by Bill Daly
Johnston’s imagination was running riot. He heard a sharp, crackling noise. It sounded like a twig being snapped underfoot. Convinced he was being followed, he switched off his torch, dropped to his knees, then stretched out full-length in the long, damp grass by the side of the path, his ears straining to detect the sound of footsteps. Rain started falling steadily. Large drops, not penetrating the dense tree cover, but pinging off the foliage high above his head, like the report of rifle fire. He lay prone for a long time, hardly daring to breathe, until he could stand the darkness no longer. Scrambling to his feet, he flicked on his torch. Strange shapes loomed in front of him and he heard many sounds he couldn’t identify; unseen creatures shuffling and scuttling in the undergrowth.
Johnston tried to lick some moisture into his dehydrated lips while beads of clammy sweat dribbled down his cheeks. He forced himself to keep moving. The path seemed to go on forever and it was with an overwhelming sense of relief that he came across a tall, isolated barn by the side of the track. He switched off his torch and tried the handle on the door. It wasn’t locked. He eased the door open and stepped inside. ‘Is there anybody here?’ he called out in a hoarse whisper.
There was no response. He flicked on his flash lamp and scanned the high-roofed building – completely empty apart from a stack of hay piled up against the far wall. Rain water, seeping through a corner of the roof, was running down the inside of the rusty, corrugated-iron wall. Johnston swept his torch at ground level through three hundred and sixty degrees, causing a startled rat to scurry out from a dark corner and scuttle for the sanctuary of the hay. If anything, it felt colder inside the barn than out. Johnston tugged the door closed behind him. Zipping his thin anorak up to his chin, he crossed to the pile of hay. He sat down with his back to the wall, facing the barn door. Although physically exhausted, his nerves were still jangling. His cold fingers struggled to light a cigarette. He switched off his torch and huddled, shivering, in the inky blackness, sucking hard on the cigarette cradled in both hands while staring at the barn door. He had no idea how long he would have to wait.
CHAPTER 5
Thursday 23 June
Roman Bespalov stood on deck, gazing at the lights of Tobermory while listening to the rhythmic sound of the water lapping gently against the hull. The moon appeared for a moment before disappearing again behind the high clouds drifting across the sky. He checked his watch, confirming it was two o’clock in the morning. Signalling to one of his crew, they descended together to the captain’s cabin.
‘Ti uhodish, Roman?’
‘Speak in English, Dimitri. I want to practise for tonight.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Both of them spoke fluent English, Dimitri Ryleev with a strong, middle-European accent. ‘What do you know about the courier?’ Ryleev asked.
‘His name’s Pete Johnston. Salman told me he’d be wearing a red anorak – and he sent me a photo of him so I would be able to recognise him.’
‘That was a good idea. You wouldn’t want to be giving the case to the wrong guy,’ Ryleev said with a toothy grin.
‘According to Salman,’ Bespalov said, ‘Johnston’s not very bright, but he uses him as a courier because he’s an ex-soldier and he knows how to obey orders.’
A heavy wooden desk stood against the side wall of the cabin. Ryleev bent down and pressed a concealed button underneath the desk, causing a hidden drawer to slide open. He extracted a waterproof rucksack and opened it up to check the contents; a heavy, black attaché case, twenty-five centimetres square and five centimetres thick, with a sturdy metal handle and two combination locks; a set of handcuffs; a torch; a pair of jeans; a woollen sweater and a pair of slip-on shoes.
Bespalov removed his boots and socks, then stripped off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. He took the wet-suit from the hanger behind the cabin door and pulled it on. Ryleev zipped up the rucksack, then held it up for Bespalov to slip his arms through the straps. Having fastened the retaining belt securely around his waist, Bespalov pulled on a pair of flippers and a face mask with a snorkel attached.
Ryleev walked round in front to make eye contact with Bespalov through his visor. ‘Are you ready, Roman?’ he mouthed. When Bespalov gave the thumbs up, Ryleev bent down and put his shoulder against the desk, pushing it away from the side of the cabin. Sliding back four retaining bolts, he opened a panel on the seaward side of the boat, just above the waterline.
