She remembered the sensations, real or imagined. Her body had been moved then left on the stone floor. Her perception of time was totally distorted but maybe it had happened the day before, or the night before. There had been the sound of a car engine, maybe the smell of petrol; a sense of her being lifted and laid.
The last place had been silent but here she was very aware of trees, crows and the scent of fresh air.
No doubt there was a reason for the move.
They were ready to kill her now.
There was no panic. Not even a sense of fear.
There was always a plan. Feed her, starve her, move her, kill her.
But she had regained clarity of thought.
And she was letting herself get angry.
Early on Friday morning, Caplan pulled her car up outside the Robertson home, chasing down a lead that she thought might go somewhere, if she was right. Her phone went as she was getting it out from the compartment in the car door. Caplan swiped at the screen, checking her messages. The message was from Mackie claiming her caramel wafer. She’d sent a photograph of a female taken by a security camera, the image taken from above and to the left. The subject was middle-aged and carrying a little weight. Her hair, dark on the image, was cut in a style Caplan would have called a mullet. It definitely wasn’t Mo from the Revolve, and on comparison with Pottie’s gran’s picture, there was only a slight likeness. It was not the same person. This woman had called into A&E on Monday 11th September, presenting with three bite wounds. She had identified herself as Morven Maitland, known as Mo. No Morven Maitland was known at the address the woman gave, though the NHS did have a Community Health Index number for one, with an appropriate address and date of birth. Mackie had found another two Morven Maitlands in Scotland and was still searching. CHI numbers were unique, but Caplan thought about the cavemen – identities being accepted as easily as they were given. Mo Maitland. Caplan thought about that for a while then looked at the phone again. There were two pictures of the wounds sent on by Mackie. Shiv had bitten her hard. Human bites were a crime and photographed forensically – just in case. Craigo had sent the images to Ryce, but even Caplan could see the gap in the impression caused by a missing upper canine on the left.
Good on you, Shiv, thought Caplan, surprising herself by feeling a bit tearful, as she walked up the garden path, knowing that she’d seen a name like that somewhere. Mo Maitland in a list of names. She texted Mackie back, asking her to look back at the documentation of the Ardman case.
The front door opened. Bill Robertson had aged a hundred years.
The FLO Kathy Waddell was also looking stressed. ‘Are you not supposed to warn me before you come for a visit?’
‘You let the neighbour in easy enough,’ said Caplan. ‘Bill, tell me about the roof over the extension?’
He shrugged at the odd question then asked, ‘What about it? It’s glass.’
‘I know that. What about the room at the top of the stairs, what’s that?’
‘Oh, my observatory.’
‘Do you have a telescope in there?’
‘Yes, the roof slides back so the telescope can look out.’
‘And who did that roof work for you?’
‘Oh, the building company who did the extension.’
Caplan raised her eyebrows in encouragement.
‘Connell and McNair I think they were called. I designed it myself, of course.’
‘How did you come to use those builders?’
‘Well, they were recommended. Rory is on a charity board with them.’
Caplan quietly asked, ‘And would that be the Tinmen?’
Robertson smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Excuse me a moment.’ Caplan walked out the door, and stood on the front step, pretending to be looking for a better signal. She dialled quickly. ‘Craigo, look at the owners of Connell and McNair. Who is on the board?’
She was back inside, asking Waddell to make a cup of tea when her phone pinged. Four words: Technical Advisor Felix Vance. Waddell was asking if she took milk and sugar when the phone pinged again. Another text to say that was from an old website but the address was the same as Fayer Construction. Then four words: Office Manager Lisa Stratton.
Lisa Stratton.
Caplan waited until Waddell was in the kitchen. ‘Bill, keep this conversation between ourselves. I think Bethany’s life might depend on it.’
He looked alarmed, took a deep breath, then said, ‘Okay.’
‘When you were getting the building work done, was Felix Vance ever in this house?’
‘No, he was in America at the time but did the technical spec before he went. He’s not been in the house since Rosemary’s funeral, I think.’
