hapter 48

The M6 was practically empty this far north of Manchester. Most of the Friday evening traffic had peeled off on the M$$ to Blackpool or at the first junction leading to the southern end of the Lake District. As the road climbed up Shap, there were only a few cars and a scattering of lorries heading back to Scotland for the weekend.

In the fast lane, a dark-grey metallic Toyota 4x4 cruised at a comfortable eighty-five. Not so fast it would attract the attention of the traffic police, but a good enough speed to eat up the miles between driver and destination. He'd given up on the radio, replacing the civilized voices of the BBC with a talking book. The Blood Painter, by Kit Martin. Read by the author. Apart from anything else, it would keep him firmly on track in case he'd slipped up on any details.

He couldn't think of anything that would make the miles pass more quickly.

Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway was halfway down his postprandial glass of Gaol Ila. His teenage twins were upstairs competing to lay waste some distant planet courtesy of their Sony Play Stations and his wife was loading the dishwasher. He'd have to go in to work tomorrow morning, in the light of this London business. But sufficient unto the day, that was his motto. And so he settled down with his whisky to watch a cop drama on TV and savour all the things they got wrong.

When the phone rang, he ignored it. But he couldn't ignore the teenage bellow from upstairs. "Hey, Dad, it's some Englishwoman for you."

"Aw, shite," he muttered, hauling himself out of his chair and through to the hall. He picked up the phone and waited for the click that indicated the upstairs extension had been put down. "Hello, Sandy Galloway speaking."

"It's Fiona Cameron. I'm sorry to bother you at home. I got your number from the incident room sergeant. He didn't want to tell me, but I'm afraid I gave him a rather hard time, so don't be angry with him." It poured out in a breathless rush.

"No bother, Doctor. How can I help you? Or is it you can help us? Have you found some more letters at Drew Shand's?"

There was a pause. He could hear her draw breath. "This is going to sound like paranoia. You know my partner is Kit Martin, the crime writer?"

"Aye, I knew that."

"I've been aware since I first formed the theory that there might be a serial killer at work that Kit fitted the victim profile perfectly. I've been worried that he might be a target. When the City Police arrested Redford, we all relaxed. But I've just spoken to DCI Duvall and she says there's a chink in the case against Redford. And I can't get hold of Kit. He's not answering the phone, he's not been in touch via e-mail."

"Could it not just be that he's working?" Galloway tried to sound calm and unconcerned. If there was a serious crack in the case, Duvall would have let him know.

"He wasn't there when the police were round earlier to take a statement. And I've never known him not respond to e-mail. The thing is, if Kit's a target, the book the killer will be following is The Blood Painter. He'll be holding him somewhere till he's ready to kill him."

He could hear from her voice that she was frantic with worry. "I understand your concern, Fiona." He slipped into her first name, hoping it would soothe. "The trouble is, there's no evidence to suggest that anything's happened to him. He could be spending the evening with friends. Raising a glass to Georgia Lester somewhere."

"That's exactly where he's supposed to be. But I spoke to one of his friends, and he's not turned up. And anyway, if that's what he had planned, he would have let me know," Fiona insisted.

"Anything could have happened. He could have bumped into somebody on the way there and gone for a drink with them first. He could have been held up by transport problems. Fiona, if there was any serious problem with the case against Redford, City of London would have been on to us. You can be sure of that." Galloway genuinely believed she had no grounds for her fears. The police officer in him knew that without any evidence of a crime, there was no way to justify any sort of formal inquiry. And the man in him knew that people didn't always know their partners as well as they thought they did. Not even if they were psychologists. "Sometimes e-mail doesn't get through," he pointed out. "Servers go down. Maybe he thinks he has let you know."

He heard her exasperated sigh. "And maybe he's in the hands of a killer. The police should be checking out that possibility."

Galloway took a deep breath and inched out on a limb. "If and it's a very big if he is, then where should the police be looking?"

"According to The Blood Painter, the killer should take him to a holiday home. Only, we've never rented a holiday home in the UK. But Kit's got a bothy up in Sutherland where he goes to write. I think that's where they'll have gone."

"Whereabouts in Sutherland?"

He felt her hesitation. "That's the problem. I don't know, exactly. I've never been there, you see. All I know is that it's near Loch Shin."

"You don't even know the address?"

