Slowly, painfully, she stood up and hopped round the bed, leaning on it as she went. It took time, but once at the other side, when she leaned on it, it moved easily under the pressure of her body weight. She had no idea how long it took her once it started inching across the floor. She kept it going, moving towards the wall, towards the window.
When there, she collapsed on top of it, exhausted. The pain pounding in her leg was so intense she had to count each one, each stab, each twist, each squeeze deep in the bone. They would be back – during the hours of darkness? Or would they dare to come in when the sunshine filled the room and they might need to show their faces?
Lying back, she looked up, noticing the two small curtains pulled neatly aside, their pleats forming little black squares at either end. If they fitted the window, and they were for blackout coverage, they would match the shape surely. Long. Thin. Could she make a rope out of them to get her out of the window?
She sat up on the bed, pulling her bad leg over and pushing away the pain, not daring to hope. Standing on her right leg on the bed, both hands on the wall, she slowly made her way up, bloodied fingertip by bloodied fingertip.
At the window ledge, above her head, her fingers reached over and curled round the edge of the sill, finding the metal frame. Then the long handle with holes, the swan neck. She pulled herself a little closer, searching for the clasp with her fingers, lifting the bar and feeling it spring open. Petrichor. Woodland. Fir trees. Fresh air so strong she almost passed out.
She slid back down, collapsing into the small gap between the wall and the bed.
At least she had something now, something that she’d not had before.
She had hope.
She decided to agree with herself on that one thing. If her life was going to be in this much pain then it was better not having it.
She closed her eyes, staring at the ceiling, and thought about dying. She found herself humming ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ to herself, the tune then the words. Walking in death’s dark vale, she would fear no ill.
Yes, that was it, feel the fear then do it anyway.
Ignoring the pain in her leg, the aching in her arms, she was buoyed up by her elation. They had finally made a mistake and left a window unlocked that she could get through. If she could climb up, lift herself over the ledge and to the other side, into the cover of the trees to hide, she could be guided by the stars in the clear sky. She gave a wry smile to herself; she was going to be where she needed to be.
She could taste freedom.
Looking at her broken fingers and persuading herself that they’d still work, she hooked them over the ledge, placed her good foot on the wall, then pulled herself up. There was a sickening pain in her leg as she went up and over the window frame, the metal digging into her stomach, then she let go, getting one hand down over her head as she went through the other side, slithering down the wall. Still trying to hold on to the lower frame of the window, she dropped gently, collapsing on the rough ground. There she stopped for a moment, retracting her arms and legs, trying to disappear into the wall, making sure that nobody had heard. She nursed her wounds for a moment, feeling the burning pain where she had scraped her hands on the bricks, and the ever-present pain in her left leg. She looked out at the world; the dancing trees in the gentle wind, the blue sky – there was a myriad of invisible stars up there. She envied them.
But the air was fresh.
Her ears searched round for any noise not of nature. Even the crows were silent, high in the trees watching her with their black eyes.
Nothing. But she stayed where she was. Waiting.
Then, something in the woods – something.
Breathing?
She imagined the wind was holding its breath.
Then letting go.
‘Are you sure we are doing the right thing, ma’am?’
‘Quite frankly, Craigo, I have no bloody idea. But it was your list, I agreed with you when you were compiling it and we should be acting on it. Rod, Todd, Callum McPhee? They are where they are, but with Bethany we can change what’s going to happen to her. Take a right here. Lochanview is the closest house. If she’s not there then we keep going.’
‘And if we don’t find her?’
‘We keep going until we do.’
They drove along the single-track road, Caplan following on the map as the satnav had lost its signal three miles before. They were starting to get a feel for the places; full of overgrown trees, nothing that the Forestry Commission would come checking on every three weeks. A few single-track roads criss-crossed the area. It was easy to think of the most direct route in and out, but maybe for other purposes the tracks formed a hidden network that allowed covert but slow movement across a lot of country.