‘And Rory has been a huge support to you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Robertson nodded. ‘A very good friend.’
‘Anybody called Mo popping round to help support you?’ she asked.
‘Mo who?’
She showed him the image on the phone from the hospital security footage. ‘Her?’
Robertson looked very carefully. ‘No, sorry.’
‘What about this lady? Or this one?’ She showed him the photo of Mo from the Revolve and the other image, now known as Granny’s Mo.
‘Never seen them before. Why?’
‘It was just an idea.’
Robertson paused for thought, settling himself slowly into the armchair. ‘The only person who popped in was Wilma.’
Caplan took a deep breath. ‘And when was that?’
‘Erm, Monday, I think. All the days blend into each other now.’
The FLO came out of the kitchen and probably wished she hadn’t.
Caplan turned to Waddell. ‘You knew about this? The visit from Wilma Vance.’
‘She’s a family friend. She brought us some homemade cottage pie. It’s in the log.’
Caplan swallowed her anger; not the time, not the place. ‘Did she use the toilet?’ she asked Robertson while glaring at the FLO.
‘Yes.’
‘The upstairs toilet?’
‘Yes, I don’t think she knew there was one down here.’
‘I did say to her,’ said Waddell, ‘but I don’t think she heard.’
Caplan rushed upstairs and went into Bethany’s bedroom. She pulled open the drawer. The medication was gone.
Caplan pressed send on an email she had been composing to Lizzie Fergusson. Some things might be better being dealt with from Glasgow, like a background search on Felix Vance, and his lovely wife, Wilma. The timing of Wilma’s visit to Robertson’s house was early afternoon on Monday. Waddell had logged it and shared it with Mackie’s electronic version but she hadn’t flagged it, apparently not thinking it was important. But it could mean that the abductors had heard about Bethany needing medication on the local news, and realised they needed to get it, to avoid another Brooke-Williams. Caplan was only vaguely aware of Craigo hovering, until he coughed to get her full attention. She asked him to sit down and she told him quietly of her suspicions of Vance.
‘Do you want me to write it up, ma’am?’
‘I’ve checked the FLO’s log. You have a look and see if you spot anything else. Wilma’s visit was not innocent. And then we have Lisa Stratton working for the same company.’
Craigo pulled the odd expression that he considered a smile. ‘We are getting closer, ma’am.’ He nodded to himself.
‘Anybody find any commonality that runs between these Pick Up Points? The PUPS.’
‘There was a Mo Maitland at the Ashdown Centre, Ardman’s place in 2014, another at the Revolve for the last three months, who now can’t be traced. Mackie’s tracking Hospital Mo, the Morven with the mullet who was bitten.’
‘Right, so references, an address, a phone number, a picture on social media. Stick that image from the hospital under the nose of anybody you can trace. Do they recognise her? 2014, eh?’ She looked at the stack of documentation. ‘This feels right, it’s been going on a long time.’
‘And I’m on it, ma’am.’ Craigo was enthused. He stood up ready to go.
‘That’ll be after we look at those maps you’ve been working away at. And after you tell me who were you getting close to at reception when I came in. You were being rather charming to her?’
‘She’s the wise woman.’
‘All women are wise, Craigo, don’t you know that?’ She regretted saying it as, looking at him in his crumpled jerkin, he maybe lacked any life experience that would tell him if women were indeed wise.
‘Spae-wife if you like.’
‘A fortune teller – what? What was she doing? Telling you next week’s lottery numbers?’
‘No, ma’am, she’s not a fortune teller. She has the ability to see beyond her own physical space if you like.’ Craigo looked away in discomfort as if his thumbnail had become very interesting.
‘But?’ Caplan asked him to close the door. ‘Was she here to tell you about Operation Dark Sky? Did you ask her for help? There’s a tight lid on this operation.’
‘I didn’t go to her. She came to me.’
‘Do you think the media will make a distinction? No, they won’t, so don’t have anything else to do with her until the investigation is over. The tabloids eat and breathe that sort of crap, so leave it.’
