‘Here you go, sir,’ Steve said, clearly unaware that this was supposed to have been cued up and ready for him.
‘Play it then,’ McLean said.
Steve tapped a button and the screen sprang into life. Which was to say, Bale’s hand moved and he wrote a few lines on the open page of the pad, paused, consulted the book he had beside him, then wrote a few more lines. This went on for five minutes before McLean told Steve to hit fast forward. Apart from Bale’s writing becoming frenetic, this didn’t change the scene much. Only the angle of the light spilling through the window betrayed the rushing minutes. That and the timestamp readout in the bottom corner of the screen.
And then everything changed.
For a moment McLean thought Steve had touched a key to pause the image, but the clock kept scrolling forward at the same, accelerated speed. Bale sat absolutely still, hands on the desk, pad full of writing in front of him, for a full half an hour of real time. Then he stood up and disappeared so swiftly several minutes of camera time sped past before any of them realised what had happened.
‘Go back,’ McLean said at the same moment as Steve realised he’d missed it. A swift rewind got them to the point where Bale was motionless.
‘This is half actual speed,’ Steve said as he hit a button and the image began to move again. This time they watched as Bale swiftly closed the pages he had written on and ripped them from the pad. In what must have been a matter of seconds, he arranged the desk the way McLean had found it hours later. Then he stood up, turned to the door. The camera angle showed it open and Bale walk out. The timestamp read twenty-seven minutes and fifteen seconds past four in the afternoon.
‘Well, at least we know when he left,’ Harrison said, perhaps unhelpfully.
‘Have you got the footage from the corridors at the same time?’ McLean asked, but Steve was already tapping away at his console. Images flipped and they were looking at the door to Bale’s room. McLean couldn’t think of it as a cell. The timestamp was one minute before Bale had opened what Billy the psychiatric nurse had sworn was a locked door.
‘Should see him coming out any second now. Still no’ sure how that’s possible, mind,’ Steve said. They watched as the clock counted the seconds. Twenty-seven minutes past four, twenty-eight minutes, twenty-nine.
‘You sure this is the right camera?’ McLean asked.
‘Aye, I’m sure.’ Steve twisted the control wheel and the timestamp went into reverse. He kept it spinning backwards until a quarter to one in the afternoon, when Billy the psychiatric nurse walked backwards down the corridor, carefully checked the door was locked, opened it and walked backwards inside. Moments later she and Norman walked out backwards together and disappeared off screen in the direction of the refectory.
‘What the bloody hell?’ Harrison leaned forward past McLean, one hand on the back of Steve’s chair as she peered at the screen.
‘Go back to the bit where he leaves, can you?’ McLean asked. There was only a short pause to get there as Steve had marked the point on the video somehow. The miracle of modern technology. They watched as the timestamp counted the minutes from twenty-five past four to half past. It was like watching a still image. Not even a flicker of interference.
‘I’ll need copies of all camera feeds for the whole of yesterday. All of the hospital, OK?’
‘No problem.’ Steve tapped at the keyboard in front of him. ‘Got an email address I can send the link to? It’s all in the Cloud these days.’
57
Coordination of the search for Anya Renfrew had initially warranted no more than a whiteboard in the CID room and a small team of officers. Even when the DCC had sanctioned extra resources after her secret double life had been uncovered, it was still a fairly small-scale operation. Norman Bale’s escape and disappearance by contrast had the major-incident room and the full works. Fair enough, the man had killed at least five people they knew about, and attempted to murder three others, McLean and DI Ritchie included. He was a danger to the public, and an embarrassment to the authorities for as long as he remained at large. McLean walked into a bustling hub of activity, the beginnings of a full-scale, nationwide manhunt.
‘Ah, you’re back. Good. Any news?’ Deputy Chief Constable Robinson greeted him with a serious face. It was a measure of how important this case was that he hadn’t gone home already. True, there was still light in the night sky, but only because at this time of year in Edinburgh it never truly got dark.
‘Half past four this afternoon, Bale got up and walked out of his locked room as if it was no more secure than my wardrobe.’ McLean gave Robinson the edited highlights of the past few hours, leaving out the bit where the CCTV footage showed the man leaving his room, but not emerging into the corridor beyond. That was a puzzle for the technical bods to solve, although he didn’t much fancy their chances.
‘We’ve got his likeness out to all patrols across Scotland and the north of England. Airports and ferry terminals are on full alert. He’ll not get far.’ The DCC’s words would have been more convincing if he’d really believed them. McLean could tell from Robinson’s tone that he didn’t. And, besides, that wasn’t Bale’s style.
‘I don’t think he’ll try, sir.’
Robinson opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. His expression was enough.
‘What do we know about Bale? What he does, his motivations and methods?’ McLean asked. He’d not expected an answer, carried on when the DCC continued to stare.
‘He’s a psychopath, for sure. A dangerously deluded individual who believes he is here to hasten the passage of the truly blessed into heaven. That’s his mission, given to him by God, along with the power to tell who is actually at that moment of apotheosis, their soul ready to pass through the Pearly Gates unchallenged.’
‘So what you’re saying is he’s bonkers.’
