Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

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.”

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.”