hapter 54

Six hundred miles away in London, Steve Preston had congratulated himself on persuading the Assistant Commissioner that he had enough evidence to go through with his plan. Now all that was left to do was to brief the team who would back up Joanne and Neil when they brought in Gerard, and the forensic squad who would assist in the search of Coyne's flat.

"I've given this a lot of thought. I don't want to arrest him in his flat, because, as you all know, that means that under PACE, we can only do a Section Thirty-two search, with all the restrictions that implies. What I want to do is to wait until he leaves the flat then pick him up in the open. We'll bring him in to the Yard and arrest him on suspicion of murder, and then we can do a Section Eighteen search, which gives us a lot more scope. To make sure he doesn't get out of our grasp, I'm detailing one of you to be on a bike and another on a motorbike. He's a keen cyclist, there's every chance that when he does leave, he'll be on two wheels."

He forced his face into a serious expression, battening the hatches on his feelings of exultation. "I want him back here in one piece," he said forcefully. "No accidents, nobody falling down the stairs, no unexplained cuts, bruises or broken bones. I want him handled as if he was fine china.

"As soon as we get him back here, I want Coyne arrested on suspicion of murder. Let's put the shits up him right away. But no delays over letting him call his brief. I want this done by the book. Nothing that anyone can pick on afterwards and say, "Hang on a minute, you didn't follow PACE here, mate." Anybody got any questions?"

A young DC raised a hand. "What exactly are we looking for in Coyne's flat?"

"Good question," Steve said. "Anything that could tie him in to Susan Blanchard's murder, or the North London rapes. So that means newspaper cuttings, any maps with crime scenes marked on them, diaries,

photographs. And I want every knife in the place. Also any clothing that matches the descriptions of the cycle gear that the cyclist on the Heath or the rapist was wearing. I know, after all this time, we're probably clutching at straws. But I want Coyne, and together we're going to nail him and lay Susan Blanchard to rest at last."

He looked around the room. No more questions. He turned to the pin board behind him and pointed to a photograph of Susan's twin sons. "I don't want justice for me. I don't even want justice for the Met. I want justice for those two. Now go out there and get it for them." He hated the cheap emotional shot, but they needed to be gung ho, and he knew exactly how to get them there.

Steve watched the officers file out of the room, wondering how much time he had before they brought their prisoner back. He needed to find out what the hell Fiona was up to. He'd tried her mobile several times since he'd got back to the Yard, but all he'd had was a recorded message telling him that it was not possible to connect his call. Thanks to Sarah Duvall, he knew she'd gone to Scotland to review the evidence in the Drew Shand case. A call to the officer in charge was probably as good a place to start as any.

He picked up the nearest phone and asked the switchboard to connect him to Lothian and Borders Police. It took little time to discover that the man he needed to speak to was Superintendent Sandy Galloway. But Galloway wasn't in the building. Frustrated, Steve arranged for them to pass on a message asking Galloway to call him back as soon as possible.

What on earth was Fiona playing at, leaving messages he couldn't return? Given the terms they'd been on when last they met, it had to be something serious. It might be worth trying Kit, he thought. But dialling their home number simply connected him to another answering machine.

There was nothing more he could do. Now he had to clear his mind and concentrate on how he would handle Gerard Coyne. This was too important to allow anything to distract him.

It was worse, far worse than the corresponding scene in the TV adaptation. Worse, infinitely worse than her imagination had prepared her for. Her first thought was that he was dead. Kit slumped naked on the toilet, his arms chained to the walls, his legs hobbled round the toilet. His skin was white, his head sunk on his chest. He was only held upright by his bonds. She could see no sign of breath or pulse. In the vein of his left arm, there was a shunt. And on the walls around him, amateurish daubs of trees and flowers, gruesome in shades from dark-carmine to rust-brown. About half of the walls of the compact bathroom were covered. She had no way of estimating how much blood that had required. Her chest contracted in an agony of fear and distress.

With a wordless moan that was closer to a sob, Fiona rushed forward, falling to her knees and throwing her arms around his chill flesh. Her eyes were already brimming with tears. To her amazement, she felt a flicker of movement against her face. Then a breath like a soft groan tickled her ear.

"Kit?" she stammered. "Kit? Can you hear me?" She put a hand to his neck and felt a weak and irregular pulse. She took his head between her hands and gently raised it level with hers. His eyelids flickered, the whites of his eyes showing through the lashes. "I'm here, Kit. It's me, Fiona. It's going to be all right."