McLean smiled at that, even though it wasn’t really funny. ‘In a nutshell, yes. But what I mean is he’s obsessive to a terrifying degree. When he gets some new idea in his head he will not let it go. Not until he’s killed it.’
‘And which poor bastard’s in his sights now?’ Robinson ran a hand through his thinning hair.
‘That’s what I’m not sure about, sir. I don’t believe for a minute he’s not dangerous, but he seems to have fixated on a cause this time. I think he broke out of the hospital to go and find Anya Renfrew.’
It might have been a simple coincidence, an accident of timing, but as McLean said the words, the entire room fell silent. He glanced at the clock over the door to see if it was quarter past the hour and an angel was passing overhead. Not that he had much time for angels. Or demons for that matter.
‘How do you figure that?’ Robinson asked as the noise in the room slowly began to build again. McLean knew that he couldn’t say it was his gut telling him, but the sequence of events that had brought him to this point didn’t exactly court logic. He’d spent the best part of an hour thinking about it as he drove back from the psychiatric hospital, and it still only made sense on an instinctive level.
‘He first tried to contact me the day we noticed Renfrew was missing. Best we can tell that was at least two days after she left her car in the woods up by Gladhouse. I didn’t want anything to do with him, and said as much. But he seemed to know stuff he couldn’t possibly know. I asked DS Laird to have a sniff about, but he couldn’t find out anything. Certainly nobody was passing on classified intel, but Bale’s always been good at making connections, second guessing. That’s how he got away with what he did for so long.’
‘Jayne told me he’d been trying to get in touch, and that you weren’t going to respond.’ Robinson leaned in close, as if he didn’t want the rest of the room to hear what he was saying. McLean couldn’t help but feel it was a bit too late for that now.
‘I thought it was a bad idea, sir. I told his psychiatrist as much, but he has a way
of manipulating people. Even quite intelligent people.’ It occurred to him as he said it that he’d not yet spoken to Dr Graham. She was safe; he knew that much. At least, as safe as anyone could be with that madman on the loose. It seemed unlikely that Bale would attack her anyway. That wasn’t the way he worked, although he’d shown quite staggering disregard for women in the past.
‘OK. Assuming there’s a connection, if Bale’s trying to find Renfrew, how’s he going to go about that?’
McLean noticed that the DCC didn’t ask why. ‘Bale’s been using the case to get me to talk to him. It worked too. You know I went down there a couple of days ago and met with him and his psychiatrist, right? It . . . didn’t go well.’
‘You surprise me,’ Robinson said, although McLean couldn’t tell whether that was a comment on the meeting or on his having finally given in.
‘The information he had could only have come from someone who knew about our investigation into Renfrew’s disappearance. Either he was being told things by someone with a connection to this station, or he’s much, much better at wheedling information out of people than even I thought he was.’
‘Wheedling?’ Robinson raised an eyebrow at that.
‘You know what I mean, sir. He works you like a stage show mindreader. It’s all leading questions and vague predictions, but he does it so very well. I think he’s been playing the staff at that hospital ever since he was sent there. What I don’t know is why he’s made his move now. Except that maybe he’s fallen for his own tricks, got himself so caught up in the Renfrew case he can’t leave it alone any more.’
Robinson stared at him with sceptical eyes, but McLean didn’t care. Let the DCC think him mad if it helped. As long as they caught Bale and put him away for good this time.
‘Search teams will be out again at first light,’ Robinson said after a while. ‘We’ve got tracker dogs working the ground, and a helicopter with infra-red cameras in the air. I’ll put DI Ritchie in charge of that, and you can lead the search based on what he was doing prior to his escape. OK?’
McLean stifled a yawn as he watched the major-incident team go about their night-time business. A glance at the clock above the door told him he should have gone home and got some sleep hours ago. It was unlikely there would be any great developments in the next few hours, but, if there were, someone would be sure to wake him and let him know.
‘You still here?’
He turned to see DI Ritchie striding towards him. She looked as tired as he felt, and dragged a couple of detective constables in her wake who were surely up way past their bedtime.
‘Can’t quite get my head around it all yet. I’m not sure I can leave until I know what’s going on.’ McLean studied Ritchie’s face for any signs of the strain he knew she must be under. She’d been affected by Bale as much as any of them. More even. ‘You holding up OK?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve had better days and leave it at that.’
‘So “Call-Me-Stevie” has given you your marching orders then?’ McLean nodded his head towards the thick sheaf of papers Ritchie was holding.
‘Aye, and then some. We’ve search teams heading out in . . .’ She checked her watch. ‘. . . approximately four hours. I need to be down at the hospital for the briefing. Doesn’t look like I’m going to get much sleep any time soon.’
‘Now I feel bad for considering heading home.’
‘Don’t. You look done in, Tony. Go and get some sleep. At least then one of us will be fresh in the morning.’
‘You’re right. Not sure I’ll get much rest knowing he’s out there though.’
‘Aye, I know what you mean. Could do without this hassle. Busy enough as it is.’
McLean wondered what she meant for a moment, then remembered. ‘Oh, right. The Very Important People.’ He made little bunny ears with his fingers around the words. ‘They behaving themselves?’
