They say time heals all wounds. Gavin Darroch had his doubts. The meeting with Derek hadn’t sat well with him. He felt he’d done the right thing by his sister though in the light of his revelation that Mackenzie was getting worse, hoped he hadn’t added to the problem.
He poured himself a drink, tried to switch off and flicked on the TV. With the sound turned down so as not to wake Monica and Alice, watching was a waste of time. Gavin picked up the drawings he’d been putting off looking at for days, couldn’t concentrate and found himself doodling in the margin.
Why? Why? Why?
A stranger with a grudge?
What kind of a grudge would be played out like that?
Mackenzie was certain it had been about her and he believed her. So what drove a stranger with a grudge against Crawford Cars to take such terrible revenge on an innocent woman? The question had been swimming on the edge of his mind ever since they’d been told about Joe Melia’s connection to Derek’s business.
Suddenly, there it was. Right in front of him.
a stranger with a grudge
Andrew Geddes was at home. The words were slurred. Geddes was drinking. ‘Gavin, mate, what can I do for you?’
‘Been thinking about Joseph Melia. Bit of a mystery man, wasn’t he? Didn’t you say he’d no history of violence? To do what he did would need a powerful motive, don’t you think?’
‘Getting sacked is pretty powerful.’
Gavin disagreed. ‘People get sacked every day without abducting the boss’s wife.’
‘True, except Melia went from Salesman Of The Month to out on his arse. Losing a lot of money in the process.’
‘What was he up to?’
‘Stealing. Like all the best scams, his was simple: the object of the exercise in the car game is to shift stock. Over-generous offers on trade-ins are common. Just how generous is often left to the discretion of the salesman. Sometimes trade-ins need to be written off entirely. No sweat, so long as more expensive new models are rolling off the forecourt. Apparently, Joe Boy was very good at making that happen. As I say, the bastard was only in the door when he won Salesman Of The Month. Nobody guessed he was negotiating kickbacks for himself.’
‘How did he get caught?’
‘January’s a graveyard month in most businesses. The car game’s no exception. Not for Jo-Jo. He was setting the heather on fire. That was his mistake. A manager twigged his figures were just too good and started checking. Nabbed him in the act shortly after that.’
‘Why wasn’t he charged?’
‘Should’ve been, no question. They settled for quietly getting rid of him. Didn’t want the publicity.’
‘And Derek wasn’t involved?’
‘No, the manager handled it.’
‘This happened in February?’
‘Right. Three months before he kidnapped your sister.’
Gavin let what he was hearing sink in. ‘Okay, except the grudge was against Crawford Cars. Melia didn’t know Derek, so why take his wife and not the manager’s who’d sacked him? Doesn’t make sense.’
Geddes wasn’t sympathetic. ‘Good question, mate, and I agree with you. Unfortunately the only guy who can answer it isn’t around. Every case can’t be tied in a big bow. Life isn’t as simple as that.’
Maybe he was right. Gavin apologised for breaking into his evening and rung off. He poured himself another glass of wine and turned over what Andrew Geddes had said. Then he opened the PC and checked Melia’s Facebook account. The dead man hadn’t used it much, what was there was standard stuff, like the blurry shot of a fish lying on a riverbank. Underneath it he’d written “The one that didn’t get away”.
Six weeks before he’d been sacked he’d posted a slew of pro-Brexit comments and links to newspaper articles supporting his views. Nothing else, until a picture of people wearing paper hats, with their arms round each others’ shoulders at the Christmas party. Joe Melia was second from the end, grinning drunkenly at the camera.
In the final entry, posted a month later, a night-time shot of King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut at the top of St Vincent Street had snow on the ground. Whoever was gigging didn’t get a mention. No friends either, female or otherwise, which struck Gavin as unusual.
Who went to a gig by themselves? Not anybody he knew, that was for sure.
His ‘friends’ list ran to only half a dozen, none of them in Scotland. It seemed selfies weren’t his thing, or women for that matter, and there was no suggestion he was gay. Melia had been a man of few interests and even fewer mates. A loner. On this evidence nobody was going to miss him.
Gavin could hardly keep his eyes open. The wine, what was left of it, got poured down the sink and he made a double-espresso. The coffee tasted harsh and bitter and he had to force himself to drink it. He went back to the PC and scrolled through Melia’s Facebook one more time. Trying to understand who the stalker had been wasn’t easy, yet he wasn’t ready to give up. The more he looked the less he saw. Maybe Andrew Geddes was right about having to make sense of it all instead of accepting what was already known. Eventually, he closed the computer down and went to bed.
