Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

Now all she had to do was find Lee.

Glasgow was an amber gleam over to the west. But Kit knew nothing of that. He’d suffered the agonies of cramp in the arm he’d been leaning on and managed to shift so that he was now lying on his stomach. It had eased the pain in his shoulders and the pins and needles in his leg, but it wasn’t helping the dull ache that still occupied his skull.

He had no sense of time. All he knew was that he had been trapped in this moving vehicle for at least two hours. He only knew that because, in an exquisite form of torture, he’d been forced to listen to his own voice spelling out in his own words what he feared was going to be his own fate. By his estimate, there was another hour of the talking book of The Blood Painter to go.

He’d tried to tune it out, singing his favourite songs inside his head. But it didn’t work. The relentless story kept intruding, forcing itself into his consciousness. Ironic that he was trapped by the power of his own gift.

At least while they were still travelling, there was hope. At some point, his captor would have to stop for fuel. It would be his chance. He could try to kick the tailgate, or the boot, or the back door, whatever it was that was keeping him from rolling out on the road. He cast his mind back. What did he have on his feet?

His heart sank. He’d been in the house all day. Moccasin slippers, that’s what he had on his feet. Even with the full power of his legs behind them, the only sound they’d make would be a dull thud. Hardly audible among the throbbing motors of the petrol pumps. And he didn’t think anyone as careful as the man who had captured him was going to park up in the middle of a busy service area and leave Kit behind while he went off for a burger and a coffee.

There must be something he could do. After all, he had constructed the trap himself. If there was any escape, he should be able to figure it out.

It would help if he didn’t have to listen to his own voice condemning him to death.

Getting Lee Gustafson’s phone number had posed no significant problem to Fiona. International directory inquiries had him down as ex-directory, which didn’t surprise her. It was only politeness that had made her try that route first. But in reality, she had no compunction about calling one of the handful of crime writers whose numbers were stored in her personal organizer. She told herself it didn’t matter that it was getting on for one in the morning. Nevertheless, she deliberately chose Charlie Thompson first. Charlie lived alone and she knew him to be a night owl. Chances were he was lying sprawled in his armchair watching a horror video, cat on his chest, glass of Armagnac to hand. Rather him than someone who would be panicked out of sleep by her call.

The phone was answered on the fourth ring. “Greetings, earthling,” a deep bass voice rumbled in her ear.

“Hello, Charlie. It’s Fiona Cameron.”

“Good Lord. Shouldn’t you be a pumpkin at this time of night? Or are you in fact speaking from the fruit and veg department of Tesco’s?”

Fiona gritted her teeth and tried not to shout at him. “I’m sorry to bother you, Charlie, but Kit’s out of town and I need Lee Gustafson’s number.”

“Fiona, darling, if you want a man to whisper sweet nothings in your ear when Kit’s away, you don’t have to pay international call charges. I’d be happy to oblige.” He chuckled.

“I’ll bear that in mind, Charlie. Do you have Lee’s number?”

“Spurned again, eh? Hang on, Fiona, it’s in the other room.” She listened to the sound of furniture groaning, a cat protesting, then heavy footsteps fading off. Charlie, the only man she knew who wore biker’s boots round the house. A long minute passed, then the footsteps thudded again. “You still there? Got a pen?”

“Yes to both.”

He read out Gusta’fson’s number, repeating it to make sure she had it down. “Enjoy yourself with Lee,” he added. “But not so much that you forget my heart still burns for you.”

“I could never forget that, Charlie,” she said, forcing herself into the standard flirtatious banter that went with their friendship. “Thanks again.”

“No problem. And tell that man of yours he owes me an e — mail.”

“Will do. Good night.”

“I’ll do my best.” The line went dead and Fiona immediately rang the number Charlie had given her.

The single tone of the American phone system purred in her ear. Once, twice, three times. Then the click of an answering machine. “Hi. You’ve reached Lee and Dorothy. And you’ve missed us. We’re out of town till Monday morning. So leave a message and we’ll get back to you when we get home.”

Fiona couldn’t believe her ears. It was beginning to feel like the universe was in a massive conspiracy against her and Kit. She had been so convinced that Lee Gustafson was the answer.

In frustration, she dialled into her e — mail program, clutching the last fragile hope that Galloway had been right and Kit had sent an e — mail that had somehow been trapped in cyberspace. Maybe his e — mail provider’s server had been down and all the mail had been held up as a result. But of course, there was nothing.

On an impulse, since she was using Kit’s laptop and it was set up for his e — mail account, she checked his mailbox. He might possibly have sent her mail to his own box by mistake. She couldn’t imagine how that might happen, but she was prepared to clutch at any straw, however frail.

There were a dozen messages waiting for him. Most seemed to be from fellow crime writers, and most seemed to be about Georgia. There was nothing there that could conceivably have come from Kit himself.

More worryingly, judging by the timing of the messages in the mailbox, he hadn’t picked up his own mail since early that afternoon. And that was as much out of character as his failure to contact Fiona. Instead of consolation, she’d found even more reason to fret.

She broke the connection and carried on staring at the screen. Suddenly, something flickered at the corner of her memory. Just before Lee had visited the bothy, she and Kit had been on holiday in Spain. Kit, as usual, had taken his laptop. He could no more stay out of touch with his e — mail than he could stop breathing. And while they’d been away, he and Lee had been communicating about the bothy.

Eagerly, she opened up the electronic filing cabinet that kept a record of all Kit’s e — mail, sent and received. She clicked on the Copy of Sent Messages tab. 2539 messages arranged by date. The program offered her the chance to arrange the messages in alphabetical order of the recipient, so she selected that option. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop as she waited for it to complete the task. Then she scrolled down to Lee Gustafson’s name and began to check through the mail by date. She knew the month she was looking for, and she soon came to it. Kit had sent Lee nine messages that month. She began at the beginning and worked her way through.

And there it was. Take the A839 out of Lairg. About a mile out of the town, you’ll see a track on the right signed Sallachy. 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. You cross a river gorge, the Allt a’ Claon. There’s a left turn up ahead, which you take. 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. You cross the river into some trees and the bothy’s about a mile ahead of you. I’d say you can’t miss it, but you’d probably shoot me.

Relief coursed through Fiona. She knew where the killer was taking Kit. And now she knew how to get there. Sod Sarah Duvall and her blinkered certainties. Sod Sandy Galloway and his soothing platitudes. And sod Steve, who wasn’t there when she really needed him. She’d find Kit, with or without their help.