Lochanview was such a house. Semi off-grid, there would be nobody at home at this time of year. It was deep in a Dark Sky zone in Strathfillan and built on a slight lift in the landscape. Like the house Caplan was renovating, the living area was upstairs and a huge glass window ran the full length. The house was three stories at the front with a workshop and garage underneath. It was built in the late 1960s.
The owners had friends who had a key, and had given consent for Caplan to enter from their flat in the south of France where the family had relocated for a four-year work contract.
Craigo pulled up outside.
A murder of crows took to the sky.
‘There’s hundreds of them.’
‘Mass murder of crows?’ Craigo was deadpan.
‘Well, it scores high on the serial-killer checklist,’ said Caplan. She lifted the envelope from her rucksack and took the key out.
A path ran from the track over a wild garden of heathers and moss to the front door. They climbed the three wooden steps, free of leaves as if they had been swept recently.
She opened the door, the key sliding in the lock easily. A smell of slight dampness and something like cooking oil floated towards them. The hall was carpeted with the same green and purple tones of the landscape outside. An open-plan staircase went up to the right and to the left were two rooms, with doors closed. The kitchen and diner lay ahead.
‘Is there a door to the basement from within?’ asked Craigo.
‘Why are you whispering?’ whispered Caplan. ‘There’s nobody here. On the plan there’s a way down to the garage through the utility room.’
They walked, their feet making no noise on the thick carpeted floor. The door on the far side of the kitchen opened to reveal another small hallway, three steps down. Caplan put her hand on Craigo’s shoulder. Stop.
She pointed to the door at the bottom of the three steps, to a turn of the stairs and another door which she was sure had closed in front of them.
Craigo put his hand up and stepped to the side of the stairs. He went down, one step at a time, Caplan behind him, noticing the change in smell; washing powder, a sign of recent activity in a house that was supposed to be empty. Craigo stood to one side as Caplan pushed the door and let it swing open fully.
A bank of white appliances stood under a white worktop. On the far side the window showed the view of the trees, nothing but trees. Caplan sensed rather than heard something behind the door, trapped now that it was opened fully, hidden until one of them entered the room and it closed behind them.
‘Just the laundry,’ said Caplan, and let the door close again. She slipped into the shadows as Craigo noisily made his way downstairs to the basement. They waited and waited.
Then the laundry door opened by an inch. Somebody was checking the stairs, not seeing Caplan pressed against the wall, beside the door. There was an audible sigh of relief, the door opened and a middle-aged woman stepped onto the landing, pulling her anorak on and stepping forward to creep up the stairs and get back to the kitchen.
‘Can I help you?’ said Caplan quietly.
She thought the woman’s feet left the ground as she jumped in fright.
She was a chubby woman in her late forties, with her anorak unzipped, her house keys in her hand. She had slippers on her feet, but her thick woollen socks told their own story. There would be hill-walking boots somewhere. That explained the lack of car.
She made a strange mewling noise, her hand over her chest. ‘Oh my Jesus Christ, you gave me a fright. I didn’t hear the front door. I thought I heard somebody walking around in here.’ She smiled and gave a little laugh. ‘I thought you were here to rob the place. You two must be lost. Nobody ever comes here. Can I help you?’
It was a good act. Her expression was one of genuine shock. She was very softly spoken.
‘Who are you?’ asked Caplan as Craigo approached the woman from the stairs below.
Her eyes grew a little suspicious. She looked over their heads to the trees visible through the stairwell window.
Caplan held up her warrant card. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ They introduced themselves. The woman took a long time looking at their identification as she walked back up to the hall, looking out at the Hilux. The sight of that reassured her.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Maureen. Maureen Maitland.’
Caplan couldn’t look at Craigo.
Maitland chattered on, innocently. ‘I work for Spire properties. Is there an issue? Is it the septic tank again? I’ve all the paperwork back in the office.’
‘How often do you visit here?’
‘As often as I think I need. After storms or severe winds. Once a month to keep it shipshape.’
‘Has this property lain empty at any time in the last five or six years? For a couple of months or more?’