Ritchie smiled at his joke, but it was a tired effort. ‘Pretty much. It’s mostly uniform keeping an eye on them. And they’re all at Scanlan’s place at Nine Mile Burn right now anyway, which makes me think the whole thing’s some hush-hush business deal nobody’s supposed to know about. Seems they forgot that doesn’t mean us too.’
‘Nine Mile Burn?’ McLean knew the place well enough. Not so much a village as a loose association of houses on the A702 road to Biggar and the Borders, he’d driven through it to and from Bestingfield. It was barely a hop, skip and jump from Penicuik, nestling in the eastern lee of the Pentland Hills and staring across the Esk valley towards Oakhill Moor. Coincidence? Probably. Except he didn’t believe in coincidences. Not any more.
‘Scanlan’s family farm that area. He grew up there.’ Ritchie seemed oblivious to his suspicions. ‘Odd to think a farm boy could turn out to be one of the richest men on the planet. But then I guess everyone has to come from somewhere.’
58
He was at the bottom of the stairs, had his hand out to open the back door and walk to his car. Home, perhaps a wee dram to settle his nerves, and then bed. Having checked all the locks first of course. But before McLean could make that last step, the door swung inwards. Grumpy Bob, DC Harrison and two uniformed constables led a bewildered-looking middle-aged lady into the station.
‘Looks like we made it just in time,’ Bob said, although whether the words were addressed to him or Harrison, McLean couldn’t be sure.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked, although he had a suspicion he knew. There was the fact that she was here, for one thing. And she wore the unofficial uniform of her kind, the sensible, comfortable and yet nevertheless presentable clothes of the librarian.
‘Agnes Braithwaite, this is Detective Chief Inspector McLean.’ Grumpy Bob made the introduction. ‘Agnes drives the mobile library that visits the psychiatric hospital.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Detective Chief Inspector.’ Agnes even had the librarian’s voice, a soft mix of Morningside and the Borders. Despite the pleasantry he could hear the edge of worry in it though.
‘I take it they told you why you’re here?’ he asked, aware that, now she was, the prospect of home and bed was fast receding.
‘Yes. Came as quite a shock, to be honest. I never thought Norman would do such a thing.’
McLean tried not to wince, but there it was again. He could hardly bring himself to think of the man as Bale, still doubted it was his old childhood friend despite whatever the DNA analysis might say. And yet people referred to him as ‘Norman’, as if he was just some ordinary bloke you might find a bit boring down the pub. Not the man who had killed his parents and then sat their preserved bodies in his dining room so he might have someone to talk to at mealtimes.
‘Indeed, but we should maybe talk about this somewhere a little less public.’ He looked at the two detectives who had brought the librarian in. ‘Bob, if you could show Ms Braithwaite to interview room one?’
Harrison beat him to his next request, but then she had always been quick on the uptake. ‘I’ll see about getting us all a cup of tea, aye?’
‘How long have you been driving the mobile library, Ms Braithwaite?’
They sat in interview room one, the last light of the long day painting the sky outside an eerie orange-red that should give any shepherds a restful night. McLean held his mug of tea in both hands, not quite willing it to be something stronger. Beside him, DC Harrison munched quietly on one of the biscuits she’d somehow managed to find, her notebook at the ready as ever.
‘Well, now, there’s a question. That’d be, what? Twelve years now? No, I tell a lie. Thirteen.’ Braithwaite sat upright like a finishing-school girl, her back straight and hands folded neatly across her lap. Most people who found themselves in a police interview room, even the nice one with the window and proper furniture, tended to act a little nervously. Even if they tried to suppress their nervousness it usually showed through in little ways. A slow twitching of one
foot, perhaps, or a difficulty in looking directly at the person talking to them. In McLean’s experience, an absolutely relaxed manner was generally as good as an admission of guilt, but, of course, the woman sitting opposite him had done nothing wrong. It was still a little unnerving how utterly unfazed she seemed.
‘And you’ve been going to the hospital all that time?’ he asked.
‘Oh gosh, no. They only opened it about five years ago, didn’t they? I’ve been going there about eighteen months now, I suppose. They used to have an onsite library, and we’d rotate our collection through there. We never had much in the way of special requests though. A lot of the patients either don’t read or can’t. I think that’s probably why they closed theirs and asked us to take the mobile there instead. There just wasn’t the demand for books.’
‘Except from Bale.’
‘Except from Norman, yes. He was always testing us with obscure titles. I should think he’s quite the expert on Scottish history by now. Particularly the folk history, you know? What the common people got up to, not the lairds and kings.’
‘Did you meet him then? Bale?’
‘Not at first, no. One or other of the nurses would bring me request lists, and some of the staff came in for books too. Most of the patients weren’t allowed out without supervision, particularly not the high-security ones.’ Now Braithwaite looked a little uncomfortable, one hand going up to her face before she noticed and dropped it back to her lap.
‘You say “not at first”, and you speak of him as Norman, so I take it you have met him though.’
‘I . . . that is to say, yes, of course. But I’m not sure it was properly sanctioned and I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble. They were only trying to help rehabilitate him.’
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