hapter 51

Caroline pulled up at a roundabout on the edge of Inverness and killed the stereo. "Where to now?" she asked.

Fiona yawned and scrubbed her eyes with the edge of her fists. She had that empty nauseous feeling that comes with too little sleep and too much adrenaline. The rain had stopped and there was a thin grey mist hanging in the air, leaving Inverness looking even more like a ghost town than the hour itself. "I don't know," she admitted. "All I know is that the guy who owns the garage where Kit keeps the Land Rover is called Lachlan Fraser."

Caroline snorted. "Like that really narrows it down."

"I take it Fraser's a pretty common name hereabouts, then?"

"You could say that. The ancestral seat of the clan chief is about half a dozen miles up the road. Fraser is about as common a name round Inverness as Smith would be in London." She put the car in gear and cruised towards the centre.

"Where are you going?" Fiona asked.

"When in doubt, ask a policeman." Caroline headed on down the main road. "We'll either find the police station, or we'll find some night-shift woolly suits in a patrol car sneaking a fly bacon butty at the all-night snack bar."

"You think Inverness runs to an all-night snack bar?" Fiona said, the professional sceptic.

Caroline flashed her a dark grin. "Don't make the mistake of falling for the tourist board propaganda. Inverness is a lot more Morvern Callar than it is Local Hero."

"Does that mean you know where to score me a wrap of speed?"

Caroline's eyebrows rose. "I suspect you're either too early in the morning or too late at night for any action like that round here. I take it that was a joke?"

Fiona's grin was savage. "Only technically. Jokes are supposed to be funny, and the way I'm feeling right now is anything but. Better make do with the all-night snack bar and a shot of caffeine. If I do end up in the arms of the law, the last thing I need is for them to discover I'm pumped full of amphetamines."

"Hang on, there we go." Caroline was off on a tangent, waving over to her left where a DIY super store occupied most of the horizon. Its vast car park contained a fish and chip van, a police car and the business end of an articulated lorry. She veered into the slip road and cruised across to the police car.

"You get the directions. You've got the right accent. I'll get the breakfast," Fiona instructed, clambering out of the car and stretching. Desperate as she was to get to the bothy, she needed food and drink more than the five minutes she might save by not stopping now. She leaned on the high counter, smelling the rancid agglomeration of stale fat, cheap vinegar, fried onions and diesel. The menu was written in magic marker on what had once been a white board Describing its present colour was beyond Fiona's vocabulary. Old men's underwear was about the closest she could come to it. The board offered fish, chips, burgers, sausages, rolls and pies. Another sign announced the availability of "Tea, coffee, asorted skoosh'. Fiona smiled at the large man behind the counter. Judging by his pallor, he lived off his own cooking.

"Two chip rolls, please," Fiona said. It was probably the safest option. Besides, all that complex carbohydrate would keep her going for a few hours. "And two teas," she added.

"Aye, right," the lard mountain said. He turned away and tended his hissing fryer. Fiona turned to see how Caroline was getting on with the police officers. She was bent over, leaning into an open window, her face all cheerful openness. Would she and Lesley have made it, Fiona wondered? Probably not. First love seldom did. And then she'd almost certainly have lost Caroline as a friend. With a sense of dawning amazement, Fiona reached the complex realization that Lesley's death had actually given her a gift. She scratched her head, deciding to file away the thought for another time, when she could consider it properly. Right now, she was struggling to hang on to any sense of reality in what was increasingly resembling a nightmare.

Caroline straightened up with a nod and a smile and set off back towards the car. Catching Fiona watching her, she gave the thumbs-up sign. "There you go, darling'," the chip van man said, plonking down two overstuffed bread rolls on a pair of paper napkins. Fiona handed over a fiver and waved away the change, concentrating instead on juggling the two chip rolls and the two polystyrene beakers of tea.

Back in the car, they fell on the food and drink. Between mouthfuls of surprisingly tasty chip butty, Caroline explained where they were heading. "Lachlan Fraser's place is out towards the airport. The bobbies knew him, right enough. Not for any bad reasons, you understand. Just because ... well, they know these things." She drove intently, sandwich in one hand, tea between her thighs, careful on the corners not to spill her drink.