Bespalov sat down on the edge and balanced there for a moment before lowering himself slowly, silently into the dark waters. Ryleev watched as Bespalov swam powerfully away from the boat and he followed the trail left by the snorkel until it was enveloped in darkness. Closing the side panel, he went back up on deck.
Bespalov crossed Tobermory Bay. By the intermittent light of the moon, he could make out the shape of Calve Island up ahead. He struck out in a slow, powerful crawl, swimming parallel to the coastline. When he was level with the northernmost tip of the island, he turned inland and made his way towards the shore. He crossed the narrow, stony beach, as far as the tree line, before shrugging off his rucksack. He took off his flippers, face mask and wet suit, then unzipped the rucksack and laid the contents out on the ground. Dressing quickly, he slipped the handcuffs into the hip pocket of his jeans and clipped the torch onto his belt. He hid the rucksack and his swimming gear behind a large boulder and covered them with broken branches and twigs. His chest was still heaving from the effort of swimming. He stretched out on his back on the shingle, breathing in and out slowly. When he’d given his lungs sufficient time to recover, he got to his feet, picked up the attaché case and clambered up through the trees. The ground levelled off when he reached the main road and he could see the lights of Tobermory illuminating the night sky to the north. Rain started pattering down as he walked south along the unlit road. He unclipped the flash lamp from his belt and switched the beam on and off at five second intervals. After a few hundred metres his signal was answered by a flash of headlights from a car parked just off the road.
Pete Johnston awoke with a start when the blinding beam from a powerful flash lamp exploded in his eyes. Instinctively, he tried to scramble to his feet, but his heel skidded in the soggy hay and he crashed down on his back on the barn floor.
‘It’s dangerous to fall asleep, my friend,’ the deep voice from behind the torch intoned. ‘You never know who might walk in on you.’ The dazzling beam was directed straight at Johnston’s face. He held his forearm up in front of his eyes to try to shield them from the glare.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Johnston panted.
‘I believe we have a rendezvous.’
‘Why did you sneak up on me like that?’
‘I didn’t sneak up on you. I walked through the door. You were asleep.’
‘Will you stop shining that bloody thing in my eyes.’ Bespalov lowered the beam. As his pupils slowly dilated, Johnston could make out the shape of a tall figure. ‘Are you the guy who’s going to give me something to take to London?’
‘That is correct.’ Bespalov wedged his torch in the hay with the beam directed towards the barn roof. ‘This is what you have to take back,’ he said, holding up the attaché case. ‘Come over here.’
As Johnston approached him, Bespalov tugged the handcuffs from his hip pocket and looped one cuff through the attaché case handle, snapping it closed.
‘Are you right-handed or left-handed?’ Bespalov asked.
‘Right-handed. Why?’
Bespalov gripped Johnston’s left hand and pushed his anorak sleeve up his arm. As he snapped the handcuff closed around Johnston’s wrist, his eye caught the array of puncture marks on the inside of his forearm. He twisted Johnston’s arm round and glared at him. ‘None of that while you’re carrying this case.’
Johnston jerked his arm away, gripping the handle of the case and feeling the weight of it tugging at his arm. ‘What the hell’s in here?’ he asked.
‘That, as I believe you say, is none of your fucking busine
ss.’ Bespalov pulled Johnston’s anorak sleeve back down over his hand, concealing the handcuffs.
‘Is that why I was given an anorak that was too big for me?’
Bespalov ignored the question. ‘Your friends in London have the keys for the handcuffs,’ he stated. ‘And I will send them the combination for the locks on the case. Do not, under any circumstances, tamper with the locks. Any attempt to open the case without the correct combination will result in a very nasty accident.’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I won’t touch the bloody locks. You just make sure you send the combination to London and leave the rest to me.’
Bespalov bent down to pick up his torch. ‘Let’s go.’
