by T F Muir
Ahead, the van slowed down as it entered the village of Kingsbarns.
Gilchrist did likewise.
Back Stile was a road that ran all the way to the beach, off the A917 just beyond Kingsbarns. Whoever was in the van would surely know Gilchrist was now behind them, and would probably not turn into Back Stile but drive straight on.
Gilchrist followed, his eyes peeled for any other vehicles.
Other than his Merc and the van ahead, the road ran clear, as if the village had locked down for the night. The Barns Hotel passed by on his left, and moments later the primary school on his right. Gilchrist felt his body tense as he readied to leave the village. With Back Stile coming up on the left, would the van turn left?
It powered past Back Stile and accelerated into the open country road.
Gilchrist slowed down and turned off the main road.
Although snowploughs had cleared Back Stile, subsequent snowfall had laid down another couple of inches. Tyre tracks rutted fresh snow. The asphalt pavement that ran along the left side of the road, all the way to Seagate, after which it became gravel, lay thick with snow, its surface disturbed by a solitary set of footprints. Street lights cast a hazy glow over the winter scene.
The clock on the dashboard read 11.56 p.m. Gilchrist eased the Merc forward, keeping his speed at a steady twenty-five, taking it slow, peering into the dark tunnel ahead, ready to accelerate, or slam it into reverse if he happened to see anything suspicious. A glance in his rearview mirror told him no one was following. He turned the radio to low, then switched it off altogether.
He eased through a shallow left-hand bend, then cruised past the entrance to The Steading, then MacKenzie Garden. The road appeared to widen at the branch for North Carr View, taking with it the last of the tyre tracks.
Ahead, Back Stile lay white with pristine snow, the entrance to Seagate on the left, lit by the last of the street lighting on the right. Beyond, the road ran on to the sea and the beach parking. The snowploughs had not cleared that far, and the road’s surface lay in whitened darkness, as if untouched by humans.
Seconds later, Gilchrist turned left and parked against the kerb.
He kept the engine running, flicked his headlights to full beam. Seagate stretched before him, as smooth as a white blanket. Light snow continued to fall, the tiniest of flakes that glinted for a moment then seemed to melt under the glare of his full beams.
At that moment, Gilchrist realised his luck. If anyone was lying in wait at the cottage, their footprints would give them away, the recent snowfall not heavy enough to obliterate all trace. That thought settled him, and he took one steady three-sixty degree look around him before turning off the engine. He disconnected his mobile from the car’s system, slipped it into his pocket, and opened the door.
His shoes settled into snow no more than three inches deep, his footprints the first disturbance that day, it seemed. He pressed his key fob, and the locks clicked. Ahead, the scene was brightened by street lights and roadside homes and Christmas lights on bushes and hedges, which flickered and pulsed in blues, reds, whites. He pulled up his collar, shivered off the cold air, and walked towards the abandoned cottage.
He took his time, his senses on full alert, his eyes scanning the ground ahead for the tell signs of a trap. Lawns and driveways lay thick with snow, parked cars like hibernating beasts huddled under white blankets. A stone-eyed snowman watched him in silence. He stopped twice, turning his head to the wind to catch the tiniest hint of movement.
But the place was graveyard silent.
It took him no more than three minutes before the cottage appeared on his right. The windows of the houses either side glowed with welcoming warmth, as if in invitation to the weary traveller to stay for the night. In contrast, the abandoned cottage lay in complete and utter darkness, putting Gilchrist back on full alert.
If someone was hiding, would he be able to see their footprints?
As he stood at its wooden gate, he saw that the path outside was clear of footprints. His gaze eyed his own trail back to the footpath on the opposite side of the road. Other than a pair of tracks on a neighbouring driveway, it seemed as if the residents in this housing estate had battened down their homes for the winter storm.
He faced the cottage again, gripped the gate, and pushed it open.
Even in the midnight darkness, the snow reflected sufficient light to confirm that the short walkway to the cottage – no more than twelve feet – lay undisturbed. Snow-covered bushes guarded the garden boundary either side. Two flowerpots on the step to a black door held dead conifers cloaked in snow. Strips of yellow police tape – Do Not Cross – stretched across the doorway, the cottage’s very own Christmas wrapping.
Gilchrist removed a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket, and slipped them on. Next, he pulled out his mobile phone, and swiped it on. The screen lit up, which he used as a poor man’s torch. One more three-sixty scan confirmed he was still alone.
Then he stepped through the gateway.
He reached the front doorstep, leaned down, and lifted the flowerpot on the left.
Sure enough, there was Kumar’s note, a small white envelope, just as he said.
Gilchrist picked it up—
Something fluttered to his left, movement in the dark.
He froze, his breath locked in his throat. His gaze darted around the shrubbery, and he saw with a gut-wrenching sense of helplessness how careless he had been, how they had waited for him in the bushes. His heart pounded in his chest, telling his brain that his lungs had to breathe. He held out his mobile phone, as if that alone could stop the attack, its weak light barely helping him—
Movement. Another flutter.
He saw it that time, snow falling from the branches of an overladen bush.
Not Kumar’s men. Not a trap.