The streets started to waken as they drove, yellow oblongs of light suddenly breaking the grey facades of houses. Now the occasional car or milk float hummed past them, and the first blurring of light in the east started to leak into the night sky. Fiona wondered where Kit was. Whether she'd be in time, or whether she was already too late. Whether the killer would stick to the plot, or settle for an approximation.

If she had allowed her imagination to run away with her instead of forcing what she knew from The Blood Painter into a locked box in the back of her mind, she could probably have conjured up a reasonable approximation of what was happening right then a couple of hours' drive away.

Kit was groggily struggling back to consciousness, a woozy giddiness shot through with flashes of excoriating pain. He'd taken a second strike to the head, his long containment in darkness leaving him unequal to avoiding the blow that fell as soon as the tailgate of the Toyota was opened.

Apart from pain, the first sensation he was aware of was cold. He was freezing. He managed to open his eyes and found himself in the middle of a scene that felt like the worst sort of deja vu. He knew this place because it was his; he knew this situation because he had created it. He was sitting naked on the toilet, both arms handcuffed to steel eyes that had been bolted into the wall. His legs were chained together, the chain passing round the back of the toilet bowl, rendering him almost incapable of movement.

He was alone. But he didn't expect that to last.

He knew what was coming next.

Caroline pulled up outside an old two-storey stone building with a peeling red and white sign that read "Fraser's Garage'. It looked as if it had been there long before the existence of the internal combustion engine. Most of the facade was taken up by a pair of wide wooden doors with a Judas gate cut into one. To one side, there was a plain wooden door with the number thirty-one on it. On the upper storey, a light shone from behind a frosted-glass window. Fiona leaned across to hug Caroline. "Thank you," she said. "I owe you big time."

"Hey, it's not over till it's over," Caroline said. "You don't think I'm pulling out now, do you?"

Fiona leaned back in her seat. "Don't, Caroline. You have to go home now."

Caroline shook her head. "No way. I've not come this far to turn my back and leave you to it. You can't bring me all this way and then send me home when the trouble really starts."

"This isn't a game, Caro. If I'm right, the man who's got Kit has already killed three people. Without compunction. He won't think twice about killing anyone who stands between him and what he wants to achieve. I won't put you in that place." Fiona's resolve was clear in her voice as well as her face.

"Since he's that ruthless, you need to even up the odds a bit."

"No. I know what I'm doing. I can't take the chance of ending up with your blood on my hands. I can't live with that." Fiona undid her seatbelt and opened the door. "Please, Caro. Go home. I'll call you later, I promise. I'm getting out of the car now, and I'm not going any further till I see you turn around and drive away." She pushed the door wide and climbed out, then leaned back in. "I mean it." She closed the door gently and stepped back.

Caroline smacked the flat of her hand against the steering wheel in a gesture of frustration, then put the car in gear and moved off. Fiona watched as she did a three-point turn and headed back in the direction they'd come from. As the taillights of the Honda disappeared round the corner, she turned to face the small door. She took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

There was a long moment of silence, then heavy feet thundered down a flight of stairs. The door opened to reveal a man in his late twenties dressed in work boots, jeans and a padded tartan shirt hanging loose over a grey T-shirt. In one hand, he held a mug of tea. His expression revealed a mild and friendly curiosity.

"Lachlan Fraser?" Fiona asked.

He nodded. "Aye, that's me."

"I'm sorry to disturb you so early ..."

He grinned. "It's not that early. And I'm not disturbed. How can I help you?"

"My name is Fiona Cameron'

His grin widened as he interrupted her. "You're Kit's bidie-in. Of course! I should have recognized you from that picture Kit's got up in the bothy. Hey, it's great to meet you at last." He looked past her. "The man himself isnae with you, then?"

"No, I got a lift up with a friend of mine. I'm meeting up with Kit later. I'm supposed to pick up the Land Rover. Is that OK?"

"Aye, fine, nae bother." Lachlan fished in his pocket and shooed her forward. "I'll just get the keys." He passed her and unlocked the Judas gate. "They're in here. I'll no' be a minute." He disappeared indoors and a light came on. He emerged moments later with a bunch of keys. "Follow me. It's round the back. It's got a full tank, and the jerry cans for the generator are all diesel led up," he added over his shoulder as he led the way down a narrow alley to an area of waste ground behind the garage. Half a dozen elderly vehicles appeared to be parked at random. Lachlan headed towards a Land Rover that looked like a relic from some forgotten war.