Craigo looked straight through her. ‘Bethany’s alive, she’s near still water and there’s a letter W nearby. But the clock is ticking.’ With that Craigo got up and returned to the incident room, his manner making Caplan think that the spae-wife was probably another one of his relatives. But she felt weirdly calmer, hoping the wise woman was right about Bethany.
Craigo was behind his desk, the back of his hair spiked up like he had suffered a minor electric shock. His hands were clasped in front of his face and his jaw rested on his linked fingers. He looked deep in thought. Then he stood up and came back into Caplan’s office.
‘Do you understand it, ma’am?’
‘Understand what? Psychics? Wise women? What?’
‘You see, I think you always know what you’re doing, ma’am.’ Caplan was about to thank him for the compliment when he added, ‘Eventually.’ He stretched his neck, looking up at the lights. ‘Makes you think about pretence?’
‘Who’re we talking about now?’
‘The Rod and Todd situation, ma’am, I saw that note logged on the system. About Rod and the lady. There was no cancer, no perfect life. One went to work and one stayed at home. The one who stayed at home got bored. The one who went to work got jealous of that. It crumbled.’
‘More like Rod was a prisoner in his own house. He’d made plans to get away. He didn’t manage it.’
‘And that’s the most dangerous time isn’t it, ma’am, when the worm turns, when the abused one tries to escape?’
‘That’s what the stats tell us. You think Rod was abused?’ asked Caplan.
‘I do. And what do the figures say about men suffering at the hands of women? Do you think they get reported enough?’
‘I’d like to think that there’ll come a time when nobody hits anybody. Are we any closer to finding Stevie? Who might be a Stephanie?’
‘No. The IT boys are tracking it. She’s well hidden.’
‘If she’s staying hidden even after his passing, then there’s a reason, like she’s married.’
Craigo dropped his gaze from the lights and regarded her with his beady little eyes. ‘Pardon my French, ma’am, but people really are a bunch of bastards. Present company excepted.’
Craigo stood beside the largest map, one of the whole of Scotland, with areas of dense pins showing the forests of the Great Glen, the Borders, Argyll and Inverness. Each pin had a little flag and a number attached. Craigo held a clipboard and his specs were perched on the end of his nose, keen and ready.
‘You have been very busy, DS Craigo,’ said Caplan, taking a seat near McPhee’s desk, her notebook at the ready.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He nodded and looked pleased. And remained standing there. ‘It’s geographical profiling, ma’am. And speaking to Stirling Council. I’m thinking about the victims. Where are they being kept? How many people are involved to keep something like that quiet? Somewhere out of the way, a farm, maybe, but a non-working farm, and an extended family who are on board with this kind of thing. Or was it this kind of thing that brought them together? Triangulation gets us nowhere. I’ve tried.’
‘How many properties do we have?’ prompted Caplan, thinking four or five, and costing putting a search team in each.
‘Forty-six.’
Caplan nodded and held back her impatience. ‘And how many do we have in Dark Sky sites?’ She was ready with her pen.
‘Forty-six,’ repeated Craigo.
‘Forty-six?’ The surprise at the figure dropped on the room like a quiet bomb. Mackie leaned forward, peering at the map. ‘How the hell can there be forty-six?’
‘Well, I only put on here the ones that are in, or near, a Dark Sky site. Or are remote but near an area of interest to us. I used my initiative, ma’am.’ He blinked slowly. ‘Because that’s what we’re looking for.’
‘Yes. Sorry, I was just surprised.’ Caplan stood up and examined the maps more closely. ‘Are they all unoccupied?’
‘Sometimes.’
The site of each body discovery was marked with a black flag and a pair of initials, the date when they were last seen, if known, the month if the exact date was not known and the date their body was discovered. The work had left the top of Craigo’s desk covered in coloured paper like a rainy day in play school.
‘I spotted something rather interesting when looking at the properties within the Inverness Dark Sky site. Beauly forest. Where Ardman was. There was a house here. It’s been lying derelict for a long time, years really, then somebody bought it and it was partially renovated.’ He pursed his lips. ‘And then the renovation stopped in Spring 2014, early spring, and it was restarted a year later.’ He opened up a map he had hand-drawn.
