Life For a Life (30 page)

Twenty feet from his car, he clicked the key fob.

The lights flashed as the doors unlocked.

He walked closer, checked that the snow around his car had not been disturbed since he had locked it. Only his own footprints. No one had followed, and no one was lying in wait for him. He was about to slip his mobile into his pocket and open the door, when something stung the side of his neck.

He lifted a hand to touch it, felt his blood chill as his fingers brushed the short hard bristles of a dart. He gripped it, pulled it out, threw it into the snow.

No time to waste.

He reached for the door handle, tugged the door open . . .

The car spun away from him.

He grunted, surprised by the cold slap of snow on his face.

Around him, the air seemed to buzz with muffled silence, broken only by the sound of shoes crunching snow. He tried to lift his head but it could have been nailed to the road.

From the distance, he thought he heard the revving sound of a car’s engine starting up. Then blackness swept over him, his own midnight cloak. And his last waking thoughts were of the pungent smell of garlic, warm hands on his face.

And the deep, lazy chuckle of the Devil himself.

Jessie crossed the Tay Road Bridge into Fife and followed the sign for Tayport.

Left at the roundabout, then down with the boot, followed by a whispered curse at her car’s lack of response. Not that she needed to be pressed into the back of her seat, but her Fiat 500 had to have something bigger than a hairdryer under the bonnet, surely.

On the one hand, it irked that she had let Lachie work out a deal for her, committing her to a four-year loan through a contact of his. On the other hand, no one could have worked out a better deal for her. And if the truth be known, as fat and ugly as Lachie was, he really only had her best interests at heart.

Maybe she would call him and apologise for her recent behaviour.

She thought about that for a moment, then decided maybe not.

She stretched over and squeezed Robert’s leg.

He jerked with surprise, and she blew him a kiss, and signed that she loved him.

His fingers flickered in return –
You’re silly, but I love you, too
.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, then dabbed his cheek. ‘Love you,’ she said.

Robert smiled, then returned his attention to his iPhone.

Robert’s 8.30 appointment at Ninewells Hospital with the ENT consultant – Mr Amir Mbeke – had gone well, other than having to wait for almost forty minutes despite arriving on time. Mr Mbeke had told her in a voice as smooth as honey that Robert could be a suitable candidate for a cochlear implant. He would have to carry out more tests, of course, but he felt that an operation could be successful. Even better, they would run a means test on Jessie and see if there was any way she could qualify to have the costs covered by the NHS.

All in all, not a bad morning’s effort, she thought.

She waited until they were past the village of Tayport before removing her mobile. A quick look in the rearview mirror confirmed she would not be stopped for talking on the phone while driving. She dialled his number, and the call was picked up on the second ring.

‘You’ll never guess,’ she said to him.

‘DS Janes?’

Jessie scowled at her mobile. ‘I thought I dialled Andy’s number.’

‘You did,’ the voice said.

‘Well, put him on.’

‘There’s been a problem.’

It struck her with a force that took her breath away that it must be serious for Andy not to have his mobile. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said.

‘We’re not sure what’s happened—’

‘Where are you?’

‘Outside the secret bunker.’

‘The what? Never mind. How do I get to there from Tayport?’ she asked, and nodded as she took in the directions. ‘Who am I speaking with?’

‘DI Davidson.’

‘Stan?’ she said. ‘I thought you were in hospital.’

‘I signed myself out a few days ago. Thought I’d pop my head into the office and say hello. And, well . . .’

‘Shit. This must be serious.’

‘Very.’

‘I’m on my way.’ She killed the call and tried to accelerate. ‘Come on, come on,’ she said, and jerked when Robert tapped her thigh.

What’s up, Mum?

My boss is missing.

Is that a joke?

She scowled at him.

I’m sorry, Mum. I hope you find him.

‘I hope so too,’ she said.

Gilchrist came to.

He eased his eyes open and lifted his head.

Pain as hard as a rabbit punch stunned the back of his neck. He groaned, closed his eyes, and his head slumped back on to his chest. He had the vaguest memory of snow on his face, and realised he had slipped and knocked himself unconscious. He had no idea how long he had been out, and his mind seemed unable to work out why he was no longer in the snow.

