she went deeper into the far corner of the island. As their numbers decreased so did the noises they caused to jump out of the mist, meaning she could hear her own breathing all the more clearly, heavy and laboured and advancing before her in the chilled air.
There was still a mass of footprints in the crisp snow but she couldn’t be sure whom they belonged to. Not that it particularly mattered – she was sure where he’d be and had been convinced of it even as she’d stood between the church and hotel and surveyed the scene on the lake. The murderer returning to the scene of the crime might have been a cliché but it was often no less true for that. Deans was going back to the dark corner where he’d killed the girl who became Lily who became Barbie.
Narey slowed further, aware of the slight limp of her left leg, which dragged through the top of the snow and signalled her arrival. As she passed the corner of the chapter house, she stood and listened, hearing only the merest rustle of the wind through the petrified trees and the distant shouts of skaters who could have come from another world. With no help to be had from the sounds drifting through the air, she breathed deep and turned the corner into the clearing – and saw nothing.
Exhaling slowly, she stood still again, her eyes scanning the scene, every nerve on edge. She saw footprints, possibly fresh ones, stretching all the way to the low wall that had half-hidden the girl’s battered body. There was also – was there, she questioned her eyesight – some sort of disturbance to the snow where she knew the body had lain all those years ago.
She instinctively began to move towards what she saw by the wall but had taken only half a step when she felt the taste of blood in her mouth and the perplexing darkness that came from behind her eyes as her head rang and swirled and crashed. The view in front of her dropped dramatically as she pitched forward and the world ran psychedelic and out of focus until her head came thankfully to rest on a cooling pillow of snow.
CHAPTER 55
Cold. Cold and dark. And quiet. The first thoughts licked at her consciousness, nudging her awake inch by inch in dark and dreamy tones. She felt wonderfully relaxed, with a warm and woolly glow that defied the strange chill that nibbled at her outside. The warmth was on the inside, circling her head and muddling it, making her wonder if an empty bottle of wine was responsible for the pall of fuzz and fog. But it wasn’t wine; part of her knew that.
She really was cold. Her eyes flickered open but there was no more light than before, just a sea of black. Christ, her head wasn’t warm; it hurt. Cold. Snow. Deans. Memories poked their way through the snow and the fog, stirring proper consciousness. She opened her eyes again, still seeing darkness but this time seeing it shimmer.
She was on the island. Inchmahome. It was dark and yet light. As she struggled to lift a heavy arm to paw at the horizon, she heard the soothing sound of snow landing lightly, like the air being let gently out of a balloon. The noise was at first comforting but as her head cleared, it worried her more. Her arm struggled to move, sluggish like her thinking.
It was only when she felt the cold on her face that a real measure of awareness kicked in. There was dark beyond the immediate light and the wetness of the cold clung to her. Snow. She was under snow. The knowledge had her awake with shock, her arm flailing upwards in panic but held back by the weight of the snow on top of it. She pushed again and felt the snow move, forcing on until her hand was beyond it and in the open air.
She kicked with her legs too, feeling the same initial resistance but then the same movement. As she did so, the ground inches from her head rang with a thud that made it shake. She knew immediately that her hand being seen had triggered the attack and she had to move. She guessed left rather than right and scrambled as quickly as she could to that side, pushing up and rolling away, snow falling past her as she moved. The thud came again, crashing into her right shoulder, the pain dulled by the knowledge that the blow had landed where her head had been.
She continued to roll, desperately trying to move away from the attack that continued to come. A blow caught her on the top of her thigh, pounding into the flesh and sickening her. More swipes missed though, every sound of the weapon against the ground giving her hope as well as saving her from pain. She was on her back now, her hands behind her as she scrambled away, giving her a view of Deans as he stood over her, a golf club in his hand, at least now able to see it coming at her. A glance to her side told her that she’d been lying on the very spot where the girl’s body had been found, a large mound of dispersed snow signalling the makeshift grave that he had tried to form for her.
Deans’ eyes were wild and staring, almost unrecognisable from the man she had seen in the Western or his house in Vancouver Road. He swung the club back and then down, erratically slamming it into the ground as she just managed to move her leg to the side in time. She put a hand to the back of her head and found it wet; bringing it up she saw it was coated in thick red. As she looked up, he’d hoisted the club back above his shoulder, ready to strike again.
‘Why did you do it?’ she stopped him.
‘Never you mind.’
The club came down again, catching her a glancing blow on her foot as she failed to move it quickly enough. The club was immediately raised above his head.
‘You killed the girl, didn’t you? You killed Paton, Mosson, Bradley. They were your friends.’
‘They weren’t my friends.’ Deans strangled the words in a hoarse scream. ‘They would have ruined everything.’
‘So you killed them. Like you killed Barbie.’
‘Fuck you. You know nothing. You were as bad as they were. Would have ruined everything. Would have taken away my family.’
Deans was spitting in his rage, his words burbling out furiously, one tripping over the other. He advanced on Narey, the club high behind his head and gripped tight
ly in both hands. When he was stood above her, his legs straddling hers, she lashed her feet up and crashed them into his groin with as much force as she could muster. Deans yelped and staggered back, the golf club falling from his grasp and landing a yard away from Narey.
She got unsteadily to her feet, the pounding in her head increasing as she rose. She knew she couldn’t stand for long and doubted she would be able to wrestle Deans for the club. Instead she staggered across to where he stood, massaging his aching bollocks and clearly trying not to throw up. She grabbed his hair and lifted his head up, easily arcing out of the way of his flailing arm, and punched him full in the throat.
The effort was enough to send her crumbling back to the ground but, bad as it was for her, she was able to look up and see that it was much worse for Deans. A violent choke of air shot from his lips and he fell back clutching at his throat, all but immobilised. Narey let her head settle back onto the snow as she caught her breath, safe in the knowledge that Deans had none of his own, safer still that she was a lot nearer to the golf club than he was.
She felt the back of her head throb and wondered if the club that had caused it was also what Deans had used on Julia Corrieri. Christ, Julia. What had that bastard done to her? Narey propped herself up on her elbows, her head spinning and other spots of her body crying out in sympathy: knee, hand, shoulder, thigh, all aching in a chorus of pain.
‘Why did you kill Barbie?’
Deans answered in a hoarse gargle, ‘Fuck you.’
‘You know that you’ve nowhere to go. It’s finished.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘Yes. You’ve lost your family. You do know that, don’t you?’
Cold Grave Page 32