‘That fits with Nik’s timeline.’ Caplan’s mind flooded with images of builders, architects, Pas. ‘We have a site, remote, habitable.’
‘So that got me thinking. Has the local council got any applications for planning and the building work might now be ongoing? I’ve a cousin in Building Control.’
‘Of course you do,’ sighed Caplan.
‘He came back with a property in Chern Wood. Lochanview. I suggest a visit.’
‘You’re saying if the builders stop work for any reason …’
‘Or are told to stop work, ma’am …’
‘Then the perpetrators use the property to hold the victim. A wee clean-up after. Then they call the builders back in and get them to continue. Nobody’ll question that. Another victim, another property. They had an eleven-month hiatus in work to utilise at that property in Beauly. All they needed was two or three months to keep Ardman.’
‘Who owns it?
‘Ah, that’s where it gets really interesting.’
‘Please tell me it’s Rory Ghillies. Fayer Construction?’
‘No, it’s a couple from Brighton who have holidayed up there since 2016, apart from during Covid. Rest of the time the place is empty.’
‘The house is habitable but not occupied?’
‘And I found a pattern. The victims are never in captivity over the summer or at Christmas.’
‘When a holiday house might be used?’ Caplan paused to think. ‘It could be. Good work, Craigo. So we think houses in different areas. That explains the vast area covered, the different PUPS and kill sites. It explains how a human being is kept isolated, fed and watered for months.’
‘Every flag is a different property that is unoccupied for some part of the year. Like now, autumn. As has been already pointed out, none of the victims are held over the summer. It suggests that the properties are unavailable, i.e. occupied by their rightful owners.’
‘Okay.’ Caplan nodded slowly, knowing that Mackie was paying close attention. Could this be right? Surely Craigo had gone wrong somewhere.
‘The properties are of various types. The blue flags are properties at different stages of falling down and being built back up. All of them are being actively worked on because of the demand for second homes or the increase in people wanting to live off-grid. The purple flags are holiday homes which are not Airbnbs and where the owners are not close enough for weekend use.’
‘It’s a lot more than I thought.’
‘We could cross-reference properties with builders and warrants and planning applications.’
‘Craigo, a glacier moves quicker than the council. McEwan has us on a timer. We need to know about the here and now. Where’s Bethany being held? Let’s take away those within a mile of the periphery of the Dark Sky site.’ Caplan stood up and looked at the map closely, thinking like an abductor. What did they need? What would they avoid? ‘I’d also take away those that are semi-detached onto an occupied house, or those in a steading with others.’
Craigo said, ‘Okay.’
‘Toni, can you remove the flags so we know what we are left with?’
Slowly, they went through the list. The remaining thirty-two properties were those that were deep within the Dark Sky sites.
‘There has to be access of some kind. What’s near a forestry trail but still remote?’
‘Near an unused logging trail, bike track, an unmarked single-track road,’ suggested Mackie.
‘Four of them – twelve, twenty-one, thirty-two and forty – are only accessible by canoe.’
‘I’ll take them out,’ said Mackie.
‘Take out complete wrecks. These houses must have a roof, they need to be secure.’
That took ten properties off the list, leaving eighteen.
‘If there are four or five in each area,’ Caplan sighed, ‘that’s coming into the realms of doable.’
‘I have it all on a spreadsheet, ma’am,’ said Craigo.
Caplan took a deep breath. The question was how to prioritise it further. ‘Take out any not near still water?’
Craigo stared at her.
‘Any of them near somewhere that starts with a W get some kind of priority.’
Mackie was staring at the map. ‘Why?’
Craigo scratched his head. ‘It was in my mind as I was going through them, and this one is near a system of pools and waterfalls, at the bottom of Ben Wheen. Before the Dark Sky accreditation, the pools were a tourist attraction in themselves. But if you drive a few miles further on this very narrow track, there’s another small run of pools.’ He tapped the map. ‘There.’