His eyes opened a crack and he groaned. She held him close, desperate to transfer her warmth to him. Shock, that's what it was. Loss of blood and the cold had sent him into shock. The first thing she had to do was get him warm. Fiona gently moved away from him and ran through to the bedroom. She grabbed a sleeping bag, a couple of flannel shirts and a pair of jeans, then hurried back to the bathroom. She draped the sleeping bag over his shoulders, keeping up a constant flow of reassuring words. Then she pulled the carrier bag out of her jacket and took out the bolt cutters. It took all her strength, but she managed to snap through the chain that fettered his legs and unwrap it from his ankles. His legs were stiff and cold in her hands, but she pulled them round to the front of the toilet and fed his feet through the legs of his jeans, pulling them up to his knees.

Next she took the chisel and the lump hammer and attacked the shackles holding him to the wall. Beginning with his right arm, a couple of blows were all it took to rip the metal eye out of the wall. His arm fell uselessly to his side and he groaned again.

Fiona moved round to the other side and considered. She didn't want to disturb the shunt in his arm, afraid that if she took it out, he'd start bleeding again. She took a roll of elastoplast out of the first-aid kit and carefully wound it round the shunt, holding it firmly in place. Then she repeated the procedure with the hammer and chisel, freeing his left arm. He fell forward, a dead weight collapsed over his knees. Somehow, struggling against the mass of his torso, Fiona managed to dress him in the shirts, cutting the sleeves to get them over the chains and handcuffs.

Then, grunting with the effort, she hauled him to his feet, propping him against the wall so she could pull up his trousers. It was all taking too long, she thought with a surge of panic. His captor couldn't be far away. Surely he wouldn't take the risk of leaving Kit alone for too long.

Fiona let Kit slump back on to the toilet. She took out the heat packs, flexed them to activate the chemical reaction that would produce life-saving warmth and tucked them inside the shirts next to his skin. Then she went back to the bedroom and searched till she found a pair of thick socks and some battered trainers.

Her next stop was the living room. Inside one of the cupboards she found a couple of cans of Coke. Perfect. Fluid, and sugar. The caffeine probably wouldn't be a problem for a man who routinely consumed as much coffee as Kit did. As she turned back, the narrow metal cabinet caught her eye. Where there should have been the shotgun that Kit used to pot rabbits, there was an empty space. A box of cartridges lay open, half-empty. Fresh panic seized her. Wherever he was, Kit's abductor had a double-barrelled shotgun. What was already a desperate situation had suddenly become worse.

Hurrying back to the bathroom, she thrust Kit's feet into socks and trainers. Then she pulled him upright from his slumped position. "Come on, Kit. I need you conscious, my darling, I need you able to function."

The warmth had begun to do its work. With a shivering tremor, Kit's eyes opened properly. He looked at her with puzzlement. "Fiona," he croaked.

"Yes, it's me, you're not hallucinating. I found you, sweetheart. Now, I need you to drink this." She held the can of Coke to his lips and forced herself to be patient while he sipped it through dry and cracked lips. "We're going to get you out of here, I promise," she said.

"Where's Blake?" he said, his voice cracked and strange, his consonants slurred.

"Blake?" Fiona asked, wondering from what delirious corner of his mind he'd dredged that name.

"Francis Blake," he insisted. "He brought me here. He did this to me."

It shouldn't have made sense, but suddenly, it did. The man she'd passed on the way to the bothy. Memory jolted into place. She'd never met Blake, but she'd heard his voice on TV. The aural recollection triggered a visual image. She hadn't seen much of the stranger's face,

but now she had a template to set it against, she knew it was him. Francis Blake was the man with the axe. But even as her mind accepted the identification, her intelligence balked at it. Why on earth would Francis Blake have kidnapped Kit? How could he be this particular serial killer? It was meaningless, absurd.

It was also something she couldn't afford the time to consider now. "He's gone," she said with a confidence she didn't feel. But where was Blake, and what was he doing? Judging by the axe, he'd gone for firewood. Either that or it was simply an elaborate way to disguise the shotgun, constructing a hide of sticks around it. Obviously, he must have been heading back to the bothy, having hidden his vehicle somewhere else. But he'd heard her approach. Even if he didn't know who she was, he knew she was heading for the only habitation on that particular track and so he must have turned round, to make it look as if he was walking away.