"No. We only ever communicate by e-mail when he's up there. He's got a satellite phone, but he doesn't use it for voice calls. We both find it harder to get through the time apart if we actually speak to each other, you see? Somehow, e-mail is more bearable when he's away for weeks at a time." Suddenly realizing that she was wittering, she forced herself back to the practicalities. "But surely the local police must know where it is? I thought everybody knew everybody up in the Highlands?"

Galloway rubbed his hand over his mouth. Her fear had transmitted itself to him and he had sweat on his upper lip. '"Near Loch Shin" is a hell of a big area, Fiona. The loch itself must be, what, fifteen, seventeen miles long. I doubt very much that there's anything they could do about it tonight, even supposing we could convince them there was any real reason why they should be looking."

"There must be something we can do! We can't just sit around doing nothing when Kit's life could be at risk." Now anger had taken over from fear in Fiona's voice.

"Listen, Fiona, the chances are that you're getting yourself worked up over nothing. Now, this fictional killer of Mr. Martin's what does he do with his victims?"

"He keeps them captive for a week and draws their blood and paints murals with it."

"Well, that suggests that time is not as much of the essence as it would be if this killer gave his victims a swift death, doesn't it? Besides, if you don't know where this bothy is, how would the killer know? Why don't we wait till the morning? It might well be that Mr. Martin has turned up by then. But if he hasn't, we'll get Highland Police on to it first thing. That's a promise. Meet me at St. Leonard's at half past seven and we'll see what's what. OK?" His voice was reassuring without being patronizing. "No, it's not OK," she said bitterly. "But it'll have to do, won't it?" "Aye, I'm afraid it's the best I can do. And I will talk to DCI Duvall in the meantime and see if there are any genuine grounds for concern. Try to get some sleep, Fiona. I know you're imagining the worst, but the chances are, Redford's our man and your chap's alive and well and on his way out for a night's drinking with his mates. Coming to terms with Georgia Lester's death. You know yourself that's by far the likeliest scenario. I'll see you in the morning."

He replaced the phone and stood for a long minute in the hall, pondering. No, he was right. There was no point in trying to get anything moving tonight on something as tenuous as this. Without something more solid than Fiona had, there was no prospect of getting Highland to take this seriously. By morning, he could maybe convince them there were reasonable grounds for action if Kit Martin hadn't shown up safe, sound and hungover in his own bed. And really, there were no good reasons to think otherwise. Convinced that Fiona was overreacting because of what had happened to her sister all those years before, Galloway headed back to his TV show and his whisky.

Fiona slumped in her chair. She'd done her best. But sometimes, that wasn't enough. After Lesley, she had done her best too. She couldn't change the fact of her sister's death, but she had taken every step she could to make sure the person responsible paid the price. She'd failed then, and she knew the price that failure had exacted. She couldn't give up on Kit now, not just for his sake but for her own. Duvall and Galloway might think she was a hysterical idiot, but she knew Kit and she knew she had grounds for her worries. Galloway had tried to reassure her with his suggestion that the killer couldn't know the location of the bothy. But Fiona knew him to be resourceful; he'd tracked each of his victims so far. She couldn't afford to be complacent.

She reached for the phone and keyed in a number she knew by heart. Three rings, then the machine clicked in. "This machine takes messages for Steve Preston. Please speak after the tone and your call will be dealt with at the earliest opportunity." Bleep.

"Steve, it's Fiona. Call me on the mobile whenever you get this message. I need your help." She ended the call with a finger on the receiver rest and immediately dialled his mobile. Silence. Then the impersonal voice. "The number you are calling has not responded. Please try later. The number you are calling' She cut the line. "I don't believe this," she muttered, reaching for her personal organizer to find his pager number. When the pager service responded, she left a message asking Steve to call her straightaway on her mobile.

There was, she supposed, an outside chance he was still in the office so she dialled his direct line. She let it ring ten times before she gave up. Where the hell was he when she needed him?

It never occurred to her to try Terry's home number.

Gerard Coyne's flat could have been made for surveillance. It was on the first floor of a terraced house a couple of streets back from the Holloway Road. Neil assumed from the fact that there were two narrow front doors that there was no back entrance; Coyne's front door would give straight on to a flight of steps leading up to the first floor. What made the flat so perfect for Neil's purpose was the pub opposite. The Pride of Whitby was a typical North London corner pub cosy, cramped and busy. But the old-fashioned etched glass had been replaced by clear glass windows allowing a perfect view across the street. Neil had arrived just after half past six and had a quiet word with the licensee, impressing on him the need for discretion. He hadn't specified who he was watching or why, only that he didn't want to be pointed out to the locals as a copper.

