Michael Ridpath - Amnesia

According to the map, the woods stretched for two to three miles, and there were three main paths through them down to the road. The figures moved along a ridge and then descended in a straight line for the woods on what looked like a smooth slope. Checking his map, Jerry was pretty sure that Clémence and the old man were heading directly for one of those footpaths through the woods, just by a kink at the edge of the splash of green.

Jerry jumped into his car and drove down to the point where that path hit the road. There was a lay-by there, and he pulled over. His blue Peugeot was in plain view of the road, but since he now knew his quarry was still on the mountain, he could be sure they hadn’t alerted the police.

Pausing to make certain that he couldn’t hear any other cars coming, he popped the trunk and eased his rifle out, before jogging into the woods.

It was a good, well-maintained path that was clearly visible even after the snowfall. He was glad to see that there were no footprints; no random early-morning hikers to get in the way. He hurried up the hill, until he was out of sight of the road, and then began to search for a good place for an ambush.

He came upon a small stretch of open ground along the bank of a stream. He ducked off the path, and soon found the ideal spot, in a dense clump of trees, with an unimpeded view of the footpath. He settled down to wait, ears sharpened for the sound of descending footsteps.

The range was only about twenty yards. No chance he would miss.

No chance at all.

It took Clémence and the old man over an hour to reach the pine forest. As they approached it, Clémence was disappointed to see that it was protected by a high deer fence. No way through.

‘Left or right?’ Clémence said.

‘Left,’ said the old man.

And so they set off, walking quite a way along the perimeter, until they reached a stile and a prepared footpath heading downhill.

The wood was quite beautiful, the fresh snow glistened, flakes on the branches of the pine trees sparkled, and some energetic blackbirds proclaimed the glory of the morning. Clémence was exhausted, but it lifted her and gave her the strength to manage the last mile.

But she wasn’t sure whether her companion had it in him. He stopped and leaned against a tree.

‘Are you going to make it?’ said Clémence. He could barely stand. ‘I don’t think it’s too far.’

‘Yes, I’ll make it,’ said the old man. ‘Just give me a moment.’

They waited in silence for a couple of minutes as the old man recovered his breath.

‘Clémence?’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘You remember I said last night I was determined to make this right?’

‘Yes.’ She did remember. She also remembered how she had pointed out that it was too late now, but she didn’t mention that.

‘When we get down there, I don’t want to go to the police.’

‘What?’

‘We shouldn’t go to the police about Jerry. At least not right away. There are things that I need to find out first.’

‘There is a nut-job carrying a rifle trying to kill us!’ said Clémence. ‘Of course we should go to the police.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said the old man. ‘I’m sure he’s trying to kill me, not you. And I don’t want to put you in any danger. So you should leave. Head off somewhere, anywhere. Not St Andrews, but somewhere where Jerry can’t find you. Only for a few days until I have discovered whatever I can.’

‘You’re crazy,’ said Clémence. ‘We must go to the police. Then they can go looking for him before he kills you or me or anyone else. And when they catch him, they can ask him who he is and why he is after us.’

The old man sighed. ‘Once we tell the police, they will take over. And who knows what they will find, what secrets they will uncover? I want to uncover them for myself. I want to speak to Pauline Ferguson. You are right, we should compare the manuscript of Death At Wyvis to the final novel. And whatever it was I wrote in the study at Culzie, I need to find it.’

‘And you expect to do all that by yourself, with Jerry Ranger after you?’

‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘I said I wanted to make this right. I will.’

‘No,’ said Clémence. ‘When we get down this mountain I am going straight to the local police station and I am telling them everything.’

‘Please, Clémence.’

‘No. Now let’s get going.’

After another three-quarters of an hour they reached an empty car park and the main road. It was still only eight o’clock.

There was a bench in the car park, and the old man slumped on to it. He winced and rubbed his right knee.

Clémence stood on the roadside and stuck out her thumb. She didn’t have long to wait. The fourth car, a dirty black Volvo, pulled over and the driver wound down his window. He was a thin red-haired man in his thirties with loose pouches under his eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ he said with a concerned smile.

‘Not really,’ said Clémence. ‘We’ve spent the night on the mountain. I’m with my grandfather. Could you give us a lift to the nearest town?’

‘Aye. Go fetch him and hop in.’

Clémence beckoned to the old man and eased him into the back seat as she joined the driver in the front.

Jerry’s excitement turned to frustration as the minutes ticked by. He had been worried that he wouldn’t be able to find a good ambush spot before they stumbled upon him, and now they hadn’t showed. Where the hell were they?

Jerry pulled out the map again and examined the kink in the perimeter of the forest, where the old man and Clémence had been heading. All right, they wouldn’t be on the path marked on the map, but they should be able to see the footpath through the woods. It would almost certainly be signposted.

Wouldn’t they see it?

He peered at the map closely.

Maybe not. Maybe if they hit the woods just to the east of the path, on the other side of the kink, they wouldn’t see anything. Then they would either plunge straight into the woods, which would be hard work in the snow, or walk around the edge until they found a path. Now, if they turned right, they would very soon find the path Jerry was staking out. But if they turned left?

Damn. Goddamn it to hell!

The other path ran through the woods parallel to Jerry’s, but to the east. It was only about a quarter of a mile away.

Jerry grabbed his rifle and ran across the path and down into the stream. He clambered up the bank on the other side and plunged into the trees.

It was hard work, but in a few minutes he came across a well-made footpath.

There were two pairs of footprints heading downhill.

Damn!

Jerry ran, jumped and skipped down the slippery path. He fell twice. They couldn’t be that far ahead!

He turned a corner and the trees opened out with a view of the road. A black station wagon was pulled over, and a dark-haired woman in a light-blue jacket was helping an old man into the back seat.

Jerry swung the rifle off his shoulder, and aimed.

He was breathing too heavily to keep the sights still.

In the couple of seconds it took to settle the sights, the car was already pulling out into the road.

Jerry had a blind shot at the car’s rear window. He almost pulled the trigger anyway, but decided not to.

He would get another chance.

He would make damn sure that somehow he would give himself another chance.

The car was deliciously warm.

It turned out that the red-haired man was a vet named Matt, who had been up half the night delivering a calf. He lived just outside Dingwall and his wife did bed and breakfast. He offered them breakfast and the use of a bed to recover. Clémence explained that they had been walking from Loch Glass, got lost in the snow and their car was abandoned on the Wyvis Estate on the other side of the mountain.