Mackie went over to the map, pulled her glasses from the top of her head and peered at the map. ‘He’s right, ma’am.’ She turned to look back at Caplan. ‘So, we’re going with what the spae-wife said then? I’m not saying that you’re wrong … but?’ Mackie shrugged.
‘With that number of properties, it’s better than any other idea that we have. And we need to review outbuildings, garages, farm buildings. Whatever each site has. People are difficult to hide and these victims have been imprisoned for a period of weeks, months in some cases.
‘Can the presence of a basement go to the top of the list? Any reports of a car coming and going, a car with more than one person in it, an unknown car, with a couple of strangers.’
Caplan sighed. ‘I’m getting a bit pissed off seeing dead bodies of young people on Ryce’s slab. All thoughts welcome.’
‘We don’t need further thought. It’s five properties. The nearest one is Lochanview,’ said Craigo. ‘Then there’s Galloway Forest park – that’s nearer to where Pottie’s body was found.’
‘Get on the phone about the other four, threaten Building Control with … ACC Linden. Tell them it’s about the case in the news, just to put a bomb under them.’
There was a huge pile of papers on Caplan’s desk. Fergusson had done a good job. The piles were wrapped in different coloured paper, one for each person of interest. She allowed herself a little daydream where Fergusson had found one person who had connections to all five locations of interest and that was Rory Ghillies, who was driving the car, being greeted by a lady matching Wilma Vance’s description.
Caplan read her friend’s notes. There was more than one man, or woman, behind this.
William Walter Robertson had been born in Edinburgh. He was a semi-retired architect, keen gardener, treasurer of the Pulpit Hill residents’ association and treasurer of the local astronomical chapter. Not even a speeding ticket. But he had an alibi; he had answered his landline phone when Bethany had first gone missing and there had been an FLO with him every minute of the day. He could be involved without being physically active. But Caplan thought his distress was genuine.
As for Rory Ghillies, his career could be mapped out every step of the way. Born in Greenock but brought up in Port Bannatyne, he became a high-ranking police officer in Glasgow who then retired and moved north, his wife working as a constable and staying working. Linden knew him well. She’d had long conversations with a few of his colleagues and got the feeling they were keeping their distance. Female colleagues said he was a bit of a ladies’ man. His profile didn’t come near that of a sadistic psychopath. Yet despite his ambition to have an OBE, he was sleeping with his friend’s daughter, almost thirty years his junior. Caplan wondered how that had developed. Ghillies was a second father figure to Bethany, giving her advice about university and her career. Much worse was the abuse of Bethany’s trust and the betrayal of Robertson’s friendship.
Felix Vance had led a very public life. Both he and his dad were pillars of the community in Glasgow. They were very close. He was an only child of upper middle-class parents. The father indulged his son in all kinds of activity: skydiving, formula three racing, underwater caving. Both father and son had many points on their licence for speeding.
Lizzie had attached a small paragraph and a wedding picture from a local paper celebrating Felix Vance, local businessman’s, twenty-five-year marriage to Bute-born Wilma. The bride and groom looked very happy, standing with their best man and bridesmaid.
Mackie knocked on the door and came in, Craigo shuffling in behind her. Caplan stacked up the papers. ‘Well, I’ve found the owner of that house, the one unoccupied but nearest to where Shivonne’s body was found. Mr Casper Lyons. I get the feeling that money isn’t a worry for them. They’ve always loved Scotland and their son is doing astronomy at university, hence the Dark Sky property. Not an easy thing with reference to planning restrictions, obviously, but you’re allowed a telescope in the roof. There’s a shutter that pulls across when it’s not being used.’
‘Has anybody got a key locally?’
‘Not that I know yet. They have an au pair for the youngest two children and she comes up the week before them to open the place up, get shopping in and get the logs stacked.’
‘Okay. Try to get a key from somewhere. Ask for consent for a walk round. Find out how they get in and out of the woods so we don’t get lost.’