Maitland leaned against the front door slightly, as if thinking. ‘Well, yes, the owners bought it, well, end of 2019, then we had the whole Covid thing and it was empty and uninhabitable. Builders were working on it on and off for the next two years, then I think Spire took it on. I’m sorry, I can’t be more precise without looking it up but is there something wrong, has somebody complained? Like I say, the septic tank? Well, it was all sorted out in the …’
‘Do you have any outbuildings?’
‘No. There’s a basement.’ Then she appeared to think. She was a pretty woman, older than Caplan had first thought, in her mid-fifties maybe. The gentle blonde had thick streaks of white and her blue eyes were framed by a concertina of wrinkles. ‘Well, actually, there’s two rooms and a wee toilet.’
Again, Caplan didn’t look at Craigo’s face. ‘Can we have a look, please? We have permission from the owner to make sure that the property is secure.’
‘Oh, come on down then. You’ve no idea what we sometimes find in properties that have been lying empty for a while.’
They followed her, Craigo making small talk as Caplan pointed at her own mouth. They had both spotted that Maureen Maitland had a snaggle tooth, her canine, on the left.
Caplan stood well back as Craigo followed Maitland into the basement. This room had a sink and a small tick-over heater.
Craigo opened each of the two doors that faced him. He did a cursory glance around, then looked around the room he was standing in, a blueprint of the living room above. ‘Were you ever round when the work was going on down here?’
‘I was in and out.’ Maitland looked at Craigo.
Caplan excused herself and said she was going out to get a phone signal, glad to get some fresh air. Maitland didn’t come across as a guilty party caught. And that made Caplan nervous. Was this just the dupe who had access to the property information? She walked around a little, appearing to be strolling up and down, killing time, while texting back to the station. She confirmed where they were and asked for a status check in ten minutes if she wasn’t back in touch with them. Then she returned to the house, to the top of the stairs and looked down.
She froze, some instinct of self-preservation kicking in. The door of the basement had swung closed, or it had been closed.
Caplan retreated out to the Hilux, looking into the rear passenger seats. There had to be something there to defend herself. Against what?
Looking around, she saw plenty of logs of all sizes, some free of the moss and growth that would render them slippy, things she could use as a weapon. Gently, phone in pocket, she flexed her fingers, ready. Slowly, she walked back into the hall and down the stairs towards the door again. There was no noise coming from inside. Of course, Maitland with the snaggle tooth could have a syringe down there filled with ketamine, or God knows what.
She placed the palm of her hand on the knob, her ear to the door listening.
Silence except for her own heartbeat.
She was considering her next move when the jerk of the door being pulled open made her jump. Craigo emerged into the daylight of the hall adjusting his glasses.
She didn’t have time to get the words ‘Are you all right?’ out her mouth when he started.
‘Ma’am? Maureen here recalls one of the plastic dust sheets being a bit stained. She thinks it was on a Wednesday after a bank holiday weekend, and one of the builders said it was blood, thinking that somebody must have hurt themselves and it hadn’t been put in the accident book.’ He raised his eyebrows as if that was the most significant detail of all.
‘And?’
‘The plastic sheeting is still there, folded up in a box with rollers, paint and God knows what. It looks like blood to me, ma’am.’
Caplan whispered, ‘And how’s Maureen feeling?’
‘She’s very nervous, very nervous indeed.’ Craigo looked at her, with his weird sepia eyes. ‘You’ve less than seventy-two hours, ma’am. That’s what McEwan gave you to get something solid on his desk.’
‘And how long does Bethany have?’ Caplan wiped her face with her hands.
Caplan didn’t ask for a whole forensic team, but they got permission to close the house up then take a tearful Maureen Maitland back to the station with instructions that Mackie had to be nice to her.
As Caplan explained what they were looking for, Maitland stood outside the door, watching them, her hands deep in her pockets, alternating between deep breathing and crying. If she knew anything, she was a good actress. Still, Caplan thought, she could just be pissed off at getting caught.
‘Mo Maitland’ was sitting in the interview room in Cronchie. She had her jacket pulled round her as if she was cold, though the autumn sun that floated in through the window had warmed the air. The aroma of coffee filled the air but the cup sat in front of her untouched.
