her uniform straining to contain her ample figure, turned to the woman who was standing between the two cops like a young child, slightly nervous and waiting to be told what to do. The nurse looked at the slow trickle of blood meandering down the woman’s forehead. ‘Come on, sweetheart, I’m Hannah, let’s get you through and find out what’s been going on.’ She placed a cupped hand under the elbow of the woman, easing her through the second set of double doors to the receiving and assessment unit. The woman paused for a moment and turned, as if reluctant to leave the two policemen behind.
‘It’s OK,’ said Turner, ‘go with Hannah, she will look after you. And while you are in there, we’ll get a wee cup of tea.’ Turner thought he saw a flicker of a smile in the woman’s face.
‘You know, pet,’ said the nurse, ‘they’ll be lucky, getting a cuppa in here. Now you come with me, you’ll be fine.’ And they both were consumed by the blue curtains of an empty cubicle.
‘What do you think?’ Whitely asked. ‘Domestic?’
‘Could be. She stinks of booze. She could have fallen and hit her head and got concussion. She’s developing that panda-eyed thing, so she’s bleeding somewhere. Might be nothing in it for us but it’s bloody freezing out there and nice and cosy in here so don’t be so quick to get going.’
Whitely sat down beside him. ‘Do you think we should see it through to the bitter end?’
‘Oh yes. She’s had head trauma.’ Turner stood up to retrieve his notebook from his jacket and sat down, got comfy and started to write it up. Despite his levity, it troubled him a little. The woman was confused, non-vocal and had a nasty head wound that, weirdly, looked clean. Had she already received medical attention? Had she gone voluntarily? Had she had the wound cleaned and then a deeper bleed, some unseen damage now leaking into her brain that was causing a slow reduction in function? He had been a beat copper for twenty years and had seen everything, been bitten, spat at, punched, nearly stabbed a few times. Compliance like that was odd. She was quite at home in the police car, she smelled of alcohol but her eyes were straight and seemed to focus OK. And, apart from the blood, she was clean, well dressed; some attempt had been made to brush her hair, so most likely somebody somewhere was missing her. He radioed back to the station, checking that no more reports had come up on the missing persons, reading out his initial description: sixty-year-old female, blonde, grey-eyed, slim, five four . . . But that was all he knew.
The station checked the log, the number of people who went missing each day was incredible. The percentage who disappeared was growing as well; if people wanted to go, they would go.
They had one report that might fit. A Peter Gibson of Lochmaben Road in Crookston had phoned in to say that he had spotted a woman sitting on one of the benches at the perimeter of the small park known locally as the Tubs. She was wearing grey trousers, a long black jacket, white blouse. He guessed she was about sixty. Gibson had approached her, thinking that her clothes were not warm enough for this time of year and that she must be disturbed. Or drunk. Or drugged. Gibson had seen the blood on the white of her blouse and called 999. When the cops got there, she had run off.
Turner read the description again. Right age, wrong clothes.
Not their woman.
THREE
MONDAY, 27TH OF NOVEMBER
Alastair Patrick did not say much to the three men who had snatched him from his guitar, his warm bedroom and from Wilma in the middle of this winter’s night. They said nothing to him; he was a package for delivery. A few curt words passed between them. Tonka cleared his dry throat.
How far?
A few klicks.
Where?
You’ll see.
They were following orders. They didn’t know any more than they were saying. They were being polite and they didn’t have to be. They were tooled. Alastair Patrick had noticed the guns in the quick dash from the front door of his house to the vehicle. It was important to notice these things, the sort of things that made only stupid men argue. Even in the noise of the wind, he had clocked the thrum of the 2.5 diesel engine; he’d been struck by the dull reflection of the street lamp from the resin composite shell of the vehicle. He saw the protection over the front grille and the lights, the lack of number plate. Christ, it even had a snorkel.
A snorkel.
He almost smirked as he climbed in. Boys and toys.
It was black beyond dark once the vehicle pulled out of the street. Rain poured down, making visibility difficult even in the bright glare of the Land Rover’s headlights. The rapid thumping of the wipers on full throttle filled the vehicle. Once out of Port MacDuff, they were winding their way along the single track road to Applecross. The driver switched on the roof-mounted spotlights to aid visibility. He drove quickly, skilfully. His position was relaxed and comfortable, not leaning forward to peer through the windscreen. The demister set on screen roaring loudly, the Landie banging and heaving like a boat.
This guy, the Glaswegian, was a professional. He knew exactly where he was going. He drove with confidence as if he had driven this road before, many times in darkness.
Patrick knew they were skirting the coast, even with the blacked-out windows in the back of the Landie. As the vehicle swung round, he could see the sea out the front window, the sweeping beam of the Rua Reidh lighthouse between the swish thump of the windscreen wipers. He began to have suspicions as to where they might be going, and why, but he tried to dismiss the thought. Surely not even these three, the Glaswegian and his two gorillas, would be that stupid.
Patrick felt a tremor of controlled fear run down his spine, images darting across his eyes, ball bearings flashing past in strobing light. A sledgehammer thumped in his heart at the intense memory of his mate Zorba, caught between the crags, screaming at his missing legs. Patrick blinked the image away, wiping his lips with the back of a gloved hand, removing a telltale smirr of nervous sweat. Never show them that you are scared; once they know that, they own you. Some things don’t change. Even now, helpless, he couldn’t help planning how to take them. Some things, like old habits, die hard. And he believed that he also would die hard.
He hoped it wasn’t tonight.
He looked ahead, examining the back of the men’s heads. Identical thick necks, short haircuts, the dark blue and black jackets invisible in the hours of darkness, the pattern varied to disturb any outlines. Their woollen hats were pulled down, the rim tucked up. Rolled out, their faces would be covered, save for two round holes at the eyes.
As they turned inland, Patrick tried to work out what to do as the windscreen wipers battered across the toughened glass. He wondered how the Glaswegian could see where he was going, even with all the extra light that dazzled on the tarmac in front of them, making spotlights dance on the road as rocks swerved, slid past and then vanished to darkness. The Landie occasionally bumping slightly as it impacted something unseen.
He looked at his watch. It was half one. Zero One Thirty Hours.
Instinct, training, made Patrick strap himself in tighter as the vehicle really began to bounce around with more force, the driver taking out the corners of the twisty road, moving faster than was safe. He tried to take in as many details as possible. He was sure he didn’t know any of the three men. The Glaswegian, his Gorillas, the brains and the brawn, but he knew the type.
Holding