The landlord had no problem with that. He kept an orderly pub and relied on the local police to turn up on the rare occasions there was trouble. As far as he was concerned, as long as Neil didn't expect free booze, he was welcome to sit by the window for as long as he wanted.

Neil had already established that Coyne was home. There was a smart mountain bike chained up in the front garden. He'd seen lights on in the first floor flat and, as a double-check, he'd rung Coyne's phone number. When it was answered, Neil had pretended he had a wrong number. Satisfied, he settled down with a copy of the Evening Standard and a glass of alcohol-free lager.

At half past seven, he'd ordered lasagne and chips from the bar snacks menu. It arrived at ten to eight. He'd finished eating it by five past. He returned to his paper, making sure the lighted windows of Coyne's flat were in his peripheral vision. If there was any movement, he'd register it, tired though he was.

By half past eight, the place was heaving. Every other seat at Neil's table was taken, the other occupants crowded round with their pint glasses and cigarette packets. Occasionally, one or other of them would try to draw him into conversation, but he kept himself on the fringes, answering in monosyllables and barricading himself behind his paper.

A few minutes before ten, Coyne's light snapped out. Suddenly alert, Neil folded his paper and drained his third drink. He pushed his seat back slightly, on the alert for whatever was going to happen next. A light appeared in the glass panel above Coyne's front door, then the door itself swung open. Neil couldn't see Coyne very well against the light hitting him from behind, only the silhouette of a slim frame of medium height. Neil readied himself for the off.

Coyne pulled the door to behind him and emerged on to the street. Thank God he wasn't taking the bike, Neil thought. Coyne glanced both ways past the parked cars that lined the street, then crossed the road.

Oh shit, Neil thought, he's coming in here. He unfolded the paper and pulled his chair closer to the table. When he looked up again, Coyne was walking towards the bar, greeting a couple of the men standing there with their pints of Guinness.

There was no mistaking those deep-set eyes in the narrow face coupled with the goatee beard and moustache and the slightly prominent teeth. This was the man whose CRO photograph was etched on Neil's memory. As far as he was concerned, the evidence might be circumstantial, but it had convinced him. If he'd been a gambling man, Neil would have staked a year's salary that he was looking at Susan Blanchard's killer.

He fought to hide his excitement and watched as Coyne bought himself a pint of bitter. Neil pushed back his chair, covered himself by saying good night to the others at his table, as if they'd been his drinking companions, and pushed through the crowd to the door.

The cold night air took his breath away after the stuffiness of the pub. But it did nothing to calm the thrill of anticipation that surged through him. It had worked. Good solid policing, helped along with a bit of flair and inspiration, and he was looking at the first serious suspect for Susan Blanchard's murder since Francis Blake. Only this time, they'd got it right. He had a feeling in his bones.

He hurried along the street to where he'd parked his car earlier. It had a view both of the pub door and, at an angle, of Coyne's front door. He dived behind the wheel and pulled out his mobile. Time to report. He stabbed the speed dial buttons to connect him to Steve's mobile. He couldn't believe his ears when he heard, "The number you are calling has not responded. Please try later."

"Bugger," he said, trying Steve's home number. When he got the answering machine, he swore softly. But he knew better than to hang up without leaving a message. "This is Neil McCartney, guy. I'm outside the suspect's house. He's just gone across the road for a drink in his local. I know I'm supposed to go off duty at midnight, but I'm going to stay on here till Joanne relieves me or until I hear from you. I don't want him to get away from us."

Finally, Neil left a message on Steve's pager. Surely he'd get that? The boss was never out of touch, especially since they'd been running this operation on a shoestring. He'd known Neil was watching their new suspect, so he'd be expecting a call. Sooner or later, he'd ring back.

Till then, there was nothing more he could do now except watch and wait.

Chapter 49

Waiting was not something Fiona could bear. Not when she feared for Kit's life. Galloway had tried to be reassuring, but it hadn't gone anywhere towards calming the torment. She knew there was no point in trying to follow Galloway's advice to get some sleep. All that would happen if she went to bed was that she'd toss and turn restlessly, riven with anxiety. She might as well stay up and try to figure out a way to help Kit.