"There you go," he said, unlocking the driver's door and standing back to allow Fiona to climb up into the driver's seat. "You driven one of these before?"

She shook her head. "I've never had that pleasure," she said ironically.

Lachlan took her through the vagaries of the Land Rover, explaining the four-wheel-drive, then waited while she manoeuvred it out of its parking space and into the mouth of the alley. Then he waved cheerfully as she headed out into the grey morning.

In the area under the jurisdiction of the City of London Police, there are three hundred and eighty-five separate closed circuit camera systems. Together, they employ one thousand, two hundred and eighty cameras. Smithfield Market is well served by their system, with almost every nook and cranny covered by one camera or another. Inevitably, some of the cameras produce better images than others, given the variation in lighting and lines of sight.

One of the first steps Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Duvall had taken was to bring every available videotape from the previous ten days to the City police station in Snow Hill, where she had set up her incident room. All through the night, detectives had been scanning the hours of videotape, trying not to lose concentration as they searched for Charles Cavendish Redford.

Duvall herself had managed four hours' sleep. They had persuaded a magistrate to allow an extension to Redford's custody, then she had snatched her nap. She hadn't bothered going home to her riverside flat in the Isle of Dogs, just made her way to her own office and curled up on the two-seater sofa she'd had installed for precisely that purpose. Four hours was a lot less than her body craved, but it was enough to function on. Probably.

She was back in the incident room just after seven, eagerly scanning the overnight reports to see if anything confirming Redford's involvement had turned up yet. When she had confronted him with the discrepancy between his statement and the discovery of the outhouse, there had been no flicker of discomfort. He had simply shrugged and said, "Isn't that what you wanted? To catch me out in a lie? Isn't that what criminals are supposed to do?" It went some way towards confirming her belief that he intended to give them nothing that could corroborate his confession.

Sooner or later, either one of her own team or one of the Dorset detectives was going to come up with that crucial piece of information that would tie Redford indisputably to Georgia Lester's brutal murder. Anything would do, she thought bleakly. Anything at all, since all they had right now was a big fat zero.

As she flicked through what seemed to be a large pile of nothing, one of the officers called her name. She looked up to see him holding a phone. "Yes?"

"Can you pop down to the video room, ma'am? One of the lads there says he's got something he wants you to take a look at."

Duvall was out of the door before the phone was back in its cradle. Her long strides swallowed the corridor leading to the room where her officers were scanning the CCTV videos from the market. She'd scarcely crossed the threshold when one of the detective constables started speaking. "I need you to have a look at this, ma'am," he said, his voice high and eager.

"What is it, Harvey?" Duvall stood behind him, looking over his shoulder at the screen. "Have you found him?"

"I've been looking at the tapes of the corridor you have to go down to get to the maintenance area. It doesn't show the door itself, but you can't get there any other way. Anyway, this is from the Friday, two days after Georgia Lester went missing." He pressed play. With the jerky movement of time-lapse photography, a man came into view, seen from the rear. He was dressed in a white coat and dark trousers, with the jaunty-brimmed trilby-style hat worn by all the butchers for hygiene reasons. He appeared to be carrying a large plastic tray of packaged meat. Harvey pointed to the screen. "It caught my attention because you can see there's something wrapped in black plastic in the tray. Just there, see what I mean?"

"I see it," Duvall said cautiously. "But that's not Redford. The body shape's all wrong. Do we get him coming back?"

"That's what I wanted you to see." He pressed the fast forward button and the scene jerked into movement. Suddenly, a man came back into view. Harvey froze the frame when the man was about ten feet from the camera. "That's the best view we get of his face."

Duvall frowned. There was something familiar about the image on the screen in front of her, but she couldn't place it.

Harvey looked up at her expectantly.

She peered into the screen, willing the image to become clearer. Then suddenly, something clicked in the recesses of her memory. It made no sense, but she was sure she was right. The implications of that were almost too terrible to contemplate. She straightened up. "Let's get this enhanced, soon as possible. I'm going to get right on to the Met about this. I'll be in my office. Well spotted, Harvey."