‘And Lyons said there was a derelict property another mile along the same track for sale last year,’ said Craigo. ‘He read on Rightmove that it went for over £350K, ma’am. Are we going to have a look at that house?’
‘We can have a look at the house after we’ve looked at the map. Come on.’
Mackie was already at her monitor. ‘Listen to this.’ She read from the screen. ‘Mr Alexander Brooke-Williams, or Jimmy Williams, was arrested but released without charge in January 2023. He went to the Michael Bastion Centre, the Moonshine Hostel, on Commercial Road. He was good friends with the caretaker, Davie Silvers. He says Jimmy was friends with another older guy called Dougie Winshaw. Winshaw says Jimmy was friends with a volunteer called Mo Maitland. Mo worked on for another couple of days after Jimmy-Xander left or disappeared. Then she too left. She called in sick and never came back.’
‘Because her job was done? I’m getting a bit pissed off with “Mo” not coming back to work. Description?’
‘Five feet three or so, a bit overweight, shoulder-length, dark-brown hair. Slow was a word used. All her contact details are false. Her moby number is no longer in use. And they didn’t recognise Hospital Mo.’
‘Another Mo? And Mo gets pally with him, feeds him whatever line of bait works for him. He’s taken, willingly, to a second location where unbeknownst to him, he was going to be kept prisoner. But they didn’t know he was a diabetic, he didn’t survive, so they had to dispose of him. Despite being dead, they battered him with a baseball bat, angry that he’d deprived them of their little bit of fun?’
‘It was risky. They could’ve met a hiker.’
‘A calculated risk. They’d leave somebody at the bottom of the glen and phone when the coast was clear. Or they might be upping the thrill of the game. Right under the nose of the MoD, in between their precisely timed patrols.’
‘And they learned the hard way that a victim might need medication to survive. They didn’t know what Bethany was on. The media release had said she needed her meds. It would spoil the fun if she died on them before they’d enjoyed themselves.’
Craigo didn’t look convinced. ‘How did they get Brooke-Williams to follow them in the first place? He didn’t need money.’
‘But he needed something. They’d hone in on what would work on him. Maybe he and this Mo became friends, simple as that.’
‘And we have three, four, women all called Mo. Run me through them again?’
‘Five gals called Mo!’ cracked Mackie. ‘This one, the Brooke-Williams one, is Slow Mo? The raptor centre, the Heatherbank one, was the one who got the bird to use as bait and got the drugs, the one who tied the knots. She’s the one with the mullet who got bitten and turned up at the hospital. She’s Hospital Mo. Revolve Mo is small but blonde, pleasant and chirpy. She’s got Bethany and Shivonne and is there on the photomontage from the Revolve. I wonder if she flagged when the target left the building and put Operation Falcon into action. So, one Mo at the Revolve Centre. There’d need to be two Moes in the park.’ Caplan scrolled through her screen as Mackie talked. ‘Would that be Hospital Mo with the injured bird and Slow Mo?’
‘And one of those Moes was in Inverness years before. Nik had a Mo, remember.’
‘Yes, Glasgow accent, heavy, thickset, very short hair, spikey on top at her most recent. That sounds like Hospital Mo. Moonshine Hostel Mo, or Slow Mo, who befriended Brooke-Williams, fits the description of the lady in the bushes at Pulpit Hill Park.’
‘So, leading from that I looked at Heatherbank, and found this Facebook picture. A crowd of volunteers. But look at the back, walking across the shot, was this woman, not included in the set-up for the pic but accidently caught on the camera. God this is confusing,’ said Mackie.
‘And genius,’ Caplan said. ‘It’s pure obfuscation. Get that image expanded and cleaned up, get it to all the locales. See if anybody recognises her. She looks very unhappy to be caught on camera so let’s find out why.’
The DC appeared to be deep in concentration on her phone. Then she stood up and coughed. ‘I’d like to claim the caramel wafer and the gold star. Hospital Mo, Morven, appears to have been brought up in Rothesay.’
‘That’s not illegal.’