If only she knew where his bothy was. Given that whoever had Kit captive would have to drive up from London, the chances were that they were nowhere near Loch Shin yet. If she could find the exact location, it might be possible to head them off before they ever got there.

Whatever Galloway had said about there being plenty of time, Fiona knew she couldn't rely on that. In each murder, the killer had deviated from the template provided by the book when it had suited him better. Keeping Kit alive for a week was clearly a huge risk to take, and from what she had seen of this murderer's work, he was a man who liked to minimize jeopardy. The sooner she could get to Sutherland, the more chance she had of finding Kit alive. Waiting for Galloway to grind into action in the morning was too big a chance to take. She had to do whatever she could as soon as she could. Of course, it was too late now to find anywhere that could sell her an Ordnance Survey map of the Loch Shin area to check out possibilities. Fiona poured another glass of wine and logged on to the Internet. She entered the keywords "Loch Shin' into her search engine and impatiently scanned the results. There were websites where amateur photographers displayed their photographs of the area; websites for those who believed the Loch Ness Monster had relatives in Loch Shin; websites for holiday cottages with views of the loch; websites that offered advice on fishing; and even a website devoted to the hydroelectric power station. But no large-scale map. The on-line version the Ordnance Survey offered was too small to show any useful detail.

She had even taken time out to torment herself with the ghoulish gossip of Murder Behind the Headlines. Fiona knew even as she was logging on to the site that it would give her no peace, but like an itching scab demanding to be picked, she had to see what Georgia's death had provoked.

At last, confirmation from London of what anybody with half a brain already knew. Yes, there's a serial killer out there preying on the weird and the wired who spend their days writing fiction about surprise, surprise, serial killers. Although it sounds a bit like biting the hand that feeds you, it's true!

Even more amazing was the confession that stopped a police press conference in its tracks. As the police revealed to the world that British crime writer Georgia Lester's butchered remains had been found in a disused freezer in London's Smithfield Meat Market, a man claiming to be the killer distributed a FLYER to the waiting hacks that outlined his motives for the series of gruesome killings.

The confessor is a wannabe writer called Charles Cavendish Redford, who alleges that the three writers in question plagiarized manuscripts he had sent them in the hope of winning their support in getting his books published. Redford, 47, once worked as a hospital porter, which may be where he picked up his murderous skills. He's now in custody, under arrest, but so far hasn't been charged.

The discovery of Lester's remains provided incontrovertible evidence of what some of us had already deduced. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde; One Drew Shand is unfortunate. Two Jane Elias looks remarkably like coincidence. And three Georgia Lester is a series... Lester went missing over a week ago. Sceptics said she'd deliberately staged a disappearance as a publicity stunt, as Queen of Crime Agatha Christie did herself back in the 1920s. And it's true that Lester had been complaining that her publishers weren't taking proper care of her. She'd demanded bodyguards for her latest book tour, but had been spurned by publishers with more sense than money a rarity in itself these days.

But when we read the accounts of her disappearance the deserted car in the country lane, the apparent lack of any signs of violence, the absence of any witnesses those of us with a sensibility tuned to these things felt the creep of dread, remembering the fate of the victims in And Ever More Shall Be So, tester's only serial killer novel, which was made into a film.

Word is that the London cops got the tip to search Smithfield from a psychological profiler one of those legendary Clarice Starlings (and we all know what happened to Clarice, don't we???) who figure out what the bad guys are going to do next. Mind you, it doesn't take a doctorate in psychology to work that one out. All it takes is the ability to read.

Still, there must be a few thriller writers sleeping easier in their beds tonight. Because if Redford hadn't conveniently spilled the beans, you can bet your bottom dollar it would have been a long time and a few more bodies before the police managed to nail him.

REMEMBER YOU READ IT FIRST ON

MURDER BEHIND THE HEADLINES

Angry with herself for succumbing to the insidious nastiness of the website, Fiona disconnected from the Internet. It had taken her almost an hour to get no further forward.

Frustrated, she tried Steve's numbers again. No change. He was still out of reach. Fiona closed her eyes and massaged her temples. Somewhere locked away in her mind, she must know something that would lead her to the bothy. Think about anything else, she told herself. Let your subconscious do the work. Easier said than done, though, when all she could think of was Kit and the ordeal he could be going through.