Chapter 52

As Fiona drove north out of Inverness, the weather slowly began to clear. She'd found road maps and Ordnance Survey sheets in the glove box of the car, and she headed up the Ag with the map spread over the seat next to her. Over the spectacular bridge that carried the road above the mingling of waters of the Beauly Firth and the Moray Firth, across the richly fertile farming land of the Black Isle, the sky gradually shifted from grey to blue, the morning mist burning off under the weak warmth of the autumn sun.

She checked the settlements against the map as she drove on along the quiet road. Not that there was much possibility of going wrong. Up here, there were scarcely enough major roads to allow a wrong turning. Alness. Invergordon. Then the bridge across the Dornoch Firth, the dun sands spread wet below her, before the turn inland to Bonar Bridge, leaving behind the low flatlands of the coastal region for the high hill country ahead.

Then she was driving along the narrow inlet of the Kyle of Sutherland, the dark water lined with heavy conifer forests, making somehow sinister the sunlit route into the wilderness that spread out ahead of her. As she turned up the River Shin towards Lairg, she could see she was entering the north-west Highlands proper, with sudden vistas opening ahead of rounded hills brown with heather, their rocky outcroppings grey and random. Scattered in the landscape were the ruined walls of croft houses, often just a pair of battered gable ends left standing. This was the landscape of the Highland Clearances, that brutal depopulation of the countryside where crofters had been driven off their land by rich landowners eager to make the easier money that came with rearing Cheviot sheep. Now the fragments of their homes were the only sign that this land had been the starting point for the Highland diaspora that had colonized the British Empire.

Fiona had never walked this side of the watershed, although the Assynt region in the west of Sutherland had been her destination on a couple of walking holidays in the past. She knew the springy feel of heather beneath her feet, the treacherous pull of peat hags, and the hard clatter of ancient stratified rock beneath her boots. If she was going to venture into the back country where Kit's bothy was, she'd have to make a stop in Lairg. The light shoes and town clothes she had with her would be no match for this terrain.

Lairg was coming to life as she drove down the main street. Shops were opening up, a handful of people were out and about, making the most of the thin warmth of the morning. She found a parking space across the road from a mountain sports shop and jumped out of the Land Rover. Before she headed for the shop, she checked the storage area behind the seats. As well as three five-gallon cans of diesel, there was a lightweight fleece and a waxed jacket. Fiona picked up the fleece and held it to her face, drinking in Kit's familiar smell. Please God, let him be all right, she said to herself.

Reluctantly, she replaced the fleece and jacket. They would be far too big for her, but they'd do, she decided. Then she crossed to the shop. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, wearing fleece-lined Gore-Tex trousers, a lightweight thermal polo-neck shirt, a dark-brown fleece hat, hiking socks with cushioned soles and a pair of summer walking boots that had been reduced for a quick sale. They weren't designed for this time of the year, but they were so flexible they wouldn't need the breaking in that a heavier pair of boots would take. It was a reasonable trade-off, since she didn't envisage having to travel far in them. She would be comfortable if she had to do any walking or scrambling, and that was the main thing. She'd also bought a handful of high energy emergency rations, instant heat packs and a first-aid kit. She had a good idea what might lie ahead of her, and she wanted to be prepared for all eventualities.

Back at the Land Rover, Fiona added Kit's fleece and jacket to her ensemble, tossing her discarded work clothes into the storage space. There was one last thing she had to do. The time had come to recall The Blood Painter in all its details. She needed to be equipped for what she might find. She bought a pair of bolt cutters, a chisel and a lump hammer from the hardware shop. As an afterthought, she also added a craft knife with a retractable blade to her shopping basket.

Walking back to the Land Rover, she saw it was no longer alone. Parked behind it was a familiar Honda saloon. Leaning against the bonnet, Caroline stood, arms folded, a stubborn smile on her face. Fiona closed her eyes in frustration. When she came close enough to speak, she said, "This is not funny, Caro."

"I know. That's why I'm here. If you won't let me come with you, at least let me cover your back. Let me be there to make sure you come out of this alive. Please?"

