The meeting with Mrs Shawbridge had been a disaster. Even Bronson, his mind slanted by drugs, could see this. But he had to keep going, keep moving, which was possible only through the sustaining power of cocaine. And his stash was running low. He hadn’t slept properly for weeks. Concentration was tough. His thoughts were jumbled. He found it impossible to focus. His mind jumped from situation to situation, unable to fix on one thing. Like dancing across hot sand.
One thing he did know. He had fucked up. Big time. He wondered, briefly, how he could have been so stupid. His plan had been infantile and ill-conceived. The consequences were grim. Plus, he had Billy Watson at his heels.
Patricia Shawbridge had left. He gave it five minutes, put his jacket on, then he too had left the building, muttering to the receptionist he had an urgent “home visit”, that he would return shortly. He went to his car, drove to his flat. There, he packed a few belongings. On his way out, he met his neighbour. An irritating little busybody with an irritating little dog. Bronson dispensed with pleasantries, choosing to studiously ignore him. The man was clearly affronted, which, despite the circumstances, Bronson found amusing.
He got back into his car. He checked his mobile. Another missed call from Billy Watson. Billy was keen to get his money. Bronson was keen to replenish his supply. A solution would be worked out, he was sure. But not now. Bronson had to run. Bronson had to clear his head. There was only one place he could think of. His sanctuary.
He drove north.
Strangely, the farther away he got from Glasgow, the more the load lifted. It seemed perhaps it wasn’t all as bad as he first thought. The scenery drifted by. The traffic was quiet at this time. Rush hour was over. Most people were working, as indeed he should have been. He played some music – soft classical piano. He wound the window down, felt the breeze on his face. Sure, the old witch had left in a storm. Who could blame her? How the hell was he supposed to know her son was dying. His mind switched instantly to the flip side. Maybe she was lying. Maybe her son was fine, and just maybe he was The Surgeon. Maybe she was playing hardball, hoping to face the situation down. She was a tough cookie, for sure.
Then his mind flipped back again, as was often the case when his brain was suffused with cocaine. He saw the look on her face, the downward curl of her lips, the raised eyebrows. The look of disbelief. Then the look of sheer, undiluted anger. There were no theatrics there, he thought. No acting. Her reaction was spontaneous and real.
And then his mind flitted to another scenario. So what if she makes a complaint? So what if she reports him to the police? It was her word against his. He would simply deny. He would claim vigorously the whole thing was a fabrication. That she was insane. That she had always hated him and that she wished to ruin his career.
Yes, he thought, that might work.
He glanced at his mobile phone on the passenger seat. The picture he had taken of the man called The Surgeon was still there. He had chosen not to remove it. Another thought popped into his head. Maybe he could still use it. Sell it to a newspaper. The only pictures in the world of Britain’s most horrific serial killer. They’d pay a fortune. A goddamned king’s ransom.
He got to Perth, and continued north. He had left his flat at 9.50. It was now 11.15. He thought of his clients, waiting patiently for updates – emails, phone calls, texts, whatever. They’d have a long wait. Tough shit. He had bigger things to think of. An image morphed into his mind. The policeman who had interviewed him. Detective Chief Inspector McGuigan. Bronson had disliked him from the off. Too damned clever for his own good. The type of man, he thought, who was both tenacious and stubborn. Suddenly, the man scared him.
He took a deep breath. The sun was bright. The clouds in Glasgow had dissipated to blue skies in the north. He kept his speed to a relaxed sixty mph. Comical if he were caught speeding. And then got tested for drugs. A spectacular ending to a spectacular day. He laughed out loud at the thought.
He kept north. The mobile thrummed on the seat. It hadn’t really stopped since he’d left the office. He was tempted to toss the damn thing out the window. He tried to focus on the music.
Ninety miles later, and he took the Aviemore turn-off. He got to the roundabout at the edge of the town, took the route for Coylumbridge. A place comprising little more than a section of road. Blink and it was missed. He turned off at a road barely wide enough for a single car. A road with no name. He was entering the forests of the Rothiemurchus estate. In the distance, vast and sombre, loomed the Cairngorm mountains, dappled purple in the sunshine.
