Michael Fowler - Cold Death

“Okay that’s good. Now I just want to take you back a bit. We’ll not keep you much longer. Did you manage to get a make or number of the white van?”

“No. As I say it just came out of nowhere. It scared us to death. It wasn’t a big van like a transit or anything, just a small one. I didn’t get a number, it happened so fast.”

“Did you notice anything special about the van? Anything written on the sides?”

She seemed to think about it a few seconds then shook her head. “Sorry it was dark and it hadn’t got its lights on.”

“What about the two guys you saw with the bundle on the jetty.”

She shook her head again. “Sorry it was so dark. They were just shapes. I never got close enough to even see what they were wearing. As I say at the time I just thought they were dumping rubbish.” She paused and studied Grace and Hunter’s faces. “I’m not lying, I really didn’t see their faces or anything — they were too far away and it was dark.”

“Okay Kerri-Ann I believe you. Well done. Now let’s get back to our car and get a statement from you.”

As they set off towards the car park Hunter knew that this was the kick-start the investigation needed.

Stirlingshire, Scotland:

“Still no sign of anyone — could be he’s on his hols.” Rab Geddes announced flinging open the car door and sliding into the driver’s seat. He dropped his gaze and examined his shoes in the footwell.

“Jeez just look at the state of these now — my tramping back and forth through the fields. Your turn next time.” He stamped his dusty loafers on the car mat and checked them again.

“Will you shut the fuck up moaning.” Billy Wallace leant forward and with the back of his gloved hand rubbed the condensation from his side of the windscreen. Though the lane-lined bushes hid their destination away from view he continued staring out along the uneven track. From an earlier reconnoitre Billy knew that the secluded bungalow they had been searching for lay less than a quarter of a mile away.

This was the third parking spot they had chosen that afternoon, spending time in between going for a drive around so that they didn’t attract any unwarranted attention from the locals.

Billy punched a thumb at the electric window switch and the smoked glass rolled down a fraction. Outside a continuous gale whistled through the trees nearby causing an unpleasant sound as resisting branches squeaked and creaked. In the last hour he had noticed that the weather had turned and was coming from the north; the wind had picked up fiercely and was whipping across the fields. He thumbed the window back up. Splodges of rain were beginning to scar the windscreen disturbing his view ahead. He wasn’t complaining though. This would mean that people wouldn’t be straying far from their homes. The last thing he needed was witnesses.

They had driven the hour or so to Killin early that morning. At first he wasn’t sure he had heard the name right when he’d eventually beaten its location out of the mouth of Alistair McPherson four days ago, and he’d had to search it out in the road atlas. But when he had found the small village and confirmed the name it had made him smile.

What an appropriate name for the place. Especially for what he had in mind for his next quarry.

He and Rab had entered the picturesque village mid-morning; approaching the village by crossing the stone bridge which spanned the Falls of Dochart. As they had crossed Billy couldn’t help but feel that this was a case of déjà vu and for a few seconds it had puzzled him. Then he realised why as he stared across at the foaming stream which pounded between the huge grey rocks and boulders below him. He had seen this location so many times. It had featured in the 1950’s film, ‘The 39 Steps;’ one of his all-time favourite movies. How ironic that the film was about a fugitive on the run — and he should be here; though in his case he wasn’t an innocent man. It had brought about another twisted smile.

They had checked out the place; driving up and down the main street. Rab had made a few enquiries about the man they were looking for; stating he was an ex-colleague, and that they were on a fishing trip and wanted to catch up with him. It had not taken long to find that the guy was a regular drinker in the bar of the Clachaig Hotel, located beside the falls. A quick visit there and the pair had left armed with the man’s address. That had been seven hours ago.

Now they lay in wait, watching for the occupant to return to the white-washed bungalow in the middle of nowhere.

Billy climbed out of the car, stretched and then relieved himself by the bushes that were keeping them hidden. He fastened his trousers and then glanced at his watch. “We’ll give it another hour,” he called back over his shoulder, “and then call it a day if they don’t return.” He stood there motionless, peering over the top of the brambles, feeling the breeze brush past his face, as his gaze settled on the rear of the premises.

Billy was still there as dusk settled and he seemed unmoved by the sudden biting north easterly and slanting rain.

Then his heart jolted. A light appeared in the entranceway followed by another in the right hand corner window. In the warm yellowing light he saw a human shadow inside passing across the room windows. He stood transfixed for several moments watching for more activity inside the bungalow; there appeared to be none. He stretched his gloves tighter over his hands; so tight that he could see the outline of his knuckles pushing against the black soft leather. He spun around. “Come on Rab, get your arse in gear he’s back.”

They crossed the field hugging the bushes, Billy leading, his Crombie flapping in the wind. Rab had to put in a jog every couple of paces to keep up with him. Twenty yards from the rear of the bungalow Billy halted and pushed himself into the hedgerow. He stared intently and listened. There was only the sound of the wind and the rain lashing against the tops of the trees.

“Right remember what we rehearsed?” Billy questioned in a hushed gravelly tone.

“Sure”

“Okay let’s do the business.”

Rab brushed droplets of rain from the front of his jacket and tip-toed towards the door. Billy never let his eyes off him. He watched Rab knock and a few seconds later saw the door open. The man who answered it had put on a good couple of stones over the years and the hair was thinner and greyer but he knew this was the guy they were after.

Billy reached the opening as the man was asking for Rab’s ID and had got a foot in the gap before he had time to react. “Mr McNab — long time no see.” He grinned lopsidedly.

The surprise on Ross McNab’s face was a picture.

Billy slammed a clenched fist into his pudgy belly. It dropped him to the floor and as he was about to deliver a kick he caught movement through the open door, which led into the lounge to his right. A woman whom he immediately guessed was Mrs McNab stood open-mouthed only a few yards away. He caught the terror in her eyes. He reacted quickly pushing through into the room and before she had time to scream he had a hand clenched around her jaw.

“Rab get the fat bastard up and get him in here!”

Mrs McNab jerked her head and pushed out with her hands, trying to get free of Billy’s grip. He responded by digging his fingers deeper into her mandible and then smacked her across the ear. He felt her jaw pop and she let out a wail as she sank to the floor. She fell away from his grasp; she had collapsed from the pain.

Rab locked onto Ross McNab’s arm and was forcing it up his back hoisting him forwards, hustling him into the lounge.

“Put him there Rab,” Billy said pointing to a mahogany oval dining table with a seating arrangement of six chairs.