Killing the Shadows (2000) (54 page)

Frustrated, she moved on to the third window. Again, a quick glance confirmed there was no movement inside the room. Seeing no one, Fiona took a long look at the interior. It contained a large table, a couple of armchairs on either side of a wood-burning stove, a small galley kitchen area and a couple of cupboards that ran the full height of the room. A narrow metal cabinet stood open, its door obscuring the contents, and on the floor near the door were a couple of Waitrose carrier bags. They didn’t look as if they’d been there for long, being apparently free of dust. She also knew there wasn’t a Waitrose within three hundred miles. A tiny piece of evidence, but enough to convince her she’d come to all the right conclusions.

Then she spotted something that confirmed her worst fears and made her stomach churn painfully. In the far corner, half hidden by the angle of the chimney breast, was a small table leaning at an angle. On the floor beside it was a tangle of smashed plastic and metal. It was unmistakably the remains of a satellite phone.

So they were here. And judging by the absence of a vehicle, the killer was temporarily absent. He was obviously a careful operator, the destruction of the phone a clear sign that he accepted the remote possibility that his prisoner might break free. She wondered momentarily about the man she’d seen in the woods. But he’d looked perfectly innocent, with his bundle of wood and his axe. And besides, he’d been on foot. She wished she’d thought to ask him if he’d seen any unfamiliar vehicles around.

But thinking was wasting time. Fiona moved away from the window and ran round the far corner. She passed a small stone shelter that contained a diesel generator, then turned down the front of the house. The double wooden doors were shut and locked, she soon discovered. She pushed with her shoulder, but they didn’t budge.

She was going to have to break in, and at the rear was the best place to do it. She ran back to the bedroom window and tugged at the bottom of the frame. Locked. Fiona pulled the lump hammer out of the bag tucked inside her jacket and hefted it in her hand. No point in just breaking the glass. She’d have to smash the wooden strut that ran up the middle of the lower sash. She breathed in, drew her arm back and swung the hammer round in a sharp arc. The wood splintered and the glass on both sides shattered explosively. On the quiet hillside, it sounded remarkably loud. A pair of jays started out of the wood behind her, their hoarse cries making her jump.

As quickly as she could, Fiona broke off the window spar then cleared the glass from the frame to avoid cutting herself as she went through. Gingerly, she put one leg through the gap, hoisting herself over the sill and into the bedroom. The house was quiet, though it lacked the indefinable stillness that usually accompanies emptiness. Fiona stood motionless for a moment, listening for any sign of danger.

Cautiously, she crossed the room and pulled the door wide open. To her left, in the gloom of the hallway, the bathroom door was closed. She reached a tentative hand to the doorknob, almost too afraid of what might lie behind it. She screwed her eyes shut, steeling herself for action, then clenched her fingers round the knob, turning it and throwing the door open in one motion.

S
ix hundred miles away in London, Steve Preston had congratulated himself on persuading the Assistant Commissioner that he had enough evidence to go through with his plan. Now all that was left to do was to brief the team who would back up Joanne and Neil when they brought in Gerard, and the forensic squad who would assist in the search of Coyne’s flat.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought. I don’t want to arrest him in his flat, because, as you all know, that means that under PACE, we can only do a Section Thirty-two search, with all the restrictions that implies. What I want to do is to wait until he leaves the flat then pick him up in the open. We’ll bring him in to the Yard and arrest him on suspicion of murder, and then we can do a Section Eighteen search, which gives us a lot more scope. To make sure he doesn’t get out of our grasp, I’m detailing one of you to be on a bike and another on a motorbike. He’s a keen cyclist, there’s every chance that when he does leave, he’ll be on two wheels.”

He forced his face into a serious expression, battening the hatches on his feelings of exultation. “I want him back here in one piece,” he said forcefully. “No accidents, nobody falling down the stairs, no unexplained cuts, bruises or broken bones. I want him handled as if he was fine china. As soon as we get him back here, I want Coyne arrested on suspicion of murder. Let’s put the shits up him right away. But no delays over letting him call his brief. I want this done by the book. Nothing that anyone can pick on afterwards and say, ‘Hang on a minute, you didn’t follow PACE here, mate.’ Anybody got any questions?”