He counted to ten. Then started again, on to twenty. He tested his brain a bit harder, multiplied twenty-five by four to get . . . to get . . .

He knew the answer, but could not work—

One hundred. And with that arithmetical revelation, his senses began to clear the dark numbness in his mind. But with it came pain that eased through his body, drip by sensitive drip. And cold. So damn cold. His mouth felt dry, his tongue thick enough to choke him. He risked opening his eyes again, and in the dim light could make out the shape of his thighs.

He was upright, in a sitting position, but . . .

He lifted his head with care.

Pain throbbed in his neck, across his shoulders, and seemed to work down his arms. Even his fingers felt thick and numb, and he flexed them, tried to stir some sensation into them. His mouth and jaw felt odd too, and seemed not to work the way they should. He tried to say something, but his lips were as good as glued together. He turned his head to the left, then to the right, worked his way beyond the pain. His night vision was improving, his eyes beginning to adapt to the darkness.

Shadows took on shape. Shapes took on form.

Forms became . . .

An almost overpowering need to close his eyes, let sleep take him, surged through his body in a warm wave that threatened to pull him into its numbing depths. He forced his eyes to stay open, focus on the shapes, the forms that stood before him, as tall as a man . . .

A short man. Then, not a man, but someone else . . .

Some
thing
else . . .

His head seemed too heavy for his neck, but he refused to let it buckle, and he forced his eyes to focus through the darkness. What was he looking at? What stood before him?

What was that . . . that man, that thing?

His peripheral vision darkened, and once more sleep – or unconsciousness – reached up to pull him down. But he fought off the numbing waves as his eyes recovered their sight, and his brain struggled to piece together the form that was now manifesting from the shadows before him. And at that moment, as he recognised what it was, and understood the full extent of his predicament, fear surged through him with a force that killed his breath.

‘Stay here,’ Jessie told Robert.

She recognised Cooper in conversation with a group of four others. Cooper saw her approaching then whispered to a tall slim man by her side, who glanced over at Jessie, and excused himself from the group.

‘DI Davidson,’ he said to her. ‘Good to meet you, DS Janes.’

She shook his hand, and said, ‘Likewise,’ then eyed the group. Cooper had returned to her huddled conversation and now stood with her back to Jessie. ‘So what’s the scoop?’

Stan nodded to a farmhouse, then winced.

‘Should you not be in bed?’ she said.

‘I don’t make a good patient.’ He frowned, as if at another stab of pain. ‘DCI Gilchrist was—’

‘Andy,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s cut the formal crap.’ She stared at him.

Stan levelled his gaze at her, as if to stifle annoyance, and said, ‘Andy called the office just after midnight last night and asked for two ARVs to take position down the road. But he never turned up, and never responded to any of his calls, so we moved the ARVs in.’ He shifted his gaze to focus somewhere in the distance.

‘Then?’ Jessie demanded.

‘They tried calling his home and mobile numbers periodically, and just before seven this morning, his mobile was answered. Turned out to be a Mr Smart in Kingsbarns, who was out walking his dog when he heard a phone ringing. He said his dog found it buried in the snow beside Andy’s Merc—’

‘Locked?’

‘What?’

‘Was his Merc locked?’

Stan scratched his head. ‘Never asked.’

‘Could be important,’ Jessie said. ‘If it was locked, he probably still has his key fob on him. We might be able to track its location through GPS.’ She glared at him. ‘Do you know if his fob has that capability?’

Stan shook his head. ‘Let me get someone on to it.’ He removed his mobile and spoke briefly, then ended the call.

‘Keep going,’ Jessie said to him.

‘We searched the immediate area and followed a set of footprints to the cottage, and a flowerpot which had been shifted. Nothing else appears to have been disturbed, so we’re figuring he picked something up from under the flowerpot but was taken when he returned to his car. The snow’s disturbed, and it looks as if he was dragged to some other vehicle. Tyre tracks can be seen in a three-point turn, and we’ve put out a BOLO on a white Transit van.’

‘Why? Did somebody see it?’

‘Andy called in for the Anstruther office to pull it in. But they never found it.’