Just nature shifting and stirring around him.
His heart and lungs kick-started with a sharp exhalation and intake of air.
Bloody hell, he was too old for this.
He clutched the envelope, retreated along the cottage walkway, retraced his steps across the road, until he stood under a street light, his back to the house behind.
Across the street, the cottage stared back at him in dark and derelict silence.
He waited thirty seconds, maybe more, while his lungs and his heart did what they could to settle his nerves. And it struck him then, with a clarity that shook him, how stupid he had been, how easily he could have been attacked, how an ageing detective – because that was how he now saw himself – was no match for a gang of killers intent on expanding their criminal activities beyond London, Manchester, Glasgow into the quieter regions of the Fife countryside.
That thought had him doing another three-sixty.
But he could have been alone on the moon for all the activity around him.
He turned his attention to the envelope. It was unsealed. He pulled back the flap, removed the note – hand-printed. In addition to any fingerprints they might lift, the printed word might help nail Kumar to the proverbial cross.
He read the note: Outside the secret bunker in 15 minutes.
Gilchrist knew the secret bunker, constructed during the Second World War to house the regional government in the event of a nuclear or biological attack. The only evidence of its existence was the guardhouse in the form of a farmhouse that sat over a labyrinth of heavily reinforced underground offices and tunnels, the size of two football parks, 100 feet underground. He had taken Jack there, years ago, when security restrictions on the bunker’s existence were lifted and it was opened to the public.
He did another three-sixty scan.
If Kumar was watching him, he could not tell from where.
He dialled HQ Glenrothes again, and got through to the SPOC. He arranged for one ARV to take up position on the east end of the road that led to the secret bunker, and another on the west end, and to wait there until he gave further instruction. But time was not on his side. He knew that. Kuma
r’s words came back to him – only ten minutes or so to reach me. It would take at least half an hour before the ARVs were in position, maybe much longer. He might be able to stall the meeting in some way, and if he did, the ARVs could move in and make the final arrest.
Maybe not the best of plans, but it was a plan.
And no matter what, Kumar was going down.
Gilchrist ended the call to the SPOC with, ‘I’ll get back to you in fifteen minutes.’
He walked towards his car. He still held his mobile in his hand, and despite the hour, he thought of calling Jessie to see if she would be interested in making her first formal arrest in Fife. But he realised he was being inconsiderate. Jessie had just moved to St Andrews, and with trying to settle into a new job and set up a new home, she needed more time with her son. So he decided to call her later.
Twenty feet from his car, he clicked the key fob.
The lights flashed as the doors unlocked.
He walked closer, checked that the snow around his car had not been disturbed since he had locked it. Only his own footprints. No one had followed, and no one was lying in wait for him. He was about to slip his mobile into his pocket and open the door, when something stung the side of his neck.
He lifted a hand to touch it, felt his blood chill as his fingers brushed the short hard bristles of a dart. He gripped it, pulled it out, threw it into the snow.
No time to waste.
He reached for the door handle, tugged the door open . . .
The car spun away from him.
He grunted, surprised by the cold slap of snow on his face.
Around him, the air seemed to buzz with muffled silence, broken only by the sound of shoes crunching snow. He tried to lift his head but it could have been nailed to the road.
From the distance, he thought he heard the revving sound of a car’s engine starting up. Then blackness swept over him, his own midnight cloak. And his last waking thoughts were of the pungent smell of garlic, warm hands on his face.
And the deep, lazy chuckle of the Devil himself.
CHAPTER 43
10.43 a.m., Wednesday, 14 December
Jessie crossed the Tay Road Bridge into Fife and followed the sign for Tayport.
Left at the roundabout, then down with the boot, followed by a whispered curse at her car’s lack of response. Not that she needed to be pressed into the back of her seat, but her Fiat 500 had to have something bigger than a hairdryer under the bonnet, surely.
On the one hand, it irked that she had let Lachie work out a deal for her, committing her to a four-year loan through a contact of his. On the other hand, no one could have worked out a better deal for her. And if the truth be known, as fat and ugly as Lachie was, he really only had her best interests at heart.
Maybe she would call him and apologise for her recent behaviour.
She thought about that for a moment, then decided maybe not.
She stretched over and squeezed Robert’s leg.
He jerked with surprise, and she blew him a kiss, and signed that she loved him.
His fingers flickered in return – You’re silly, but I love you, too.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, then dabbed his cheek. ‘Love you,’ she said.
Robert smiled, then returned his attention to his iPhone.
Robert’s 8.30 appointment at Ninewells Hospital with the ENT consultant – Mr Amir Mbeke – had gone well, other than having to wait for almost forty minutes despite arriving on time. Mr Mbeke had told her in a voice as smooth as honey that Robert could be a suitable candidate for a cochlear implant. He would have to carry out more tests, of course, but he felt that an operation could be successful. Even better, they would run a means test on Jessie and see if there was any way she could qualify to have the costs covered by the NHS.
All in all, not a bad morning’s effort, she thought.
She waited until they were past the village of Tayport before removing her mobile. A quick look in the rearview mirror confirmed she would not be stopped for talking on the phone while driving. She dialled his number, and the call was picked up on the second ring.