The rain had eased off. Bespalov took the lead, directing the beam of his flashlight onto the muddy path while Johnston aimed his torch at Bespalov’s heels and followed close behind. When they got to the main road, Bespalov turned to face Johnston. ‘It’ll be dawn in a couple of hours. By the time you’ve walked to Craignure you won’t have long to wait for the ferry.’
The figure in black watched from the cover of the woods as the two men split up. He noticed that Johnston was carrying a briefcase. Flicking the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other, he checked his watch. He knew there was no urgency to tail Johnston because he couldn’t get off the island for another couple of hours, so he decided to follow Bespalov as he headed north, dropping further back when Bespalov started flashing his torch on and off at regular intervals. The twirling matchstick stopped and he froze in his tracks when he saw the answering headlights from a car parked just off the road.
From the deep shadow of the trees, he watched Bespalov climb into the back seat of the car. He made a note of the make of the vehicle and the registration number. He remained in the shadows until the car had disappeared from sight, then he spat out his chewed matchstick and started whistling softly as he backtracked in the direction of Craignure.
By the time Pete Johnston reached Craignure he was mentally drained and physically exhausted. He was wheezing badly and his left arm was aching from the weight of the case. Swollen, grey bags sagged beneath his bloodshot eyes. He sat down on a low, stone wall within sight of the jetty and tugged the packet of cigarettes from his anorak pocket. Tapping one out, he lit up and pulled on it hard as he watched the ferry being loaded. He was the last passenger to go on board. He was surprised at the number of people taking the early morning crossing to the mainland. He went below deck and managed to find a seat, hunching forward on the wooden bench, trying to take the weight of the case on his knees. When he still couldn’t get comfortable, he tried leaning back in the seat, balancing the case on his chest and flexing the fingers of his left hand in an attempt to relieve the cramp in his wrist. Closing his eyes, he dozed intermittently throughout the crossing.
The figure in black popped a fresh matchstick into his mouth as he stood on deck, watching the squawking seagulls as they followed the boat.
Johnston made his way up on deck before the ferry docked. As soon as the gangplank was lowered into position, he walked across and made his way to the railway station where he boarded the waiting Glasgow train.
The train pulled out on schedule, but within a mile of the station it slowed down and came to a halt. Johnston rubbed at the grubby window with his anorak sleeve and peered out. He looked anxiously at his watch, knowing he didn’t have a lot of time to get from Queen Street to Central Station to catch his connection to London. They had been stationary for about ten minutes when a young, uniformed railway employee came hurrying down the aisle. Johnston grabbed him by the arm.
‘What’s the hold-up?’
‘Safety check on the line. Nothing for six months, now three in a fortnight.’
‘How long are we going to be sitting here, for fucksake?’
‘For as long as it takes, pal.’ Tugging his arm free, he headed towards the rear of the compartment.
It was a further five minutes before the train moved off. Throughout the rest of the journey Johnston fidgeted in his seat, staring continually at his watch.
Sue Paterson was sitting at her kitchen table, pouring skimmed milk onto her bowl of muesli, when her mobile phone rang. She dragged a loose strand of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear as she took the call.
‘Hi, Sue, it’s Tony,’ the caller said.
‘How did you know I was back?’
‘There’s not much that escapes the attention of the Glasgow CID.’
‘Apart from the odd murderer and rapist?’
‘If that’s the attitude you’re going to take, I’ll have you deported to Brussels.’
Sue laughed. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Pretty good. Hell of a busy, but what’s new?’
‘I assume Dad mentioned I was back?’
‘He said he had to go home early last night because you and Jamie were coming round.’
‘That was “early”?’
‘Everything’s relative.’
‘What have you been up to since I left?’
‘I’ve hardly had time to draw breath – working most weekends. However, if I remember correctly, we had a dinner date in February, which you cancelled at short notice because you were heading off to Brussels.’
‘You have to admit it was a more original excuse than staying in to wash my hair.’
‘I’ll grant you that. Are you still on for dinner?’
‘When were you thinking of?’
‘How about tonight?’
‘Tonight!’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m just back. I’ve hardly had time to unpack. Would the weekend not be better?’