A walk, that would do it. A quick turn through the local streets, where she could force herself to look at the details of the houses and gardens. That might just free her mind sufficiently to open the door to the information she knew must be there.

Glad to have something positive to do, Fiona jumped up and grabbed her mac, still lying on the bed in the damp heap where she'd thrown it when she came in. She pulled it on, picked up her mobile and practically ran out of the door and down the stairs into the street.

She turned to her right and started walking along the terrace, looking intently at the houses as she passed, glancing down into basement areas and taking stock of what people had done to make them attractive. She checked out curtains, appreciated a particularly vigorous Russian vine, made a mental note of an elaborate door knocker. Knitting for the brain.

At the end of the street, she turned left and walked down the hill towards Stockbridge, describing the tall sandstone buildings to herself as she passed them. At the bottom of the hill, she stared in the off licence window, making a mental selection from the bottles on display. She crossed the road and walked back up the hill, never faltering in the catalogue of her surroundings.

She was halfway along the street where her hotel was when her mind released the treasure she'd known was in there. "Lee Gustafson," she said out loud in a tone of wonder. Then she was running, racing back to her hotel room to apply the gift she'd just been given.

Oblivious to the appalled stare of the night porter, Fiona sprinted across the reception area and up the stairs. Almost before her door was closed, her mac was thrown into a heap again and she was back in front of the laptop. Lee Gustafson was an American crime writer who wrote ecological thrillers. He shared the same US publisher as Kit. They'd been sent on a promotional tour together a couple of years previously, where they'd drunk their way round the mystery book shops of the Midwest and forged a friendship that endured through e-mail. Just over a year ago, Kit had lent Lee the bothy so he could do some background research into conservation of rare species in the Highlands. Lee Gustafson must know exactly where the bothy was.

Now all she had to do was find Lee.

Glasgow was an amber gleam over to the west. But Kit knew nothing of that. He'd suffered the agonies of cramp in the arm he'd been leaning on and managed to shift so that he was now lying on his stomach. It had eased the pain in his shoulders and the pins and needles in his leg, but it wasn't helping the dull ache that still occupied his skull.

He had no sense of time. All he knew was that he had been trapped in this moving vehicle for at least two hours. He only knew that because, in an exquisite form of torture, he'd been forced to listen to his own voice spelling out in his own words what he feared was going to be his own fate. By his estimate, there was another hour of the talking book of The Blood Painter to go.

He'd tried to tune it out, singing his favourite songs inside his head. But it didn't work. The relentless story kept intruding, forcing itself into his consciousness. Ironic that he was trapped by the power of his own gift.

At least while they were still travelling, there was hope. At some point, his captor would have to stop for fuel. It would be his chance. He could try to kick the tailgate, or the boot, or the back door, whatever it was that was keeping him from rolling out on the road. He cast his mind back. What did he have on his feet?

His heart sank. He'd been in the house all day. Moccasin slippers, that's what he had on his feet. Even with the full power of his legs behind them, the only sound they'd make would be a dull thud. Hardly audible among the throbbing motors of the petrol pumps. And he didn't think anyone as careful as the man who had captured him was going to park up in the middle of a busy service area and leave Kit behind while he went off for a burger and a coffee.

There must be something he could do. After all, he had constructed the trap himself. If there was any escape, he should be able to figure it out.

It would help if he didn't have to listen to his own voice condemning him to death.

Getting Lee Gustafson's phone number had posed no significant problem to Fiona. International directory inquiries had him down as ex-directory, which didn't surprise her. It was only politeness that had made her try that route first. But in reality, she had no compunction about calling one of the handful of crime writers whose numbers were stored in her personal organizer. She told herself it didn't matter that it was getting on for one in the morning. Nevertheless, she deliberately chose Charlie Thompson first. Charlie lived alone and she knew him to be a night owl. Chances were he was lying sprawled in his armchair watching a horror video, cat on his chest, glass of Armagnac to hand. Rather him than someone who would be panicked out of sleep by her call.

The phone was answered on the fourth ring. "Greetings, earthling," a deep bass voice rumbled in her ear.

"Hello, Charlie. It's Fiona Cameron."

"Good Lord. Shouldn't you be a pumpkin at this time of night? Or are you in fact speaking from the fruit and veg department of Tesco's?"

Fiona gritted her teeth and tried not to shout at him. "I'm sorry to bother you, Charlie, but Kit's out of town and I need Lee Gustafson's number."