‘One of four girls.’ Mackie raised her eyebrows.
‘All called Maureen?’
‘Morven, Morna, Morag and Moira. There might be a fifth. She might be Maureen. It’s a bit like The Nolans, isn’t it?’
‘And did that clipping not say Wilma Vance was born in Bute?’ Caplan rubbed her face. ‘Four of them? Five? We need somebody good at logic puzzles. If the man at number 7 eats pizza, then who has the otter with vertigo.’
‘Eh?’
‘Just track them down. They will not be where they should be. They must gather to play their game, if I am right. For Bethany’s sake, I’m hoping that I am wrong.’
The three of them stood, tired and weary, a still point in the day.
‘Is Port Bannatyne not in Bute?’
‘Rory? Yes it is. So find out where Ghillies is? Where Robertson is? Where Vance is? If you need manpower, call Linden. You might need Fergusson’s skills. And for Moes, look at Facebook, TikTok, anywhere you might get a visual clue to exact identity.’ The day was bright and sunny but bitterly cold. It was apposite that the mood in the room had become less fraught, with hot tea and the searching through files, seeing connections, stumbling across facts that made sense now they recognised them. Things were moving on, intelligence was being gathered. It would take time and couldn’t be hurried.
She picked up the phone to call the Fiscal.
It rang before she could select the number. Followed by all the phones in the incident room.
The crows were noisier today, squawking and cawing as if unsettled. Bethany was lying on a narrow bed. She could see a wooden floor rather than stone slabs. She was in a different room. The wall facing her had been wallpapered once, in a cream and red Regency stripe, and there was a horizontal line of nicks and tears where a sideboard or a chest of drawers had been once. The ceiling had a central rose, with a single bulb swinging slightly on a webbed cord. A draught and a dull light were coming in from somewhere. The air was still fresh. She could still hear the chatter of the crows. So a different room in the same location? Her heart began to race. She closed her eyes again. Too much drug still in her system to make sense of it. But lying there, she screwed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the noise of her heart thumping to recede.
In the deadly quiet, the void of sound behind the birds, she could recognise the only voice that whispered in the distance. Wind. Wind through trees.
Was she going to take her last breath in here, between these four walls? She was going to rot away on this bed, undiscovered.
It would kill her dad.
What would happen then, if she was never found? Would they declare her dead without a body? Would her dad go insane thinking about what might or might not have happened to her? Lost. Never to be found. Nothing she thought of could be worse than what she was going through now.
Bethany tugged at the ties that bound her wrists together, not using her teeth or her fingers, too sore, too much blood, but then they slipped free. She looked at her hands, flexing her wrists, trying to quell the excitement.
She was going to make it. She was getting out of here.
Bending over, she got to work on her ankles. It wasn’t as hard as she thought. They weren’t tied as tight as they were before. Tears of relief blinded her as she eased her feet out of the bindings. It had been a tight fit.
Before, it had been impossible.
Bethany sat down and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, euphoria floating away, reality taking hold.
It was possible because they had made it possible.
Loose because they had left them loose. Soft Voice trying to help? They didn’t make that kind of mistake. What did that mean? They were safe because there was no way out for her now? She looked down, then physically lifted her left leg over her right with her left hand. She couldn’t get it to move on its own any more. Her foot was blue and swollen. The swelling below her knee was thicker than her knee itself. The pain was unbearable when she tried to stand on it.
Was this their plan? Had they disabled her too much to escape so they could safely give her a chance, knowing that she couldn’t take it?
It would fit their sardonic sense of cruelty.
She collapsed back on top of the bed, her head on the hard pillow. She shook her hair from her face, looking at the wall, thinking where the fresh air was coming from. At the top was a long hopper of a window, six feet long.
A window to the world.
Could she slither through it? Bethany looked at it for a long time, considering the pain in her leg and her hand … the height of the window.
They didn’t think that she’d be able to get out of there.
But she knew she was smart, she was a problem solver.