A simple enough ruse, but it had worked. She hadn't felt a moment's suspicion. And now he knew she was there. He couldn't just let them go, could he? It was inconceivable.

Fiona shook her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. "I'm going to get the Land Rover," she said, keeping her voice brisk in an attempt to hide the fear twisting her guts. "I want you to stay here. If you can drink the rest of the Coke, that would be good. But don't worry if your fingers don't work yet. The circulation will take a while to come back. Do you know how much blood you've lost?"

"More than a pint," he sighed, his voice still sounding like a drunk. "I passed out then. I suppose he must have stopped." He blinked and focused properly on his surroundings for the first time, shuddering at the bloodwork on the walls. "Fuck," he said with a laugh that turned into a cough. "He's a fucking terrible painter."

Fiona stood up and hugged his head to her chest. "I'll be as quick as I can." She let him go, and took the craft knife out of the bag, sliding the blade out an inch then putting it carefully in her jacket pocket. Leaving him behind was the hardest thing she had ever done, but the only way out for them was in the Land Rover. She couldn't afford to wait for Caroline to summon the cavalry, not now she knew Blake had a gun.

She crossed to the front door and inched it open. She stared across the clearing down the track through the trees. Nothing stirred. Her flesh prickled with apprehension. He could be anywhere in those trees, sighting her down the barrel of a gun. He could be lurking behind the Land Rover, axe ready to swing down on her head. The prospect made her stomach cramp. Cautiously, she opened the door further, her free hand slipping into her pocket and gripping the knife handle. Still nothing stirred. If he was watching her with the gun at his shoulder, she'd be a harder target moving than standing still dithering, she told herself firmly. Now or never.

From a standing start, she sprinted across the clearing and down the track. She reached the Land Rover with a rapidity that surprised her, having forgotten how much more direct this route was than the initial approach she'd taken to the bothy. She yanked the door open and jumped inside, then leaned her head on the steering wheel for a moment, a sob of relief escaping from her gasping mouth. Get a grip, she chastised herself, straightening up.

Thrusting the keys into the ignition, she had a moment's panic. What if Blake had disabled the engine? Quickly, she turned the keys and almost wept with relief when the starter motor turned over and caught first time. She slammed it into gear and roared up the remainder of the track, hauling on the heavy steering as she entered the clearing to swing the vehicle round in a circle so the tailgate faced the cottage door.

Leaving the engine running, she opened the rear door of the Land Rover, then hurried back inside. Kit was more upright now, leaning back against the toilet cistern. He was still deathly pale, but his eyes were open and he seemed more alert. Fiona scrabbled around in the bedroom, unearthing a couple of blankets and a pillow. She grabbed the rest of Kit's shirts and took her bundle out to the Land Rover, adding the sleeping bag on a second trip. She made a sort of bed on the floor, then returned for Kit.

"I'm going to need some help from you," she said. "I can't carry you."

Kit nodded. "I think I can just about stand up now. There's a walking stick in the living room. That might help." His voice was cracked and barely audible.

Fiona found it propped up in a corner. It was a modern aluminium stick, spring-loaded to absorb impact, and telescopic. She extended it slightly, so that Kit could use it as a shepherd would a crook.

Back in the bathroom, she pushed Kit's hand through the fabric loop and helped him clasp the handgrip. "Pins and needles," he muttered.

"Trust me, that's a good sign," Fiona said. She slipped under his other arm and between them, they got him to his feet.

"Christ, I've got cramp," he moaned, his right leg buckling as it took his weight.

It felt like an eternity before he was able to put one foot in front of the other. Fiona could feel the sweat of fear pooling in the small of her back. Slowly, they stumbled the few yards to the front door. Then they were at the Land Rover. Fiona manoeuvred him so that he was sitting on the tailgate. Then she swung his legs on board and settled him as comfortably as possible. "Are you OK?" she asked.

He managed a wan smile. "Compared to what? My head's splitting, everything's spinning, and I feel sick as a dog."

"It's only dehydration and low blood pressure. Trust me, Kit."

A tremendous wave of euphoria flooded Fiona as she finally closed the door and put the Land Rover in gear. She'd made it. Against all the odds, she'd found him in time. They were going to make it! She moved off, almost feeling like singing. Into the woods, then out into the open. She could see the belt of conifers ahead that hid the final approach to the bridge.