She had looked up when Caplan and Craigo had entered the room. A wary look appeared in her eyes before peace settled on her features.
Caplan introduced herself and Craigo again and placed the file of photographs in front of her but didn’t open them.
‘Are you being looked after?’
‘Oh yes, quite happy, thank you.’
‘Do you know this man?’ Caplan turned over a picture of William Robertson.
‘Yes, I do.’ She took her glasses off and looked more closely at the picture. ‘That’s the dad of that lassie who has gone missing.’ She looked back at Caplan, staring at her.
‘Is there something you want to tell me?’
She shrugged. And sighed.
‘You volunteered the dirty floor sheets. You know.’
‘I’m very glad I did. You were police. I’d been thinking about the blood. If that property has been used for …’ She tapped the desk. ‘… For this kind of thing then that’s awful. It has to be stopped.’
‘Yes, no normal person would disagree with you there.’
Caplan placed the photograph of Lisa Stratton on the table. ‘Do you know her?’
‘No, I don’t.’ She looked away.
‘This one is worse, this young man.’ A picture of Brooke-Williams. ‘What about him?’
‘Look, it’s been all over the news. Is that the body found in Glen Douglas?’
‘You’re bright, Maureen, if that’s your name. You see,’ Caplan leaned back in the plastic seat, ‘you are a Maureen, and, I suspect, a Mo. You are part of a collection of interchangeable women, sisters, all called Mo. I have four kittens at home: Eeny, Meeny, Miny and Moe. It’s a picking game. Which Mo are you? Mo with the raptors? Hospital Mo? Mo at the Revolve? Slow Mo up in the bushes? Mo the Blow? Inverness Mo? Are you any of the above?’ Caplan looked round the room, appearing bored. ‘But, the removal of the tooth is interesting, the same upper left canine. The location of a snaggle tooth, which can be hereditary? Are you Moes all related? Or does the mastermind of it all have a snaggle tooth?’
Maureen stayed silent, but the look in her eyes had altered to something that Caplan could only read as fear. But she didn’t seem scared of anything Caplan had said.
‘Nothing to do with the five Maitland sisters brought up in Bute? Near where Wilma Johnstone grew up? No? Near Port Bannatyne?’
Again, something, close to nothing, but a slight glimmer of fear.
Maitland held her hand up. ‘Yes and no. We were separated as children. The records will tell you that. I use my real name but apart from that I have nothing to do with my siblings.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Caplan placed the picture from the newspaper in front of Maitland. ‘There’s Felix Vance and Wilma Johnstone on their wedding day. The caption says they’re with with best man Kevin McCall, and bridesmaid Maureen Maitland.’
Maitland stared at the picture for a long time but said nothing. Her face was unreadable.
‘Are you scared of them?’ Caplan let that question lie. ‘How well do you know Wilma Vance now? Or maybe, how well do your sisters know her?’
‘I wasn’t brought up with my sisters, I’ve just said that. And Wilma used to be a friend of mine.’ She bit her lip, watching Caplan, then Craigo. ‘Why am I here?’
‘Yes, why are you? Why you? Why not Morag or Morven or whoever? Why you? It took us a long time to piece together what kind of location these poor victims were being kept in. Yet you told us about the floor covering.’
‘Because you were looking at the floor. Up to then, I hadn’t really thought about it. I was expecting somebody from the health and safety. There was a lot of blood and nothing in the accident book. That was all.’ She leaned forward on her hands, showing stress, and took a long, slow breath out. ‘And then there were two detectives, not police but detectives of a high rank standing on the doorstep. I’ve seen that about those two women missing, then one’s found dead in the Chern Wood, then you turn up on the doorstep. There was a picture of you in the paper.’ She nodded at Caplan. ‘What the hell was I supposed to think? I thought I was being helpful. Because your colleague was looking at the floor.’
‘Okay, good thinking.’
‘Who are the builders?’
‘Oh, you’d need to ask Spire. They keep all kinds of records. They do project management, all trades from different places.’