"Fiona, darling, if you want a man to whisper sweet nothings in your ear when Kit's away, you don't have to pay international call charges. I'd be happy to oblige." He chuckled.

"I'll bear that in mind, Charlie. Do you have Lee's number?"

"Spurned again, eh? Hang on, Fiona, it's in the other room." She listened to the sound of furniture groaning, a cat protesting, then heavy footsteps fading off. Charlie, the only man she knew who wore biker's boots round the house. A long minute passed, then the footsteps thudded again. "You still there? Got a pen?"

"Yes to both."

He read out Gusta'fson's number, repeating it to make sure she had it down. "Enjoy yourself with Lee," he added. "But not so much that you forget my heart still burns for you."

"I could never forget that, Charlie," she said, forcing herself into the standard flirtatious banter that went with their friendship. "Thanks again."

"No problem. And tell that man of yours he owes me an e-mail."

"Will do. Good night."

"I'll do my best." The line went dead and Fiona immediately rang the number Charlie had given her.

The single tone of the American phone system purred in her ear. Once, twice, three times. Then the click of an answering machine. "Hi. You've reached Lee and Dorothy. And you've missed us. We're out of town till Monday morning. So leave a message and we'll get back to you when we get home."

Fiona couldn't believe her ears. It was beginning to feel like the universe was in a massive conspiracy against her and Kit. She had been so convinced that Lee Gustafson was the answer.

In frustration, she dialled into her e-mail program, clutching the last fragile hope that Galloway had been right and Kit had sent an e-mail that had somehow been trapped in cyberspace. Maybe his e-mail provider's server had been down and all the mail had been held up as a result. But of course, there was nothing.

On an impulse, since she was using Kit's laptop and it was set up for his e-mail account, she checked his mailbox. He might possibly have sent her mail to his own box by mistake. She couldn't imagine how that might happen, but she was prepared to clutch at any straw, however frail.

There were a dozen messages waiting for him. Most seemed to be from fellow crime writers, and most seemed to be about Georgia. There was nothing there that could conceivably have come from Kit himself.

More worryingly, judging by the timing of the messages in the mailbox, he hadn't picked up his own mail since early that afternoon. And that was as much out of character as his failure to contact Fiona. Instead of consolation, she'd found even more reason to fret.

She broke the connection and carried on staring at the screen. Suddenly, something flickered at the corner of her memory. Just before Lee had visited the bothy, she and Kit had been on holiday in Spain. Kit, as usual, had taken his laptop. He could no more stay out of touch with his e-mail than he could stop breathing. And while they'd been away, he and Lee had been communicating about the bothy.

Eagerly, she opened up the electronic filing cabinet that kept a record of all Kit's e-mail, sent and received. She clicked on the Copy of Sent Messages> tab. 2539 messages arranged by date. The program offered her the chance to arrange the messages in alphabetical order of the recipient, so she selected that option. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop as she waited for it to complete the task. Then she scrolled down to Lee Gustafson's name and began to check through the mail by date. She knew the month she was looking for, and she soon came to it. Kit had sent Lee nine messages that month. She began at the beginning and worked her way through.

And there it was.

Take the A839 out of Lairg. About a mile out of the town, you'll see a track on the right signed Sallachy. Carry on up the track (it's pretty rough going, you'll appreciate why I'm lending you the Land Rover) for about five and a half miles. You cross a river gorge, the Allt a' Claon. There's a left turn up ahead, which you take. About half a mile up this track, there's another left turn. The track takes you back across the river ravine on a rope bridge. It's a lot stronger than it looks, but better not go faster than five miles an hour. You cross the river into some trees and the bothy's about a mile ahead of you. I'd say you can't miss it, but you'd probably shoot me."

Relief coursed through Fiona. She knew where the killer was taking Kit. And now she knew how to get there. Sod Sarah Duvall and her blinkered certainties. Sod Sandy Galloway and his soothing platitudes. And sod Steve, who wasn't there when she really needed him. She'd find Kit, with or without their help.

Chapter 50

Edinburgh might claim to be a twenty-four-hour city during the Festival, but as Fiona soon found out, when it came to hiring a car it was strictly eight till eight. Even at the airport, open round the clock, the car-hire firms went home when the flights stopped arriving.

All professional options exhausted, she was forced back on to the personal. Wearily, Fiona picked up the phone and dialled again. She heard half a dozen distant rings. Then an indistinct mumble. "Yeah?" "Caroline?"