She let her eyes float upwards. She’d been in the dark for so long – the journey, her incarceration, the blindfolds – and her eyes now viewed this bright sky as painful. Up there, out in the world, darkness would fall. The moon would be out there soon along with plenty of trees; she was sure there were trees. She could make out the rustling of the leaves, the odd occasional creak of a branch and bursts of chatter from excited crows. She was sensing that the trees were close by.
She’d be safe in the woods.
Safe in the dark.
Slowly, she pulled herself to sit up. If she could find something in here, or break something to make a crutch, she might be able to walk, to get to the window. And then what? Climb up the wall? Think. Think. Maybe pull the bed over? She reached down, left-handed. The bloodied stub where they had pulled one fingernail out rendered her right hand useless. Trying to feel under the mattress, she worked her fingers along, feeling slats, wooden slats. It was a single bed. The length of the slats might make something that she could lean on.
Could she pull the bed over? Could she get to the window?
She felt dizzy, heady, but common sense told her that there was still some analgesic over in her bloodstream. If she wanted to make this move, there would be this time, and there would be the last time. Bethany looked out, thinking that now she was sitting up, maybe she could see the sky, thinking that this being her last move might be the very point.
Callum McPhee was lying behind the kitchen unit, curled into a ball, bleeding, the phone still in his hand.
Drury, a uniformed constable, was talking to Carrie-Louise, who was rubbing her arms, blood staining her face, a bruise reddening one eye. The young woman took a deep breath, risking a look over her shoulder to the kitchen area. She seemed wary of McPhee.
Caplan stepped to the side as the paramedics made their way through the hall of the small flat, moving past Carrie-Louise to the body lying behind the island.
Carrie-Louise’s eyes followed them. Caplan whispered to Mackie to stay standing right where she was, blocking the young woman’s view of her boyfriend.
Caplan introduced herself to the uniform.
‘It’s a bit awkward, ma’am.’
‘Is it?’ asked Caplan briskly.
‘Well, this is proof of the domestic abuse that she’s complained of. We’re going to charge him and keep him in custody if he’s breached the restraining agreement.’
Caplan agreed, her stomach sinking. ‘You accompany him to the hospital. Make sure everything gets documented. All the bruises on both parties. Get another uniform to get Carrie-Louise to hospital then to Oban for a statement. You follow McPhee to the hospital. Don’t let him out of your sight – handcuff him if you have to.’
‘Are you really going for it, ma’am?’ The uniform looked conflicted.
‘He gets treated as every other suspect; she gets treated as every other abuse survivor. They both need medical attention and their injuries need to be recorded; you know, bruises of a different age, etc. And ask for more bloods on McPhee. Ask for a tox screen on his hair if they didn’t take a sample before. And we’ll make sure that we are nowhere near him, to keep things tidy. But he’s the one bleeding out.’
The paramedic looked at the young policeman on the floor, at the knife, and said that they really needed to get going, as he placed an oxygen mask over the face that was fading, becoming whiter by the moment.
The constable’s eyes were now on McPhee as his colleague was carried out on a stretcher, the blood stain a large red mushroom on his light-blue shirt. The creases he had ironed in that morning were still clear and neat down each sleeve.
Caplan felt that slow grip of terror that one of hers might not make it.
‘Mackie? Stay with Carrie-Louise. She needs to know that she has somebody with her until support is put in place for her. Make sure her injuries are logged, forensically. Drury will stick with McPhee.’ Caplan walked over to the far window looking down to where they were sliding McPhee into the back of the ambulance, his body rolling slightly under the blanket. A small crowd of neighbours had gathered. They had, no doubt, filled in any part of the narrative that they were missing. One dark-haired woman, still in her slippers, closed in on the ambulance doors as McPhee was half in and half out. She spat on the prostrate figure.
The paramedic turned on her. Caplan’s ears picked up the obscenities going back and forth.
As Caplan left, Mackie was helping Carrie-Louise to her feet, making sure that she was steady before asking her where her coat was, and did she think she was okay to make it out to the car. Carrie-Louise gave Caplan a flash of her smile.
It didn’t work this time.