‘Why would you stand by and watch that?’ Caplan tapped Xander’s head. ‘Why wouldn’t you help her?’ Caplan tapped Shiv’s bruised and battered face. ‘I can’t understand that. To do such a horrible thing to a human being, hunting them down.’ She banged the six pictures on the table, fanning them out in front of her. ‘So, Craigo, she’s brave enough to do that? But not brave enough to look at them now, not brave enough to stand up and confess to us that she did that.’
‘But why would any human being do it? Pull out their teeth and break their legs. Why?’ said Craigo.
Maitland slowly blinked, her pale-blue eyes filled with tears that swum and rolled their way down the creases of skin. She looked at Craigo and then looked at Caplan.
‘Ma’am, maybe we could let her go and then let them go after her, and then we could watch over her and hope we got there in time?’ suggested Craigo.
It was that serious, slightly offbeat thing that Craigo did so well.
‘You know, Craigo, we might just do that if she doesn’t tell us where Bethany Robertson is.’
Maitland blinked slowly, then looked down at the photograph of Shiv. This time she seemed unable to tear her eyes away. Then she was violently sick.
Caplan and Craigo remained seated at the table. Caplan handed her some paper tissues.
‘Well, Maureen, I think that if I knew the person who was capable of doing that …’ She slid the picture of the remains of Nik Ardman’s face under her nose. ‘I think I’d be worried sick as well. We can put you down to the cells for now, for your safekeeping.’
‘I don’t know where Bethany is. I don’t.’ Maitland was staring at the pictures, wiping her hands, her mouth, her jumper. She looked at the picture of Lisa Stratton. There was a slight shake of the head. A look of puzzlement passed her features.
Then she seemed to deflate in front of them.
‘She wasn’t in the game. I’ve never seen that woman before.’
Caplan was calm as she spoke. ‘But you did do that to the others?’
‘No. Yes. Not like them. Please, I didn’t ever do what they did.’
‘Why did you do any of it?’ asked Caplan.
‘Because if I didn’t, it would be done to me.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Yes, Mackie. I thought I told you to keep talking to Maitland. She’s our key to the rest of them and it’s not as if she’s going anywhere, is it?’
‘We got her a solicitor in case we need to use her statement. Here’s a cup of tea. I’ve sent Stewart out for some sandwiches. And Lucozade.’
‘Why?’
‘For the journey down to Dumfries and Galloway. Well, Maitland was right about the folded dust sheets. It’s proved positive human blood on a presumptive test.’
‘Who’s out there?’
‘Purdey. You don’t know him. He says he has a good sample from an inner fold, right on the crease, where it’ll have been protected from the elements. Hopefully the sample will not have degenerated. And Maureen Maitland has no criminal record. Nothing at all,’ said Mackie.
‘So what do we do, ma’am? A full Scene of Crime team at Lochanview which is half an hour down the road? Do we need search teams for each property? Or do we head down to Galloway ourselves?’ Craigo said.
‘Do we wait?’ asked Mackie.
‘How can we? Bethany’s still out there.’
Craigo looked at his watch. ‘It’s been eight days, ma’am.’
Caplan felt the skin on her face tighten as the stress bit. He was looking at her, expecting a decision. ‘Is this your best guess, Craigo?’
‘Down at Dumfries and Galloway there’s a forest park. There are two properties, both under stalled renovation. They tick the most boxes. It’s only a hundred and eighty miles, ma’am. We can do them both ourselves. If we are wrong then I’ll have another look at the map, divide it up, flag the properties and get ourselves in position so that we can move.’
‘What’s the alternative?’
Craigo shrugged.
They climbed into the Hilux, jackets on, boots on, sandwiches and three bottles of Lucozade – Mackie’s idea of an energy diet. Caplan’s phones had eleven missed calls. Two from the Fiscal’s office. Another two from Bill Robertson. Three from Pordini and the last one was from Rory Ghillies. The other three were from McEwan. Everywhere she went in this investigation she thought Ghillies was either two steps in front or one step behind, watching every move she made.