‘This isn’t looking good,’ Jessie said.

‘We found spots of blood in the snow. Not a lot,’ Stan added quickly, as if seeing panic on Jessie’s face. ‘We’re running a DNA test on the blood right now.’ He seemed to lean down to her. ‘Does any of what I’ve said bring anything to mind?’

Jessie shook her head. ‘You’ve got Andy’s mobile?’

‘We have. And the last incoming number came from DC McCauley’s mobile—’

‘Which was used to entice Andy to meet him here. At the bunker.’

‘We think so. We’ve managed to triangulate the position of that call, and it came from Kingsbarns, close to where they found Andy’s car.’ Stan paused for a moment as a team of armed men emerged from the bunker. ‘Looks like they’ve found nothing,’ he said.

‘He’s not here,’ Jessie said. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

Stan returned her hard look with one of his own. ‘Do you have any ideas?’

‘Check the key fob,’ she said, then stopped as a thought hit her. ‘Any other numbers on Andy’s mobile that look odd?’

Stan smiled, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Just the one,’ he said.

‘Do you mind if I call it?’

‘Be my guest.’

Try as he might, Gilchrist could not break free.

His ankles and calves were strapped to the legs of the chair by wrapping tape, almost tight enough to cut off circulation. His arms were bound to the back of the chair, hands taped together behind him too, in an unnatural position that caused fire to burn across his chest and shoulders at the slightest movement. But it was the tape round his face and head that warned Gilchrist of his imminent fate.

Gordie’s bulging eyes, and his muted scream, reverberated through Gilchrist’s mind in flickering images and an endless death cry that refused to fade. But unlike Gordie, the tape round Gilchrist’s face was wrapped in a way that left a gap at his mouth, not to help him breath – he thought he understood that much – but to let him talk.

Gordie had no chance of escaping.

And Gilchrist knew that he, too, was now waiting for the inevitable.

He stared at the form in front of him, which had manifested into some small man-thing. Then he closed his eyes. But like the memory of Gordie, the image before him refused to vanish. Eyes closed or open, it did not matter. And speaking would not help either. The tripod with the video recorder mounted on it was in position and ready to be put to use.

It would not take much for Gilchrist’s bulging eyes, or his final death scream, to be the next nightmare to be imprinted with indelible persistence on to someone’s mind.

He groaned at the thought and tried to will himself to die.

Jessie dialled the number Stan had given her but it gave a few rings then kicked her into voicemail. She tried again but got the same result. She was about to dial a third time when she caught Cooper walking towards her.

‘It’s not looking good,’ Cooper said to her.

Understatement of the bloody century, Jessie thought.

‘I found traces of benzodiazepines in Bill and Eilidh’s blood,’ Cooper added. ‘It’s probably how they were taken so easily. And likely what happened to Andy.’

‘So how would it be administered?’ Jessie asked.

‘Syringe, perhaps.’

‘I can’t see Andy letting someone approach him and stick a needle in him.’

‘Depends on the element of surprise.’

Jessie grimaced. She had witnessed Andy disarm her brother, Terry, without missing a beat or putting a hair out of place. ‘I don’t see it.’

‘He’d had a few in the Dunvegan,’ Cooper persisted.

‘How about a dart gun?’ Jessie said.

‘That could work.’

‘Kumar’s used it before,’ she added. ‘Similar drugs were found in the bodies of the Georgian gangsters, Dmitri and Yegor Krukov. Impact marks from something other than a needle were also found on the necks of both of them.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ Cooper said.

‘It’s not been relevant to the case so far—’

‘But Bill and Eilidh—’

‘I mentioned it to Andy,’ she lied. ‘If he didn’t deem it worthy enough to pass on to you, then that’s his decision, not mine.’

Cooper held Jessie’s gaze, her eyes unflinching, her look unforgiving. Then she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned and walked away.

‘Charming,’ Jessie said to herself, and dialled the number again.

Still no reply.

She found Stan talking to Nance, and thought Nance looked as if she’d been crying. ‘Any luck with the key fob?’ Jessie asked Stan.

Stan grimaced, shook his head. ‘It’s not trackable,’ he said. ‘But it was worth a try.’