windscreen wipers beat a regular tattoo on the glass. The left one squeaking at the end of its sweep, the right one responding a millisecond later with a resounding thunk. He had been intending to fix that, but after a fortnight of constant rain, he had got used to the noise. It provided an irregular backbeat to ‘Life in the Fast Lane’, which blasted out the old Clarion cassette player at full volume.
He was used to this road. He would be able to drive even if the wiper gave up the ghost and fell off completely, spinning over the top of the van and flying into the night sky. He had driven Ludwig to Ardnamurchan once with a cracked windscreen, sticking his head out the driver’s window until he could pull over and punch the crazed glass out.
Cowan kept his eyes on the road, the narrow stretches where he had to slow, the wider stretches where he could put his foot down and the nasty bends where he needed to hug the rock wall in case he met an HGV over the white line.
The clock on the dash was saying it was half eight. He wasn’t in a hurry per se; he was a little concerned about time. As long as it was dark.
The job needed to be done, sorted and over with.
He drove confidently now, one hand on the steering wheel and the other steadying the rucksack that rolled and yawed in the passenger seat. The camera had been borrowed from the university. He had signed it out on Friday night to be returned Monday morning. It was an expensive bit of kit, a Macro Scub 4 underwater video camera. It was fully charged and ready to go, safely tucked in the rucksack along with his flask of tomato soup and some sandwiches. He had no idea how long he was going to be here. As someone with a gift for stating the obvious once said, ‘It will take as long as it will take.’
Cowan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music as he waited for a short procession of traffic to pass, and when the road was clear he put his foot down. Ludwig’s air-cooled engine whirred in protest. He turned onto the road that hugged the north-west side of the loch and accelerated, cruising along, singing tunelessly with Glen or Don, as he checked the clock again. He was probably a little early. He could have stayed at his laptop and got a bit more of his essay done but he wanted to be there first and check out the lie of the land, get a good spot where he could stay hidden.
Covert breeds covert.
He pulled into the car park of the Inveruglas visitor centre, putting his lights off first so as not to disturb anybody already there. The car park was not entirely empty, there was a Mini parked at the front, looking out over the water. Cowan gave it more than a passing glance, his heart thumping, in case this was who he was looking for. But the windows of the other car were steamed up. He judged it had been there for some time and it looked as though there was still somebody in it. Or it might be two heads in the driver’s seat, a lovers’ tryst, a quiet night out on the loch side.
But he was mindful there was somebody there and he wished that Ludwig did not have such a distinctive engine.
Tonight could be the night.
He drove Ludwig into the far corner of the second car park, beyond the café that led to the other exit road. Nobody driving into the main car park would see Ludwig; he would be safely obscured by the dark and by the screen afforded by the single line of trees. He switched the engine off, letting the camper roll forward, closer to the pathway that went up the hill to the viewing point. That was where he needed to be. He lifted his rucksack and climbed out into the driving rain, glancing over his shoulder to see if he could memorise the registration of the other car. But at this time of night, at this distance, he couldn’t even make out the plate, but the car was one of those new fancy Minis with the doors at the back, like his granddad’s old Morris Traveller. They had tried to recreate a classic. A car that had been built as cheap transport for the masses had been reinvented as a lifestyle choice of the upwardly mobile professional with deep pockets, no soul and even less imagination.
As Cowan closed the door, he patted Ludwig as if parting with a faithful old horse. He tugged his hood up, pulled the rucksack onto his back and set off through the dark, rainy night up to the viewpoint to find a place to hide.
VALERIE LAY ON THE bed in the hotel. The banality of her surroundings leeched every bit of vitality from her.
She had felt the pressure since visiting Abigail’s house.
It had left her unsettled, more depressed, but there was some comfort in knowing that this was the last day of her life. The knowledge many of us think we would like to have, but very few are brave enough.
Imagine Abigail not realising that was the last time she would stack the dishwasher, Malcolm not thinking that was the last time he would do his teeth, pull on his Star Wars pyjamas and argue about staying up for another half hour. If they had realised that, they might have spent their final moments doing something less mundane.
Like saying goodbye.
Valerie had spent most of the morning rolling on the floor, lying on the tiles in the bathroom, or being sick down the toilet. Then out to the house before a sneaky foray to the off licence for cheap vodka, the quick consumption of which totally erased any memory of the walk round the house. But tomorrow the empty bottles would be lying in the corner. Silent, but ever present in their condemnation of her.
Well, she wouldn’t be here to be condemned.
She lay for a few minutes on top of the bed staring at the ceiling, gradually pulling together the information she needed to place herself in time and space. Judging from the lunatic screeching of revved-up enthusiasm she could hear from the room next door, it was Saturday evening. X Factor. Or Strictly. Something awful. Anything.
On the ceiling was the familiar smoke alarm, the water sprinkler.
The last day of her life. She had done her duty, she had gone round the house. The feeling was one of overwhelming relief, all was as it should be.
She had a gun.
And a bullet in the chamber.
She turned on her side, pulling the pillow over her head and stared at the bland beige hotel room wall, thinking about the cleaner who was going to open the door to her mess, walking in to the room pulling her Henry hoover behind her then looking up to see a woman with her skull blown apart.
The bullet would do a lot of damage. Valerie knew it wasn’t like in the films where the head lay intact, a neat trickle of blood delicately running down a sculptured cheekbone to leave a crimson teardrop on the pristine white sheets. The eyes, each lash point perfect with the mascara, the pupils open and staring into the sunset. Ready for their close-up.
No, it wasn’t like that at all.
Her head would open up like a flower, blood and brains would spatter all over the room, behind the headboard, behind the curtains. Over the fire alarm. Not pretty.
The crime scene pictures of Balcarres Avenue had been burned onto her retinas. Her sister and her nephew, bloodied and torn flesh entangled. And Abigail, her arms round Malcolm, a final, desperate attempt to protect him.
She would have been fascinated by it if it hadn’t been so personal. The whole room was a gaudy abstract of cream and crimson, matching the stained-glass rose on the door.
That was another memory that wasn’t going to go away.
She felt the weight of the gun in her hand.
No. She had to time this right, so it wasn’t the cleaner who discovered her body.
Archie