"No, it's not. Who is this?" The voice sounded seriously pissed off. "Ah. Julia. Sorry. It's Fiona Cameron. Can I speak to Caroline?" "Do you know what time it is?" The hostility level had risen. Fiona knew it was nothing to do with the lateness of the hour.

"Yes. And I'm sorry about that. But I do need to speak to Caroline." The phone clattered down. Fiona could hear, as she knew she was meant to, Julia's bad-tempered muttering. "It's Fiona Cameron. Two o'clock in the fucking morning, I don't know

Then Caroline's voice, sleepy but alive with concern. "Fiona? What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry to wake you, but it's really important." "Of course it is. So how can I help? What's the problem?" Fiona took a deep breath. In the background, she could hear an exasperated Julia sighing. Unlike Caroline, Julia did not take the unpredictable in her stride. "I'm in Edinburgh and I need to be in Inverness. If I wait till the trains start running, it'll be too late." "So you want me to drive you there?" "That won't be necessary, I just need to borrow your car." Fiona heard the sounds of movement as Caroline shifted her position. "Fine. Let me see ... five minutes to get dressed .. . Probably an hour to get to you. Where are you in Edinburgh?"

"I'm staying at a hotel called Channings. But the thing is, Caroline, time's really vital. Is there somewhere we could meet halfway? Somewhere I could get a taxi to take me to?"

There was a pause. Fiona could hear Caroline moving around now, as if she was assembling her clothes. "There's some services on the Mpo," Caroline said. "A few miles over the bridge. Halbeath, I think, something like that. It's the turnoff for Dunfermline and Kirkcaldy, just after the big Hyundai plant. Get the taxi to take you there. I'll be there in about ... thirty-five, forty minutes. OK?"

"Thank you, Caroline. Believe me, I appreciate this."

"No bother. Fill me in when we meet." Then the line went dead. Fiona smiled for the first time in hours. At last, she was dealing with somebody who took her on trust, who didn't assume she was overreacting. Steve would have done the same. But Steve was out of reach. And she didn't have time to wait to be proved right.

While she waited for the taxi, she scribbled a quick fax to Galloway, telling him where she'd gone and when she'd left. She gave the night porter instructions to transmit it to the number Galloway had given her for his personal fax at St. Leonard's. At least if she needed back-up, they would know where to find her.

Twenty-five minutes later, the taxi dropped her off at Halbeath services, just off the M90 heading north. The drizzle that had turned Edinburgh gloomy all day had grown into full-scale rain, gusting across the parking area. Fiona took shelter in the doorway of the restaurant and stared through the rain at the bright neon of the petrol station while she planned out what she had to do.

Ten minutes later, headlights cut through the darkness on the approach road and she stepped forward expectantly. The service area lights revealed a Honda saloon that splashed to a halt yards from her. The driver's door opened and Caroline jumped out, dashing across to her and enveloping her in a hug. "Here comes the cavalry," Caroline said.

"I've never been more glad to see you."

"What's going on? Why the urgency?" Caroline let her go and stepped back into the shelter of the doorway.

"Have you seen the news?" Fiona asked.

"Is this to do with that murdered crime writer?" Caroline had never been slow to grasp connections. "I thought they'd got someone for that?"

"Yes. But I think there's a possibility that the person in custody is a fake confessor. An attention-seeker. If I'm right, there's still a serial killer out there. And I'm afraid he's got Kit."

"Oh my God! And they're heading for Inverness?" For the first time, Caroline sounded shaken.

"Kit owns a bothy out in Sutherland. I think that's where the killer is planning to take him. Kit keeps a Land Rover at a garage in Inverness. I need to get there and pick up the Land Rover and try to head them off before they get to the bothy."

Caroline frowned. "Forgive me if I'm being naive here, but isn't this one of those things the police should be dealing with?"

"Yes. But they think the man in custody is the killer. They're not even halfway convinced that Kit's actually missing. They think he's gone off on the razzle with his mates, drowning his sorrows over Georgia."

"But you know different?"

Fiona spread her hands. "I know Kit."

Caroline nodded, as if satisfied. "Fine. Jump in. I'll drive you."

"Honestly, there's no need. I can drive myself. I just needed to borrow the car."

Caroline reached out and grasped Fiona's wrist gently. It was a curiously intimate gesture. "I said, I'll drive you. Besides, how am I going to get back to St. Andrews at this time of night?"

