Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“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.” She did as instructed. The road, which soon became a rough track of loose stones and hard core, ran about forty feet above the loch side, with scatterings of trees on the steep shore. On her left, a conifer plantation lined the road, stretching up the hill until the flattening of the ridge stole the horizon. But Fiona, now completely focused on the task ahead, had no eye for the beauties of the landscape around her. She passed a handful of cottages as the plantation came to an end in exposed heather-covered hillside. There was no sign of life, other than a thin thread of peaty smoke emerging from a chimney.

After a mile or so, the road began to climb and the trees began again. But this time, instead of regimented rows of conifers, there was a mix of trees. Rowans, birches, alders and tall clumps of contorted Scots pine grew in the apparently random chaos of a well-managed wood that was cut off from the road by a high deer fence with occasional tall wooden stiles.

Abruptly, the trees ended on a bend. Ahead was a ravine, crossed by a sturdy-looking wooden bridge with tubular steel rails on either side. “You cross a river gorge, the Allt a’ Claon.” No mistaking it, she was on the right track. Halfway across the bridge, Fiona slowed to a crawl and looked down fifty feet of craggy rock to the river’s rough and tumble below. It was flowing fast through the channel it had cut itself, bursting into white foam as it hit the boulders that had fallen into its path. Cut off from the sparkle of sunlight by the high walls of its gorge, it gleamed the dark cloudy brown of unpolished amber.

Fiona let in the clutch and carried on, the tension in her body transferring itself to the hands that gripped the steering wheel like claws. “There’s a left turn up ahead, which you take.” She took it, wrestling the wheel as the Land Rover protested at the loose shale under its wheels. Time to move into four-wheel-drive, she thought, carrying out the operation Lachlan had demonstrated. The Land Rover juddered slightly, then the wheels gripped more tightly and she was moving forward easily over the rough surface.

“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.” Fiona made the turn and approached the bridge, a construction of narrow wooden planks suspended on rope cables anchored to thick poles on either side of the gorge. Her heart pounded. It looked far too fragile a construction to bear the weight of the Land Rover. She had to trust Kit’s words, however. She rolled to a halt by the start of the bridge and carefully engaged first gear. Then at little more than a walking pace, she edged forward. The bridge creaked ominously as it took the full weight of the vehicle, but although she felt its sway beneath her, it held firm as she slowly advanced over the thirty-yard width of the gorge.

When she regained solid ground, she let out the breath she hadn’t even been conscious of holding. She took her clammy hands off the steering wheel and wiped them on her thighs. “Fuck, I hope I’m right about this,” she said out loud. “And I hope I’m in time.”

“You cross the river into some trees and the bothy’s about a mile ahead of you.” The end was almost in sight. She drove on into the belt of trees that crowded the track. A couple of hundred yards further on, she rounded a bend and, to her astonishment, almost ran over a man who was walking down the track towards her, a long-handled axe over his shoulder and a bundle of sticks under one arm. She skidded to a halt and wound down the window. The man, who was muffled up in anorak and close-fitting woollen hat, a scarf wrapped tightly round his neck and chin, raised a hand in greeting. “I’m looking for Kit Martin’s bothy,” she said. “Am I on the right road?”

His dark brows furrowed. “The writer? Yes, it’s about a mile up the track.” Judging by his accent, he wasn’t local born and bred, but he obviously knew the area. No doubt one of the in comers who, like Kit, had snapped up many of the properties that came on the market, tempted by the low prices and the peace of a rural lifestyle.

“Thanks,” she said. “You’ve not seen him today, I suppose?”

The man shook his head. “I’ve just come out for some wood.”

Fiona waved and drove on. Soon she emerged from the trees on to open hillside. The wiry brown stems of heather in its winter plumage stretched up the hill, broken up by rocky outcroppings that varied from a single boulder to uneven patches stretching for as much as thirty yards. Ahead there was another clump of trees. She guessed that was the windbreak for Kit’s bothy and pulled over to the side of the road before she reached the woodland.

This was it. There was no turning back now. Fiona felt sick with fear and anticipation, but she had to go on. She grabbed the carrier bag containing her purchases from the mountaineering shop and the hardware store and shoved it inside the waxed jacket. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she opened the door and clambered out on to the roadside.

Fiona knew she couldn’t approach the bothy head on. If the killer was there with Kit, he’d doubtless be watching the road in. She studied the lie of the land and made her decision. She struck off into the woods at an angle to the road, pushing through the young saplings and tramping down the brambles that obstructed her path. It was hard going, especially since she was conscious of trying to make as little noise as possible.

After about ten minutes, the trees ended abruptly in a wide clearing. At the centre was a single-storey stone building with a slate roof. She was facing the end wall, which had no windows. Perfect for her plans. She glanced to either side, disconcerted by the absence of a vehicle. If the killer was there with Kit, they had to have arrived in something. What if she was already too late? What if he’d done what he intended and killed Kit already? She’d never felt so scared. Or so alone.

“Don’t overreact,” she muttered under her breath. At worst, they only had a couple of hours start on her. It was important to the killer that he complete the murder ritual as it was outlined in the book. There hadn’t been enough time for him to have exsanguinated Kit and painted the walls. Either they weren’t there yet or the killer had driven off into Lairg for supplies.

Or else she had guessed completely wrong.

Refusing to allow that thought to settle, Fiona opted for action. Adrenaline pumping, she ran in a low crouch from the trees to the shelter of the gable end, grateful for the flexibility of the lightweight boots. Then, with infinite care, she inched along the wall to the rear of the bothy. At the end, she chanced a quick look round the back. No sign of life. There were three windows in the wall, she noted. She wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead and boldly turned the corner.

Fiona could feel the thud of her heart in her chest as she tiptoed to the edge of the first window and looked carefully round the edge of the frame. The room spread before her was obviously Kit’s bedroom. There was no sign of activity. It was a curious sensation to look in on a life so familiar and yet so strange. A surge of emotion swelled in her chest, making her catch her breath.

She swallowed hard and swiftly crossed the window, slowing again as she approached the second window. This looked like a later addition, having a markedly different size and shape to the other two. As she drew nearer, she could see it was completely obscured by a blind. This was almost certainly the bathroom. If she was right, this was where Kit would be held prisoner. She moved her head through various angles to try to catch a glimpse inside round the edges of the blind, but she could see nothing.