A young DC raised a hand. “What exactly are we looking for in Coyne’s flat?”

“Good question,” Steve said. “Anything that could tie him in to Susan Blanchard’s murder, or the North London rapes. So that means newspaper cuttings, any maps with crime scenes marked on them, diaries, photographs. And I want every knife in the place. Also any clothing that matches the descriptions of the cycle gear that the cyclist on the Heath or the rapist was wearing. I know, after all this time, we’re probably clutching at straws. But I want Coyne, and together we’re going to nail him and lay Susan Blanchard to rest at last.”

He looked around the room. No more questions. He turned to the pin board behind him and pointed to a photograph of Susan’s twin sons. “I don’t want justice for me. I don’t even want justice for the Met. I want justice for those two. Now go out there and get it for them.” He hated the cheap emotional shot, but they needed to be gung ho, and he knew exactly how to get them there.

Steve watched the officers file out of the room, wondering how much time he had before they brought their prisoner back. He needed to find out what the hell Fiona was up to. He’d tried her mobile several times since he’d got back to the Yard, but all he’d had was a recorded message telling him that it was not possible to connect his call. Thanks to Sarah Duvall, he knew she’d gone to Scotland to review the evidence in the Drew Shand case. A call to the officer in charge was probably as good a place to start as any.

He picked up the nearest phone and asked the switchboard to connect him to Lothian and Borders Police. It took little time to discover that the man he needed to speak to was Superintendent Sandy Galloway. But Galloway wasn’t in the building. Frustrated, Steve arranged for them to pass on a message asking Galloway to call him back as soon as possible.

What on earth was Fiona playing at, leaving messages he couldn’t return? Given the terms they’d been on when last they met, it had to be something serious. It might be worth trying Kit, he thought. But dialling their home number simply connected him to another answering machine.

There was nothing more he could do. Now he had to clear his mind and concentrate on how he would handle Gerard Coyne. This was too important to allow anything to distract him.

It was worse, far worse than the corresponding scene in the TV adaptation. Worse, infinitely worse than her imagination had prepared her for. Her first thought was that he was dead. Kit slumped naked on the toilet, his arms chained to the walls, his legs hobbled round the toilet. His skin was white, his head sunk on his chest. He was only held upright by his bonds. She could see no sign of breath or pulse. In the vein of his left arm, there was a shunt. And on the walls around him, amateurish daubs of trees and flowers, gruesome in shades from dark-carmine to rust-brown. About half of the walls of the compact bathroom were covered. She had no way of estimating how much blood that had required. Her chest contracted in an agony of fear and distress.

With a wordless moan that was closer to a sob, Fiona rushed forward, falling to her knees and throwing her arms around his chill flesh. Her eyes were already brimming with tears. To her amazement, she felt a flicker of movement against her face. Then a breath like a soft groan tickled her ear.

“Kit?” she stammered. “Kit? Can you hear me?” She put a hand to his neck and felt a weak and irregular pulse. She took his head between her hands and gently raised it level with hers. His eyelids flickered, the whites of his eyes showing through the lashes. “I’m here, Kit. It’s me, Fiona. It’s going to be all right.”

His eyes opened a crack and he groaned. She held him close, desperate to transfer her warmth to him. Shock, that’s what it was. Loss of blood and the cold had sent him into shock. The first thing she had to do was get him warm. Fiona gently moved away from him and ran through to the bedroom. She grabbed a sleeping bag, a couple of flannel shirts and a pair of jeans, then hurried back to the bathroom. She draped the sleeping bag over his shoulders, keeping up a constant flow of reassuring words. Then she pulled the carrier bag out of her jacket and took out the bolt cutters. It took all her strength, but she managed to snap through the chain that fettered his legs and unwrap it from his ankles. His legs were stiff and cold in her hands, but she pulled them round to the front of the toilet and fed his feet through the legs of his jeans, pulling them up to his knees.

Next she took the chisel and the lump hammer and attacked the shackles holding him to the wall. Beginning with his right arm, a couple of blows were all it took to rip the metal eye out of the wall. His arm fell uselessly to his side and he groaned again.