As they drew nearer to the trees, Kit's voice came faintly from the back. "He's not going to let us go this easy, Fiona," he said weakly. "Pull up."

Much as it ran against her instincts to get out as fast as possible -she did as he asked. She squirmed round in her seat to face him. "What's wrong, Kit?"

"If the bridge is down, we're stuck," he said. "In the glove box -binoculars. Go and have a look up ahead. Please."

"He's got your gun. Kit. He could be watching us right now."

"He'd have shot us already. Please?"

Fiona thought for a moment. There was sense in what Kit had said. If Blake had been on this side of the ravine, he could have picked them off easily when they were getting into the Land Rover. And at least she had the conifers for cover. In Kit's state of shock, she wasn't prepared to take unnecessary risks. She climbed out and, sticking close to the edge of the trees, walked to the curve in the road that brought the bridge into view. As she rounded the bend, taking cover behind some closely planted spruce, she smiled at the sight of the bridge still in place. Kit's fears had been groundless, she thought happily.

But, because he'd made her take the binoculars, she decided to check anyway. It wouldn't hurt just to make certain there was no loose planking. She raised the glasses to her eyes and focused on the bridge. At first, everything seemed to be fine. Then her heart leapt in panic. She lowered the binoculars, took a deep breath and looked again. She could have wept.

On the far side of the bridge, both ropes had been cut part way through, the fraying obvious through the powerful field glasses.

There was no way out. The bridge had changed from a lifeline to a deathtrap.

Chapter 55

Caroline double-checked the number Fiona had given her, and nervously checked her watch again. Sixty-one minutes had passed since she'd waved goodbye to Fiona. Whatever had been waiting at the end of her friend's journey, it clearly hadn't been straightforward. Caroline was angry with herself for letting Fiona face the danger alone, but she recognized the sense in what she'd been instructed to do. If Fiona couldn't deal with it on her own, the chances were that Caroline would have been more of a liability than a help. That knowledge assuaged neither her guilt nor her fear.

Hastily, she shovelled all her change into the coin box of the phone and keyed in the number. The phone on the other end rang three times, then she heard the choked-off ring of a call being diverted to another phone. This time, it was answered on the second ring. "CID, DC Mullen," a husky male voice grunted.

"I need to speak to Superintendent Sandy Galloway," Caroline said.

"He's not available just now. Can I help you?"

Where to begin? "Are you working on the Drew Shand case?" she asked.

"Have you some information pertaining to the inquiry, madam? Can I take your name?"

"No, I don't have information, as such. I'm calling on behalf of Dr. Fiona Cameron. She's been consulting with Superintendent Galloway on the case. Look, it's vital that I speak to him."

"I'm afraid he's not on duty. Can I pass on a message?"

Exasperated, Caroline struggled to find a quick way to tell the detective what was going on, conscious that her credit was dribbling away by the second. "She's following a lead, she thought she might be heading into a dangerous situation. She thinks the killer's still on the loose, you see. And she asked me to call Superintendent Galloway if she hadn't come back within the hour," she gabbled, aware that she wasn't explaining the situation well. "I think she needs back-up."

"Back-up for what?" He sounded bemused.

"She thinks the killer's holed up with his next victim. Nobody would listen to her, she's gone after him on her own."

"Look, miss, I think you're under a misapprehension here. We believe that Drew Shand's killer is in custody. Where are you calling from?"

"Just outside Lairg. On the shores of Loch Shin."

"Lairg? I'm afraid you're a wee bit off our patch," he said, sounding amused. He'd clearly decided to consign her to the drawer marked 'crank'. "Maybe you should be talking to Highland Police?"

"Wait, don't hang up!" Caroline shouted. "I know this sounds crazy, but I'm not some kind of nutter. Fiona Cameron's in danger. I need help here."

"Talk to the police at Lairg. They're the men on the spot. They'll be able to help you. Either that or leave a message with me for Superintendent Galloway."

"You'll get it to him right away?" Caroline demanded.

"I'll make sure he gets it."

"OK. Tell him Fiona's at Kit Martin's bothy. It's near the Allt a' Claon on the shores of Loch Shin." She spelled out the name of the river gorge for him. "She sent him a fax, but I don't know it he got it. Please, tell him we need help, urgently." An electronic voice in her ear told her she had ten seconds left. "It's really important," she stressed as the line went dead.