Fiona opened the back of the Land Rover and stowed her purchases. When she turned back, she said, "Have you got a mobile?"

Caroline grinned. "You think there's any chance of a decent signal up here?" she asked, gesturing at the hills rising round the town.

Fiona managed a rueful smile. "Silly question. OK. Here's what we do. You follow me up to the point where I turn off. It's a mile or so out of town. There's no point in you trying to go any further. According to Kit, the road's too bad for anything other than a four-wheel-drive. You give me an hour." She opened her bag and took out a notepad and pen. She opened the pad and scribbled down Sandy Galloway's office and home numbers. "If I don't come back inside that hour, it means I'm probably in need of help or else I've managed to get through to the police on Kit's satellite phone. Either way, you call this number and ask for Superintendent Galloway. You tell him where I am and what I'm doing. I did send him a fax, but he might not think it was that urgent. Just a minute, I'll give you the directions." She opened the driver's door and reached under the map for the e-mail she'd printed off what felt like half a lifetime ago. She held the sheet of paper out to Caroline, then snatched it back. "Hang on," she said. "You have to promise that, no matter what, you will not attempt to come in there after me."

Caroline gave a reluctant nod of agreement. "I promise. OK?"

"Mean it."

Caroline held Fiona's eyes for a long moment. "I swear on Lesley's life."

Fiona ducked her head in acknowledgement. "That'll do me. Like I said, I should be able to call for help myself if I need it, but it might be that I can't figure out how to work the sat phone. You're my back-up." She handed over the directions and took a deep breath. "Wagons roll." She climbed into the Land Rover and started the engine. Her hands were sweating on the wheel, her stomach a tight clench. She knew the odds were stacked against her. They'd had a head start on her. They could have made it to the bothy an hour or more ago. She already knew the killer wasn't totally committed to verisimilitude. Maybe he would drain

Kit's blood in one swift act rather than torture him for days, with all the attendant risks.

Maybe she was already too late.

The smell of coffee woke Steve. He blinked for a moment, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, suffering the dislocation of waking in an unfamiliar place. He pushed himself upright and saw Terry sitting at the table, a mug in her hands. "I was beginning to wonder if last night was too much for you and you'd slipped into a coma," she teased.

"What time is it?" he asked, unaware as to how late he'd slept.

"Twenty past nine."

Steve swung his legs to the floor and jumped to his feet. "You're kidding," he exclaimed, sounding more shaken than delighted.

"It's Saturday, Steve. People sleep late." She grinned. "Even coppers."

"I can't believe nobody's phoned. The surveillance ... Neil should have called to say he was going off for the night," he said, talking more to himself than to her. "And the AC, his plane's supposed to have been on the ground two hours ago." He crossed to his phone and pager. He stared dumbfounded at the blank displays. "What's wrong?" he said, grabbing his phone and frowning at it.

Terry came up behind him and put her arms round his waist. "I switched them off. You need to let go, Steve."

He pulled away and swung round, his face a mixture of anger and incredulity. "You did whafi' he shouted. His mouth opened and closed, words for once failing him.

"The world won't end if you're out of reach for a night," Terry said, a note of uncertainty in her voice.

"I'm in the middle of a major operation," he yelled. "I've got a team on a murder suspect. Jesus, Terry, anything could have happened. How could you do something so fucking irresponsible?" As he spoke, he was reaching for his clothes, pulling on boxer shorts and trousers.

"You didn't tell me," she blazed back at him. "How was I supposed to know? Last time we were interrupted, it wasn't even your case. You gave me no indication that you had anything important on the go."

Steve paused halfway through buttoning his shirt and gave her a livid glare. "It's confidential, that's why I didn't say. I don't talk about my work to civilians."

His words cut like a whip. But rather than making Terry flinch, they sharpened her response. "Unless they're Fiona Cameron?" she raged.

"Is that what this is about? You're jealous of Fiona?" Steve couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Terry's voice dropped and she stared evenly at him. "No, it's about trust, Steve. It's about openness. It's about not treating me as if I'm a child. All you had to do was mention at some point that you had something going on that might just interrupt our time together. Fucking hell," she exploded again. "What about common courtesy?"