Fiona moved round to the other side and considered. She didn’t want to disturb the shunt in his arm, afraid that if she took it out, he’d start bleeding again. She took a roll of elastoplast out of the first-aid kit and carefully wound it round the shunt, holding it firmly in place. Then she repeated the procedure with the hammer and chisel, freeing his left arm. He fell forward, a dead weight collapsed over his knees. Somehow, struggling against the mass of his torso, Fiona managed to dress him in the shirts, cutting the sleeves to get them over the chains and handcuffs.

Then, grunting with the effort, she hauled him to his feet, propping him against the wall so she could pull up his trousers. It was all taking too long, she thought with a surge of panic. His captor couldn’t be far away. Surely he wouldn’t take the risk of leaving Kit alone for too long.

Fiona let Kit slump back on to the toilet. She took out the heat packs, flexed them to activate the chemical reaction that would produce life-saving warmth and tucked them inside the shirts next to his skin. Then she went back to the bedroom and searched till she found a pair of thick socks and some battered trainers.

Her next stop was the living room. Inside one of the cupboards she found a couple of cans of Coke. Perfect. Fluid, and sugar. The caffeine probably wouldn’t be a problem for a man who routinely consumed as much coffee as Kit did. As she turned back, the narrow metal cabinet caught her eye. Where there should have been the shotgun that Kit used to pot rabbits, there was an empty space. A box of cartridges lay open, half-empty. Fresh panic seized her. Wherever he was, Kit’s abductor had a double-barrelled shotgun. What was already a desperate situation had suddenly become worse.

Hurrying back to the bathroom, she thrust Kit’s feet into socks and trainers. Then she pulled him upright from his slumped position. “Come on, Kit. I need you conscious, my darling, I need you able to function.”

The warmth had begun to do its work. With a shivering tremor, Kit’s eyes opened properly. He looked at her with puzzlement. “Fiona,” he croaked.

“Yes, it’s me, you’re not hallucinating. I found you, sweetheart. Now, I need you to drink this.” She held the can of Coke to his lips and forced herself to be patient while he sipped it through dry and cracked lips. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” she said.

“Where’s Blake?” he said, his voice cracked and strange, his consonants slurred.

“Blake?” Fiona asked, wondering from what delirious corner of his mind he’d dredged that name.

“Francis Blake,” he insisted. “He brought me here. He did this to me.”

It shouldn’t have made sense, but suddenly, it did. The man she’d passed on the way to the bothy. Memory jolted into place. She’d never met Blake, but she’d heard his voice on TV. The aural recollection triggered a visual image. She hadn’t seen much of the stranger’s face, but now she had a template to set it against, she knew it was him. Francis Blake was the man with the axe. But even as her mind accepted the identification, her intelligence balked at it. Why on earth would Francis Blake have kidnapped Kit? How could he be this particular serial killer? It was meaningless, absurd.

It was also something she couldn’t afford the time to consider now. “He’s gone,” she said with a confidence she didn’t feel. But where was Blake, and what was he doing? Judging by the axe, he’d gone for firewood. Either that or it was simply an elaborate way to disguise the shotgun, constructing a hide of sticks around it. Obviously, he must have been heading back to the bothy, having hidden his vehicle somewhere else. But he’d heard her approach. Even if he didn’t know who she was, he knew she was heading for the only habitation on that particular track and so he must have turned round, to make it look as if he was walking away.

A simple enough ruse, but it had worked. She hadn’t felt a moment’s suspicion. And now he knew she was there. He couldn’t just let them go, could he? It was inconceivable.

Fiona shook her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. “I’m going to get the Land Rover,” she said, keeping her voice brisk in an attempt to hide the fear twisting her guts. “I want you to stay here. If you can drink the rest of the Coke, that would be good. But don’t worry if your fingers don’t work yet. The circulation will take a while to come back. Do you know how much blood you’ve lost?”

“More than a pint,” he sighed, his voice still sounding like a drunk. “I passed out then. I suppose he must have stopped.” He blinked and focused properly on his surroundings for the first time, shuddering at the bloodwork on the walls. “Fuck,” he said with a laugh that turned into a cough. “He’s a fucking terrible painter.”