Caroline slammed the phone down. "Bugger!" she shouted in frustration. "You really fucked that up, you moron." She smashed the flat of her hand into the glass wall of the box. She'd blown her one chance with the Edinburgh Police, and every minute that ticked past might put Fiona's life at even more risk.

She had a horrible feeling that the local police were going to be even less inclined to take her seriously. But there was nothing else for it. She'd have to go back to Lairg anyway for more change to make phone calls.

Still cursing her incompetence, Caroline made for her car, all the time praying that Fiona was still in one piece. "No thanks to you if she is, fuck wit she said out loud as she threw the car into a U-turn and headed back into town.

When Gerard Coyne emerged from his flat that morning, Joanne let out a sigh of relief. "He's not taking the bike," she said, peering into the rear-view mirror.

"Thank Christ for that," Neil said. He watched in the carefully angled wing mirror as Coyne drew level with their car and continued on up the street. Before he reached the corner, two detectives were on his tail, one on either side of the street. Joanne started the car and pulled out of the parking spot. The brief was clear. Wait until Coyne was stationary, then close in. The two officers on foot were each shadowed by another back-up, with Joanne and Neil in the car ready to join in the end game

Coyne cut through the maze of narrow streets and emerged on Caledonian Road near its junction with Holloway Road. As he approached a bike shop with its wares covering most of the pavement outside, his pace slowed and he came to a halt, studying a racing bike. "Time to make a move?" Neil asked Joanne as they crawled towards the shop.

"I think so," she said, braking to a halt and flicking on the hazard lights.

Neil spoke into the radio set. "Alpha Tango to all units. Move in on suspect now." He jumped out of the car and strode across the pavement. The other officers had surrounded Coyne, who was standing with his back to the bike display, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"Gerard Patrick Coyne?" Neil said.

"Yeah, who wants to know?" Coyne demanded, trying for cool and missing by a mile.

"I am Detective Constable Neil McCartney of the Metropolitan Police and I would like you to accompany me to a police station to help with my inquiries into a serious matter."

Coyne shook his head. "You must be mistaken, mate. I've done nothing." His eyes were darting from side to side, as if seeking a way out. But his path was blocked by the police officers, as well as the pedestrians who had stopped to see what was going on.

"In which case, you won't mind answering a few questions, will you, sir?" Neil took a step closer.

"Am I under arrest?" Coyne demanded.

"That's up to you at this point, sir. We'd prefer it if you accompanied us on a voluntary basis."

"I don't have a lot of choice, do I?" he said, his voice the whine of those who feel victimized.

"I have a car waiting," was all Neil said.

The officers formed a phalanx around him, and escorted him to the back seat of the car, where he was hemmed in by Neil and another detective. Coyne's narrow face was set in a petulant mask, his arms tightly folded across his chest. "You're making a big mistake," he complained.

"You'll have plenty of opportunity to put us right," Neil said pleasantly. He could afford the courtesy; everything had gone according to plan.

Fiona rested her head on the steering wheel. "So what do we do now?" she asked. "I've got back-up Caroline should have called the cops by now. But they're not going to treat this as a matter of urgency, I just know they're not. Besides, it'll take them forever to get here. You say there's no other way out?"

"Not by road," Kit said. He'd propped himself up into a sitting position. Now the cramps and the pins and needles had passed, he felt slightly less like someone knocking at heaven's door. His head still felt like he was half-drunk, half-hungover, but he was gradually getting used to that. "On foot. There is a way on foot. It's about six miles across the hill. I don't think I can make it. But you could hike out and get help."

"I can't leave you here," Fiona protested, her voice muffled as she spoke into her chest. "There's nothing to stop Blake coming back for you. We don't know that he's left. If I was him, I'd be in the woods on the other side of the ravine waiting for us to plunge to our deaths. And if time passes and we don't do that, he'll probably look at the map and figure out what we're doing. So he'll come back for you. Even if he has to hike back down the road to the bridge by the loch side and back up again through the woods, he'll still get to you before I can make it to the main road."

"What other choice is there? Apart from waiting for your back-up?"

"You need to get to a hospital, Kit. And besides, what's going to happen when they roll up? Either they're going to spot what's happened to the bridge and they'll be stuck that side of the ravine. Or else they won't and they'll end up crashing into the gorge like we're supposed to have done."