He drove two miles in, the road winding through trees packed tight. He arrived at his destination. A one-bedroomed house on the banks of Loch an Eilein, built of black timber with a pitched roof of red corrugated metal. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
The boat house. His mother had owned it. A little holiday home. She died, and he never got round to changing it into his name. Maybe, in a strange way, to keep her memory alive. Also, it provided an extra layer of privacy. He experienced a sudden flutter of fear. His recollection was vague, but he may have mentioned its existence to others. Which was the fundamental problem with cocaine. The brain got so wired, so frazzled, you talked about anything and everything, and after a while, it was difficult to keep track. But the place looked as empty as it always did.
He parked the car, then made his way to the loch side. The water was flat calm. It shimmered in the sun. Like a crest of jewels. White and blue and grey. He sat on the strip of sand, leaned back, felt the sun on his face, listened to the sounds of the world. He wished he could absorb himself into the ground. His mind felt sluggish. The craving came on. Something he could not ignore. He got up, went back to his car, opened the glove compartment, retrieved a polythene bag. With great care, he teased the powder onto the bonnet, arranged it into a fine line using one of his business cards, and hoovered the stuff up through his nose. The rush was instant. The loch held a deeper sparkle, the sounds of the forest more intense, the air clearer.
He got his travelling bag, his mobile phone, and went into the house.
Monday afternoon and evening passed without incident. He had no supplies, but there was some tinned food in a cupboard, and coffee. He had switched his mobile phone off.
Tuesday morning. He got up late. The sun was hidden behind a blanket of clouds the colour of old bruising. Looked like rain was coming. His bag was running worryingly low. He reckoned he might get another half dozen hits, if he were careful.
He drove into Aviemore on Tuesday afternoon, three miles distant, bought some milk and some processed food he could stick in the microwave. He bought a packet of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. He hadn’t smoked for twenty years, but thought, randomly, he would resurrect the habit. He bought some wine. He browsed the shops, bought a coffee, sat at an outdoor table. Aviemore had always bored him. Shops selling either outdoor gear, or overpriced tourist tat, possessing as much charm as a cheap fun park.
The rain stayed away.
He got back to the house, late afternoon. His nerves jangled. As ever, his mind was in overdrive. He wondered, not without a degree of dread, what mysteries his mobile phone held. Who was wanting what. He guessed Billy Watson was top of the list. Certainly his firm. Perhaps Mrs Shawbridge had stirred things up. If so, the partners would want a little tête-à-tête, for sure. And if things had escalated, perhaps the police were now interested.
But he chose to ignore it. Instead, he took another line. The evening wore on. He went for a walk at 8pm, around the loch, a distance of about four miles. Darkness was falling, but he knew the way. When he was much younger, he cycled the path. He and his mother. She was fit then, well, before the cancer. He felt a swell of profound sadness. If he could turn the clock back…
He got back to the house. He watched some mindless crap on TV. He went to bed at midnight.
On Wednesday, he got up at 8am in a deep state of depression. He took another line of cocaine. His heart and mind buzzed. He was awake once again. He still didn’t turn his mobile on. He wanted to toss the damn thing in the loch. He chose not to. Like most people in the civilised world, the phone was like an appendage to the human body. Losing a phone was like losing a limb.
The sun was out again, but in brief slants, finding the spaces between the clouds.
2pm. Just as Stark was finishing his lunch appointment with Edward Stoddart one hundred and eighty miles away, there came a knock on Bronson’s front door.
Bronson was sitting in the lounge. The view was directly of the loch. He had the television on, and therefore would not have heard a car approach and park at the side of the building. He did however hear the knock. He jumped at the sound. He remained still. Maybe he’d imagined it? It came again. His mind sparked into a hundred scenarios. He tried to focus. No point in ignoring it. Whoever they were, they knew very well he was here. His car was outside, and the television was blaring. And if they really wanted him, they could simply break the door down. Better then to confront. If it was Billy Watson, he could maybe reason, come to an arrangement. The threat Watson had made reared up – face burnt with acid.
The knock came again. More forceful. He heard a voice, shouting his name. He frowned, trying to understand. He went to the front door, opened it. He stared. It took a second before he found his voice. Standing before him was the last person he expected to see.
“Good God Almighty,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”