Steve thrust his arms into his jacket and grabbed his coat. "I'm a senior police officer. People need to contact me out of hours."

"Mr. Indispensable. You don't want a lover, Steve. You want an audience."

He shoved phone and pager into his jacket pocket and made for the door, shaking his head. "I don't fucking believe this."

"You should have told me, dickhead," she shouted, her anger directed as much at her own impulsiveness as his taciturnity.

His only reply was the slam of the door as he walked out. By the time he got to his car, his hands were still trembling with the adrenaline surge of pure rage. "Fucking unbelievable," he muttered under his breath as he threw himself into the driver's seat. He switched on his pager. Five messages. Steve cursed under his breath as he scrolled through. Two from Fiona from late last night. One from Neil just before eleven. One from Neil a few minutes after six. "Shit, shit, shit," he said, as the last message revealed itself. The Assistant Commissioner had paged him over an hour ago.

He turned on his phone and called his home number, then keyed in the combination that would release his messages from the answering machine. Fiona again, requesting an urgent call back. Neil, announcing he'd decided to stay on Coyne all night, just in case. Neil again, reporting that he'd handed over to Joanne and would be at the Yard if he was needed for an arrest and search. And a message from the AC, saying he was expecting Steve's call.

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to calm down to the point where he could make his case for the arrest of Gerard Coyne. After a minute of deep breathing, he decided he was as ready as he'd ever be. He'd just have to lie and say his pager battery had died without him noticing. The hour he'd lost probably hadn't made much difference. But it could have done.

As he dialled the AC's number, he felt a pang of regret. He'd had such high hopes for him and Terry. And, as usual, it had crashed and burned.

He could only hope he'd have better luck with Coyne.

Four hundred miles away, Sandy Galloway was picking at a bacon roll in the canteen at St. Leonard's. He'd been waiting for Fiona Cameron for almost two hours, and he wasn't best pleased. The woman had been at panic stations when she'd rung him the previous evening, but now she couldn't even be bothered to make their appointment on time. She hadn't even left a message for him, either with force control or at the reception desk of her hotel. The hotel that his budget was paying for, he reminded himself crossly.

He'd spoken to Sarah Duvall, as he'd promised. He'd watched the end of his cop show, then called her at Wood Street. She was a bright lassie, that one. She'd gone through the discrepancy between Redford's statement and what the Dorset police had found in some detail. She'd explained why she'd initially been uneasy, then ran through the reasoning she'd gone through since. It had clearly stilled her qualms, and he was inclined to think she had jumped the right way.

Which meant, of course, that Fiona Cameron was barking up the wrong tree altogether. Galloway was just fed up that she hadn't bothered to keep him informed of her plans.

It had never occurred to him to check the fax machine that sat behind the secretary's desk in his outer office.

Chapter 53

The directions were carved in her memory like a grave inscription. "Take the A839 out of Lairg." Back out of the town centre, across the narrows of the River Shin before it opened out into one of the two inlets at the bottom of the loch. Down the river bank for a short distance, then a turn west, a rounded hillock on her right. Fiona checked in her rear view mirror that Caroline was still behind her.

"About a mile out of the town, you'll see a track on the right signed Sallachy." Yes, there was the metal led track. Conveniently, there was a phone box on the other side of the road. Fiona pulled up and pointed exaggeratedly to the kiosk. Caroline gave her the thumbs-up and gestured at her watch, overtaking Fiona, to park right by the phone. Fiona checked the time. 9.37. She had an hour. Moving off, she swung hard right to make the turn.

"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." She did as instructed. The road, which soon became a rough track of loose stones and hard core, ran about forty feet above the loch side, with scatterings of trees on the steep shore. On her left, a conifer plantation lined the road, stretching up the hill until the flattening of the ridge stole the horizon. But Fiona, now completely focused on the task ahead, had no eye for the beauties of the landscape around her. She passed a handful of cottages as the plantation came to an end in exposed heather-covered hillside. There was no sign of life, other than a thin thread of peaty smoke emerging from a chimney.

After a mile or so, the road began to climb and the trees began again. But this time, instead of regimented rows of conifers, there was a mix of trees. Rowans, birches, alders and tall clumps of contorted Scots pine grew in the apparently random chaos of a well-managed wood that was cut off from the road by a high deer fence with occasional tall wooden stiles.