There was a long pause. Then Kit said, "There is something that might work. But it's a very long shot ..."

"A long shot's better than no shot at all."

"You might not think that once you've heard it."

Steve was generous in his praise of his team. "You did a great job. Like clockwork, and by the book. Not a thing that the defence could pick on. Well done. The drinks are on me tonight. He's been formally arrested now, has he?"

Neil nodded. "On suspicion of murder. He looked completely gob smacked But he knows what he's about. The only thing he said was that he wanted his lawyer."

Steve picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. "Right. I've drawn up the authorization for a Section Eighteen search. I want you to take charge of that, Neil. You know what we're looking for. Now, I want John and Joanne to start the interview. I'm going to be watching from the observation room. John, I want Joanne to take the lead. This guy has a problem with women. I want to wind him up, and Joanne coming on the macho cop will do just that. OK with that, Joanne?"

She smiled grimly. "It'll be a pleasure, guy."

Before he could say more, Steve's phone rang. He grabbed it and said, "DS Preston."

"Steve? It's Sarah Duvall. I wonder, is there any chance you could drop round to Snow Hill? There's something I'd like you to see."

"Sarah, I'm up to my arse in alligators right now. Can it wait?"

'I'm not sure it can, actually. Let me just explain. I've had a team checking the Smithfield videos and we think we've narrowed down the man who deposited Georgia Lester's remains in the freezer."

"That sounds like good news. But why are you calling me?" Steve said impatiently.

"We think it's Francis Blake."

"What?" Steve couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I've looked at it myself. I've compared it with Blake's mug shots I don't think there's any doubt about it."

Confused, Steve said, "But what about Redford?"

There was a pause before Duvall spoke. "We might be wrong about Redford."

There was a strange ringing in his ears. If Redford wasn't the killer, how could it be Francis Blake?

More importantly, if Redford wasn't the killer, where were Kit and Fiona?

"So, can you come over and take a look?" he heard Duvall say, as if from a very great distance.

"I've just ... no, I'm about to ... Sarah, can you bike it over?"

There was a long pause. "This is an active murder investigation, sir. Can't you spare me half an hour?" The reproach was in the tone as much as the words.

"We've just arrested someone for Susan Blanchard," Steve said stonily.

"I can't leave the Yard. Hang on a second." He covered the mouthpiece and waved his free hand towards the door. "Give me five minutes. I'll see you in the CID room." As they filed out, he turned his attention back to Sarah Duvall. "Look, you should be aware that Fiona Cameron seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. She was supposed to meet Superintendent Galloway this morning and she didn't show. Now, he tells me that she had a bee in her bonnet last night about Redford not being the man. She was convinced that the killer was still on the loose. And she was also convinced that he'd kidnapped Kit Martin. I can't raise either Fiona or Kit. I think we've got a serious problem on our hands here."

"I couldn't agree more," Duvall said.

"But I don't see how it can be Blake. According to my surveillance reports, Blake didn't leave his flat at all yesterday."

"It's Blake, Steve. I'd stake my life on it."

What worried Steve was that it wasn't Duvall's life that was at stake. "You need to talk to Galloway," he said.

But Duvall had her own priorities. "The person I need to talk to is Francis Blake."

From his vantage point in the trees beyond the ravine, Francis Blake stared at the track emerging from the trees. What was keeping them? She must have managed to get him free by now. There was a box of tools in the generator shed, he knew. That's where he'd found the axe that he'd used to smash the padlock on the gun cupboard.

He couldn't believe his bad luck. He'd only gone out to move his 4x4 to the far side of the gorge. But some inner caution had made him take the gun, hidden in a bundle of firewood. Luckily he'd heard her approach in the Land Rover and he'd had the sense to turn around and make it look as if he was walking out of the woods. A bit more warning and he could have been ready and waiting for the bitch. OK, it would have meant breaking the pattern, but to have killed Fiona Cameron at close quarters would just have been the icing on the cake.

He propped the shotgun against a tree and tucked his hands into his pockets for warmth. The sun might be shining, but it was October, and here under the canopy of the trees, it was like midwinter. But it would be worth the wait when the pair of them plunged into the ravine. That would finish them off, no messing.

Then he'd be free and clear, either to kill again or to leave it alone.