"No, Caro, it's not your fight. Call a taxi. I'll pay for it. Just give me the car keys, Caro, please?"

Caroline shook her head. "No way. You've always been there for me. I'm not leaving you." She turned on her heel and marched back to her car, pulling the driver's door open and getting in. She started the engine and wound down the window. "I thought you were in a hurry, Fiona?"

As they shot up the motorway towards Perth, Caroline broke the silence. "Tell me what's going on with Kit."

So Fiona outlined the whole story, from Drew Shand's murder onwards. Tt could be that I'm being paranoid," she admitted. "But that's my risk, and it's one I'm prepared to take. Looking stupid on the shores of Loch Shin would be, in my opinion, the best possible outcome of tonight."

"But you know in your heart that's not what's happening here," Caroline said heavily.

Fiona nodded. "He wouldn't stay out of touch. He's in a state about Georgia, and I'm the only one he opens up to. Of all the times he might ignore me, this is the least likely." They fell silent then, each lost in her own thoughts as the windscreen wipers slapped the rain away and they drove deeper into the Highlands, the looming bulk of mountains rising around them as Caroline hammered up the road towards Inverness to the late-night sound of the Cowboy Junkies. At that time of night, there was little traffic to vary the endless ribbon of the Ap spooling out ahead of them.

Somewhere near Kingussie, Fiona closed her eyes and leaned her elbow on the window ledge. With no need for Caroline to stop for petrol (and nowhere to make a stop, even if she'd needed it), Fiona drifted in an edgy doze until they made it to the outskirts of Inverness just after half past six.

Fiona was already two and a half hours later than she would have needed to be to hit the wilderness ahead of Kit.

Joanne Gibb drove cautiously down the street where Gerard Coyne lived. Thankfully, nobody seemed to be stirring. But then, that's pretty much what she'd have expected in this part of North London so early on a Saturday morning. She hoped it would stay like that for a little bit longer. She needed to identify the house then find a parking space somewhere she could keep an eye on the place. It wouldn't do to lose him because she couldn't find somewhere to sit unobtrusively. It helped having a VW Golf with black-tinted windows. Impossible for passers-by to see inside, and with the added bonus that any local likely lads would probably leave it alone on the general principle that anybody who owned such a mean-looking machine would probably be considerably more well hard than they were.

On her first pass, she identified the house. She couldn't immediately see a place to park, so she drove to the corner, turned round and cruised slowly back. About a dozen yards past Coyne's house, a set of headlights flashed at her. Her first reaction was that someone had noticed her predicament and was indicating they were about to move out of their space. Then she recognized Neil's Ford, a car almost as scruffy as its owner. She drew level and they dropped their windows simultaneously. Joanne's nose twitched as the stale aroma of unwashed male rolled out towards her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "You were supposed to go off at midnight and leave chummy to his own devices."

Neil yawned. "I couldn't do it. I tried to clear it with the boss but I haven't been able to raise him. I can't get through on the mobile, his home phone's on the answering machine and he's not responding to his pager. I can't believe it. He's never out of touch. And last night, of all nights, when he knew we were starting a fresh surveillance. It just doesn't make sense. So I decided to stay till you got here, just in case."

Joanne gave a sly smile. "I bet I know where he is."

"Where?"

"He's birding it," she said.

"Bollocks," Neil scoffed. "He's like a monk, the guvnor. He's forgotten what it's for."

"You lot never forget what it's for," Joanne said. "He came back from seeing that lecturer the other day with a real spring in his step. And he asked me for a restaurant recommendation."

"God, he must have been desperate."

"Thank you, Neil. Anyway, I reckon he's gone off to her place and decided that for once he's going to forget about the sodding job and have a good time."

Neil shook his head. "He'd never turn his pager off."

"That's what you think. So, what are you going to do now?"

Neil reached down and turned the key in his ignition. "I'm going to piss off back to the Yard and get my head down for a couple of hours until he gets in. Wherever he is, he'll be in this morning to see what's what, I bet you any money."

"That would be a mug's bet. Hang on till I turn round again and I'll slot into your space, OK?" Joanne drove off. By the time she'd swung round, Neil was edging out, leaving room for her to pick up the surveillance. She waved him off and settled down. She only hoped Gerard Coyne wasn't planning on a bike ride this morning.