Abruptly, the trees ended on a bend. Ahead was a ravine, crossed by a sturdy-looking wooden bridge with tubular steel rails on either side. "You cross a river gorge, the Allt a' Claon." No mistaking it, she was on the right track. Halfway across the bridge, Fiona slowed to a crawl and looked down fifty feet of craggy rock to the river's rough and tumble below. It was flowing fast through the channel it had cut itself, bursting into white foam as it hit the boulders that had fallen into its path. Cut off from the sparkle of sunlight by the high walls of its gorge, it gleamed the dark cloudy brown of unpolished amber.

Fiona let in the clutch and carried on, the tension in her body transferring itself to the hands that gripped the steering wheel like claws. "There's a left turn up ahead, which you take." She took it, wrestling the wheel as the Land Rover protested at the loose shale under its wheels. Time to move into four-wheel-drive, she thought, carrying out the operation Lachlan had demonstrated. The Land Rover juddered slightly, then the wheels gripped more tightly and she was moving forward easily over the rough surface.

"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." Fiona made the turn and approached the bridge, a construction of narrow wooden planks suspended on rope cables anchored to thick poles on either side of the gorge. Her heart pounded. It looked far too fragile a construction to bear the weight of the Land Rover. She had to trust Kit's words, however. She rolled to a halt by the start of the bridge and carefully engaged first gear. Then at little more than a walking pace, she edged forward. The bridge creaked ominously as it took the full weight of the vehicle, but although she felt its sway beneath her, it held firm as she slowly advanced over the thirty-yard width of the gorge.

When she regained solid ground, she let out the breath she hadn't even been conscious of holding. She took her clammy hands off the steering wheel and wiped them on her thighs. "Fuck, I hope I'm right about this," she said out loud. "And I hope I'm in time."

"You cross the river into some trees and the bothy's about a mile ahead of you." The end was almost in sight. She drove on into the belt of trees that crowded the track. A couple of hundred yards further on, she rounded a bend and, to her astonishment, almost ran over a man who was walking down the track towards her, a long-handled axe over his shoulder and a bundle of sticks under one arm. She skidded to a halt and wound down

38i the window. The man, who was muffled up in anorak and close-fitting woollen hat, a scarf wrapped tightly round his neck and chin, raised a hand in greeting. "I'm looking for Kit Martin's bothy," she said. "Am I on the right road?"

His dark brows furrowed. "The writer? Yes, it's about a mile up the track." Judging by his accent, he wasn't local born and bred, but he obviously knew the area. No doubt one of the in comers who, like Kit, had snapped up many of the properties that came on the market, tempted by the low prices and the peace of a rural lifestyle.

"Thanks," she said. "You've not seen him today, I suppose?"

The man shook his head. "I've just come out for some wood."

Fiona waved and drove on. Soon she emerged from the trees on to open hillside. The wiry brown stems of heather in its winter plumage stretched up the hill, broken up by rocky outcroppings that varied from a single boulder to uneven patches stretching for as much as thirty yards. Ahead there was another clump of trees. She guessed that was the windbreak for Kit's bothy and pulled over to the side of the road before she reached the woodland.

This was it. There was no turning back now. Fiona felt sick with fear and anticipation, but she had to go on. She grabbed the carrier bag containing her purchases from the mountaineering shop and the hardware store and shoved it inside the waxed jacket. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she opened the door and clambered out on to the roadside.

Fiona knew she couldn't approach the bothy head on. If the killer was there with Kit, he'd doubtless be watching the road in. She studied the lie of the land and made her decision. She struck off into the woods at an angle to the road, pushing through the young saplings and tramping down the brambles that obstructed her path. It was hard going, especially since she was conscious of trying to make as little noise as possible.

After about ten minutes, the trees ended abruptly in a wide clearing. At the centre was a single-storey stone building with a slate roof. She was facing the end wall, which had no windows. Perfect for her plans. She glanced to either side, disconcerted by the absence of a vehicle. If the killer was there with Kit, they had to have arrived in something. What if she was already too late? What if he'd done what he intended and killed Kit already? She'd never felt so scared. Or so alone.