He didn't think he was under any threat from the police. Fiona Cameron was acting alone, he felt sure of that. She hadn't been able to convince her cronies in the force to back up what could only have been a hunch. After all, they had that lunatic Redford in custody. They must be pretty sure they had their killer under wraps. Otherwise, given the clout she had with the police, they'd have turned up mob-handed if they'd thought there was any serious chance of laying hands on a serial killer of his calibre. There was a kind of sweet irony in that, too. It was psychological profilers like her who had destroyed his life and he'd set out to destroy the people who had turned profilers into gods. Now, the profiler herself couldn't get anyone to believe her. Maybe that meant he'd made his point?

Blake took his hand out of his pocket and chewed the skin on the side of his thumb. Fucking profilers. They'd set him up to prove how clever they were. But he'd outsmarted them. He'd turned the tables and now nobody could touch him.

He'd had plenty of time to lay his plans. He'd always known he would get off when his case came to court, and he'd spent his time on remand brooding on the injustice that had been done to him. It would have been too obvious to go for the cops and the psychologist who had concocted the campaign against him. Besides, they'd never suffer enough to make up for what they'd done to him. He'd lost his home, his job, his girlfriend and his reputation. They'd only lose their lives.

No, somebody else had to pay. Who was responsible for making the world believe that psychological profilers had all the answers? Simple. Thriller writers. Especially the ones whose books had been turned into films and TV shows that millions of people had watched. They were the ones who were really responsible for what had happened to Francis Blake. And they were the ones who would pay.

It had been easy to get hold of their books while he'd still been in prison, and relatively easy to find out about their lives. They were always talking to journalists. Plus the British ones all featured in a book of detailed interviews that some sad anorak had just published. Then when he got out, there had been the Internet. It hadn't taken long to put it all together. The hardest thing to find out had been the precise whereabouts of Kit Martin's bothy. He'd known the rough location, thanks to various interviews, but a search of the Land Registry had given him a precise address, and the Ordnance Survey map had done the rest.

Nobody had been watching him while he'd been in Spain, he'd made sure of that. And from Spain, it was easy enough to drive across the land borders in Europe and pick up ferry crossings from there. And eluding the pathetic Met surveillance on him once he'd returned couldn't have been easier. As long as he showed his face every other day and made it look like he was living the life of a recluse, they'd looked no further, leaving him forty-eight-hour spans free to do what he had to do in Dorset and, later, in Sutherland. He wouldn't mind betting they hadn't even figured out there was a back way out of his flat into the van way behind the shops.

One thing they'd never understand, and that was how his life had changed after what he'd seen on Hampstead Heath. Then, he'd understood how easy it was to take a life away. Doing it himself had turned into a piece of piss, really.

Until Fiona Cameron came along and fucked up his neatly laid plans. Well, she'd get her comeuppance soon enough.

He ran over the getaway in his mind once more. He'd moved the Toyota away from the bothy as soon as he'd unloaded Kit and locked him up tight. It would cause much less comment if a local spotted it on the access road up beyond the turning to the bothy than if they noticed it sitting outside. It was parked about five minutes away from his present position, facing down the hill towards the loch. He'd be on the road south in no time at all.

Then he heard the Land Rover again, its engine revving out of sight. It rounded the bend and slowed down to a crawl. He could see the outline of two figures through the windscreen. Then it began to roll forward towards the bridge, the engine complaining at such high revs in first gear.

As soon as the front wheels hit the bridge, the ropes snapped. In a crash of wood and metal, the Land Rover kept on coming, plunging downwards in a tangle of planks and rope. There was a fragmentary moment of stillness, then a terrible rending crash as timber and steel hit the rocks below.

Blake struggled through the undergrowth and emerged near the lip of the ravine. He edged forward, nervous of slipping and joining his victims. He looked down, hoping to see the broken bodies among the wreckage.

The tumble down the gorge had ripped the roof from the Land Rover, leaving its mangled base exposed to the rushing river. But where he'd expected to see Kit Martin and Fiona Cameron, there was nothing but strewn clothing and what looked like a couple of saucepans.

Blake swore fluently. The bastards thought they could outwit him,

did they? Well, they could forget that. Furious, he ran back to the Toyota and pulled the Ordnance Survey map out of the glove box. One way or another, he would have their blood on his hands by the end of the day.