‘The way things are right now, I can’t be sure of getting time off at the weekend. And if we make it tonight,’ he added, ‘that would save you the trouble of cooking a meal this evening.’
‘A persuasive argument, indeed. But I don’t know if I’d be able to organise a sitter for Jamie. And will we be able to get in somewhere at such short notice?’
‘I happen to know where there’s a table free.’
‘Where?’
‘At my place – at eight o’clock.’
‘Will you be doing the cooking?’
‘Certainly. My specialities are Italian and Indian.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Which do you prefer?’
‘I like both – but with a slight preference for Italian.’
‘Italian it is.’
‘Hold on a minute! It all depends on whether or not I can get a sitter for Jamie. I’ll call you back.’
Sue paged through her contacts and clicked onto Sarah’s mobile number. ‘Remember me?’ she asked.
‘The prodigal daughter returns! Great to hear from you, Sue. When did you get back?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘How was Brussels?’
‘It was an interesting experience, but I’m glad to be home.’
‘We must get together for a coffee soon so you can tell me all about it.’
‘Sarah, I realise this is a bit of an imposition, but is there any chance you could babysit Jamie for me tonight?’
‘Not a problem. Sean will be over the moon. He’s dying to see Jamie. Plus, Sean got bunk beds last month so Jamie can sleep up top.’
‘Are you sure Joe won’t mind?’
‘He’s not here this week. He managed to wangle himself a works’ jolly in Winchester.’
‘Thanks a lot. I’ll feed Jamie and drop him off at your place around seven-thirty, if that’s okay?’
‘Hey! Not so fast. You don’t get off as easily as that. Who is he? Do I know him? Is he rich? What kind of car does he drive? Is he single? Is he divorced? How long have you been dating?’
Sue felt herself blush. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s just a guy I met before I went to Brussels. We seemed to hit it off and he just called me to invite me over to his place for dinner tonight.’
‘He doesn’t hang about! You’ve har
dly been back in the country five minutes. And the invitation is to his place, is it?’
‘It’s nothing like that. I think he wants to impress me with his cooking.’
‘Maybe that’s not all he wants to impress you with.’
‘Behave yourself!’
‘He’s probably going to buy a take-away and try to pass it off at his own cooking. That’s the ploy Joe used to use to entice me round to his flat.’
‘I don’t think he’s like that.’
‘Don’t kid yourself. They’re all like that. Anyway, make the most of it. It’s not every day you have a built-in babysitter who doesn’t mind when – make that “if” – you get home. Mind you, I’ll want to hear all about it when you come round to pick up Jamie tomorrow – every single, salacious detail.’
Sue was still smiling as she called Tony’s mobile.
Charlie Anderson reversed between two concrete pillars into a tight bay in Pitt Street’s underground car park. Checking his watch, he saw it was five to nine. He hurried up the stairs to his office and, as he was taking off his jacket, his eye caught the forensic report on top of the pile of papers in his in-tray. Sitting down, he slipped on his glasses and started to read:
The body recovered from Clyde at seven p.m. on Wednesday 22nd June appears to be that of twenty two year-old Zoe Catherine Taylor, who was reported missing by her mother, Helen Taylor, at ten a.m. that morning. The information provided by the mother included a description of a birth mark on her neck and distinctive butterfly tattoos on her shoulders, both of which match with the corpse. The victim was a trainee with Tracy & Blundell, a firm of accountants in West Regent Street. The cause of death was strangulation and a snapped spinal cord. The bruising around her neck and her splintered fingernails indicate a violent struggle took place prior to her death. The killer used a serrated blade to amputate her left hand at the wrist. The severed hand has not been recovered. One of her shoes, her handbag and her umbrella were found in a boathouse in Glasgow Green. Bloodstains were found on the boathouse floor and the blood group is being cross-checked. The time of death is estimated at between noon and three o’clock on the afternoon of Tuesday 21st June. We will have to wait for the autopsy for formal confirmation but the indications are that she had not been sexually assaulted.