‘You’ll never guess,’ she said to him.
‘DS Janes?’
Jessie scowled at her mobile. ‘I thought I dialled Andy’s number.’
‘You did,’ the voice said.
‘Well, put him on.’
‘There’s been a problem.’
It struck her with a force that took her breath away that it must be serious for Andy not to have his mobile. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said.
‘We’re not sure what’s happened—’
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside the secret bunker.’
‘The what? Never mind. How do I get to there from Tayport?’ she asked, and nodded as she took in the directions. ‘Who am I speaking with?’
‘DI Davidson.’
‘Stan?’ she said. ‘I thought you were in hospital.’
‘I signed myself out a few days ago. Thought I’d pop my head into the office and say hello. And, well . . .’
‘Shit. This must be serious.’
‘Very.’
‘I’m on my way.’ She killed the call and tried to accelerate. ‘Come on, come on,’ she said, and jerked when Robert tapped her thigh.
What’s up, Mum?
My boss is missing.
Is that a joke?
She scowled at him.
I’m sorry, Mum. I hope you find him.
‘I hope so too,’ she said.
Gilchrist came to.
He eased his eyes open and lifted his head.
Pain as hard as a rabbit punch stunned the back of his neck. He groaned, closed his eyes, and his head slumped back on to his chest. He had the vaguest memory of snow on his face, and realised he had slipped and knocked himself unconscious. He had no idea how long he had been out, and his mind seemed unable to work out why he was no longer in the snow.
He counted to ten. Then started again, on to twenty. He tested his brain a bit harder, multiplied twenty-five by four to get . . . to get . . .
He knew the answer, but could not work—
One hundred. And with that arithmetical revelation, his senses began to clear the dark numbness in his mind. But with it came pain that eased through his body, drip by sensitive drip. And cold. So damn cold. His mouth felt dry, his tongue thick enough to choke him. He risked opening his eyes again, and in the dim light could make out the shape of his thighs.
He was upright, in a sitting position, but . . .
He lifted his head with care.
Pain throbbed in his neck, across his shoulders, and seemed to work down his arms. Even his fingers felt thick and numb, and he flexed them, tried to stir some sensation into them. His mouth and jaw felt odd too, and seemed not to work the way they should. He tried to say something, but his lips were as good as glued together. He turned his head to the left, then to the right, worked his way beyond the pain. His night vision was improving, his eyes beginning to adapt to the darkness.
Shadows took on shape. Shapes took on form.
Forms became . . .
An almost overpowering need to close his eyes, let sleep take him, surged through his body in a warm wave that threatened to pull him into its numbing depths. He forced his eyes to stay open, focus on the shapes, the forms that stood before him, as tall as a man . . .
A short man. Then, not a man, but someone else . . .
Something else . . .
His head seemed too heavy for his neck, but he refused to let it buckle, and he forced his eyes to focus through the darkness. What was he looking at? What stood before him?
What was that . . . that man, that thing?
His peripheral vision darkened, and once more sleep – or unconsciousness – reached up to pull him down. But he fought off the numbing waves as his eyes recovered their sight, and his brain struggled to piece together the form that was now manifesting from the shadows before him. And at that moment, a
s he recognised what it was, and understood the full extent of his predicament, fear surged through him with a force that killed his breath.
‘Stay here,’ Jessie told Robert.
She recognised Cooper in conversation with a group of four others. Cooper saw her approaching then whispered to a tall slim man by her side, who glanced over at Jessie, and excused himself from the group.
‘DI Davidson,’ he said to her. ‘Good to meet you, DS Janes.’
She shook his hand, and said, ‘Likewise,’ then eyed the group. Cooper had returned to her huddled conversation and now stood with her back to Jessie. ‘So what’s the scoop?’
Stan nodded to a farmhouse, then winced.
‘Should you not be in bed?’ she said.
‘I don’t make a good patient.’ He frowned, as if at another stab of pain. ‘DCI Gilchrist was—’
‘Andy,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s cut the formal crap.’ She stared at him.
Stan levelled his gaze at her, as if to stifle annoyance, and said, ‘Andy called the office just after midnight last night and asked for two ARVs to take position down the road. But he never turned up, and never responded to any of his calls, so we moved the ARVs in.’ He shifted his gaze to focus somewhere in the distance.
‘Then?’ Jessie demanded.
‘They tried calling his home and mobile numbers periodically, and just before seven this morning, his mobile was answered. Turned out to be a Mr Smart in Kingsbarns, who was out walking his dog when he heard a phone ringing. He said his dog found it buried in the snow beside Andy’s Merc—’
‘Locked?’
‘What?’
‘Was his Merc locked?’
Stan scratched his head. ‘Never asked.’
‘Could be important,’ Jessie said. ‘If it was locked, he probably still has his key fob on him. We might be able to track its location through GPS.’ She glared at him. ‘Do you know if his fob has that capability?’
Stan shook his head. ‘Let me get someone on to it.’ He removed his mobile and spoke briefly, then ended the call.
‘Keep going,’ Jessie said to him.