All the calls were from mobile numbers. The only one to leave a voicemail was Pordini. He sounded stressed.
She put it onto speaker-phone so Craigo could hear while driving.
Pordini had found the items taken from the Rod-Todd house at the lab, in a long queue for processing. ‘So I find the Smoo Cave picture from Amazon, thought it might be relevant after reading about that ‘Stevie.’ And the note that Todd had put through Mrs Gains’s letterbox was there in an evidence bag. I mean, was he not supposed to have great italic penmanship? The neighbour said that in her statement. The note in the bag was written in panic, I’ll bet my last Rolo on it.’
‘He’s good that Pordini bloke, isn’t he?’ said Craigo.
‘Confident if he’s giving away chocolate.’
The voice continued. Caplan could hear the eagerness of the young DC. ‘The Smoo Cave image was in portrait, not landscape. I mean, who does that? The glass had smears in two distinct places, thumb prints, left, right, as if it had been held that way, often. So I opened the back and found nothing but the Smoo Cave picture. But it had another picture on the back, stuck with double-sided tape. And guess what? A middle-aged woman. Kinda looks like Stevie Nicks. Got that blonde witchy thing going on. And the tape looks like it was hauled off. So one person, Rod maybe, opened the picture with care on Monday night. Then Todd finds it, rips it open and goes a bit mental? Or Todd comes home, finds Rod with her, kills him, then opens the picture at a later date? Remorse? Hangs himself? Have I to write this up? Not sure what happened to be honest. Cheers, sir, sorry, ma’am.’
The interior of the Hilux fell quiet.
‘I’d like to see him when he does know what happened,’ said Caplan, hanging up on the voicemail. She wanted to think.
There was nothing wrong with Rod, except that he was kept in that house by Peter Todd. Or was he? Rod was at home, looking at holidays. Todd was out earning the money, happy because he loved his partner, the kept man being the one exerting the control, holding all the cards. It was the same dangerous game that Carrie Louise had been playing.
Then Rod met Stevie online. They would spend hours online together when Todd was at work. Then they chanced a weekly visit in person. That would have been some kind of betrayal. Did Todd plan the anniversary dinner on the second as one last chance? Then the box from Amazon arrived, intercepted by Mrs Gains, who gave it innocently to Todd. Who examined it later. And was not fooled.
That was the final straw for Todd. He could’ve thrown Rod out. Rod could’ve walked out at any time. But they didn’t. They should have separated earlier. Rod had already checked out of that relationship. How easy was it to mention an illness, something that nobody liked to talk about, to keep the ever-watchful Mrs Gains from the door. Was that possible? Of course, it was possible. Aklen had hardly gone out of the house in seven years. Todd must have gone along with that, laughing at the old woman and her concern.
The visitor was no more a therapist than Caplan was the Maid Of The Loch.
Then, had Todd come in, put on the kettle, had a biscuit, sat down, started to watch Countdown.
Deceitful.
And maybe he realised the enormity of what he had done, the thought of the body upstairs. Or was it the thought of life without Rod?
A psychologist had once told Caplan that suicides happen in a moment; a perfect storm of circumstances. Another day, another week, different weather, different medications and it would never have happened. But for the unfortunate few.
Caplan let out a long slow breath. Like Pordini, she had no idea if her proposed chain of events was correct. She needed Ryce’s help on that.
As he often did, Craigo honed in on her thoughts. ‘It’s just a sad business all round.’
‘It truly is.’ Caplan went back to looking at the map and the floor-plans of the two houses they were going to, memorising them as well as the surrounding area.
Four messages came through in quick succession.
Fergusson, under a DI whose name Caplan didn’t catch, was trying to set up an informal chat with Felix Vance and his lovely wife Wilma but was finding it difficult to track them down.
Ghillies was not answering his landline or his mobile and Mackie couldn’t locate him. Robertson, unusually, was not in the house. Waddell said he’d gone for a short walk but had been away some time.
The rats were gathering.
It wasn’t a surprise.