"Don't overreact," she muttered under her breath. At worst, they only had a couple of hours start on her. It was important to the killer that he complete the murder ritual as it was outlined in the book. There hadn't been enough time for him to have exsanguinated Kit and painted the walls. Either they weren't there yet or the killer had driven off into Lairg for supplies.

Or else she had guessed completely wrong.

Refusing to allow that thought to settle, Fiona opted for action. Adrenaline pumping, she ran in a low crouch from the trees to the shelter of the gable end, grateful for the flexibility of the lightweight boots. Then, with infinite care, she inched along the wall to the rear of the bothy. At the end, she chanced a quick look round the back. No sign of life. There were three windows in the wall, she noted. She wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead and boldly turned the corner.

Fiona could feel the thud of her heart in her chest as she tiptoed to the edge of the first window and looked carefully round the edge of the frame. The room spread before her was obviously Kit's bedroom. There was no sign of activity. It was a curious sensation to look in on a life so familiar and yet so strange. A surge of emotion swelled in her chest, making her catch her breath.

She swallowed hard and swiftly crossed the window, slowing again as she approached the second window. This looked like a later addition, having a markedly different size and shape to the other two. As she drew nearer, she could see it was completely obscured by a blind. This was almost certainly the bathroom. If she was right, this was where Kit would be held prisoner. She moved her head through various angles to try to catch a glimpse inside round the edges of the blind, but she could see nothing.

Frustrated, she moved on to the third window. Again, a quick glance confirmed there was no movement inside the room. Seeing no one, Fiona took a long look at the interior. It contained a large table, a couple of armchairs on either side of a wood-burning stove, a small galley kitchen area and a couple of cupboards that ran the full height of the room. A narrow metal cabinet stood open, its door obscuring the contents, and on the floor near the door were a couple of Waitrose carrier bags. They didn't look as if they'd been there for long, being apparently free of dust. She also knew there wasn't a Waitrose within three hundred miles. A tiny piece of evidence, but enough to convince her she'd come to all the right conclusions.

Then she spotted something that confirmed her worst fears and made her stomach churn painfully. In the far corner, half hidden by the angle of the chimney breast, was a small table leaning at an angle. On the floor beside it was a tangle of smashed plastic and metal. It was unmistakably the remains of a satellite phone.

So they were here. And judging by the absence of a vehicle, the killer was temporarily absent. He was obviously a careful operator, the destruction of the phone a clear sign that he accepted the remote possibility that his prisoner might break free. She wondered momentarily about the man she'd seen in the woods. But he'd looked perfectly innocent, with his bundle of wood and his axe. And besides, he'd been on foot. She wished she'd thought to ask him if he'd seen any unfamiliar vehicles around.

But thinking was wasting time. Fiona moved away from the window and ran round the far corner. She passed a small stone shelter that contained a diesel generator, then turned down the front of the house. The double wooden doors were shut and locked, she soon discovered. She pushed with her shoulder, but they didn't budge.

She was going to have to break in, and at the rear was the best place to do it. She ran back to the bedroom window and tugged at the bottom of the frame. Locked. Fiona pulled the lump hammer out of the bag tucked inside her jacket and hefted it in her hand. No point in just breaking the glass. She'd have to smash the wooden strut that ran up the middle of the lower sash. She breathed in, drew her arm back and swung the hammer round in a sharp arc. The wood splintered and the glass on both sides shattered explosively. On the quiet hillside, it sounded remarkably loud. A pair of jays started out of the wood behind her, their hoarse cries making her jump.

As quickly as she could, Fiona broke off the window spar then cleared the glass from the frame to avoid cutting herself as she went through. Gingerly, she put one leg through the gap, hoisting herself over the sill and into the bedroom. The house was quiet, though it lacked the indefinable stillness that usually accompanies emptiness. Fiona stood motionless for a moment, listening for any sign of danger.

Cautiously, she crossed the room and pulled the door wide open. To her left, in the gloom of the hallway, the bathroom door was closed. She reached a tentative hand to the doorknob, almost too afraid of what might lie behind it. She screwed her eyes shut, steeling herself for action, then clenched her fingers round the knob, turning it and throwing the door open in one motion.