But sleep wouldn’t come. And in the darkness, listening to the occasional car pass on the street outside, images of his sister chained to the bed, her body abused and broken, appeared behind his eyes.
When dawn broke over the city it found him washed-out and weary and back at the computer, going over the same old ground. Nothing had changed, it was all still there: the dead fish, the Brexit stuff, the wintry King Tut’s, and the gang at the Christmas party. Gavin studied Melia’s boozy face guessing he’d been the star of the show that night. It wouldn’t last. Just weeks later his glittering career would be over, he’d be fired – out on the street and fortunate not to be facing a prison sentence. On the surface, he seemed normal, ordinary. Dull even. But Gavin Darroch had been there. He’d seen. And what this man had done to a defenceless woman was far beyond the grudge the police had settled for.
He printed off the picture of the Christmas party group, slipped it into his inside jacket pocket and headed for the door with no clear idea where he was going. On his way out he looked in on Monica and Alice, wishing he could crawl in under the clothes and lose himself in his wife’s warm body.
At twenty past seven, Great Western Road was already full-on and progress was slow. Every now and then he glanced at the print-off on the seat beside him, as if all he had to do to force it to give up its secret was say the magic words. Unfortunately, he didn’t know those words. So he zoned out and let the car drive itself while Andrew’s rebuke rang in his head.
tied in a big bow
life isn’t as simple as that
At Hamilton, with Strathclyde Loch a choppy stretch of grey water on his right-hand side, he gradually rejoined the world like a dreamer waking from a troubled slumber. It had cost a night’s sleep and there were still more questions than answers, but now he knew where he was going though he still didn’t know why.
On the outskirts of Leadhills village his bleak city-boy assessment of where he was came to him.
mamba country
He drove on until he arrived at where Mackenzie had been held against her will and treated so cruelly. The collapsed roof and boarded windows revealed the extent of the dereliction, though not the terrible crimes committed here, and the ground was still pitted with the tyre-tracks of the ambulance and police cars. Gavin got out and gazed for a moment at the empty landscape, wondering how Melia had discovered this place?
Some unknown hand had made a half-hearted attempt to hold the front door closed and failed. It had fallen ajar in a final statement of dilapidation.
A noise like a child’s cry came from the rusted hinges when he pushed at the rotted wood and started down what had once been the hall, stepping carefully over the old timbers. A bird flew unexpectedly from somewhere above, startling him. Flapping and squawking in the eaves before escaping through the hole in the roof. On another day, an inconsequential happening not worthy of a mention: an embarrassing overreaction to laugh about. Not today. The grim history made it portentous enough to have his heart pounding in his chest.
He made his way along the hall. At the top of the steps he stopped, found the battery light then reluctantly went down.
Over the years the space would have had many uses though surely none as inhuman as its last incarnation. On the floor in the centre of the room, a dark stain – darker even than the flagstones – caught his eye and he heard again Melia gasp as the knife slid into him.
He’d been a bad guy who deserved what he got, no doubt about that, but it was a memory Gavin Darroch could live without.
The chain which had kept his sister prisoner had been removed. Everything else was as it had been, except the bed with its bloodstained crumpled sheets had been remade and the coffee cups, soup cartons and sandwich wrappers swept into a corner. He lifted a cardboard container and read the familiar logo with the sound of Mackenzie begging and pleading so clear she could’ve been there with him.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood, the temperature fell. It was bitterly cold and his tongue raced around his mouth. The awful energy of the place had got to him.
This was a basement in name only, in reality, it was a dungeon.
He needed to get out.
Standing watching the pale-blue early-morning sky, the feeling passed and the house was just a house again. Behind it, the hill rose steeply. Climbing it wouldn’t be easy because the sun hadn’t had a chance to do its work and the grass was wet with dew; Gavin had lost his footing several times on the way up. At the top, barren hills stretched for miles patched by mist floating like islands of smoke above them. A welcome breeze cooled his face and, after the dank cellar, the air was fresh in his lungs. No other dwelling was visible but, from this height, lines of dark-green moss rooted between the grey slate tiles and the ragged edges of the collapsed roof were starkly defined. Through the sagging tear he was able to look into the dark heart of the neglected building. Given its state of decay, spending time in it, even during the day – as he’d discovered – was an unpleasant experience. In the dead of night, manacled and terrified, waiting for the stalker to return to do his worst was beyond imagining.
It was a hellish place.
To his right, the ground fell away, gently sloping, disappearing into a gully. Gavin started walking. Five minutes further on, the horizon was as far away as it had ever been.
Where was he going? What was he looking for? He didn’t know.
Until he found it.
The wooden stake had been washed clean by the waters of the shallow stream it lay across, the sign warped and cracked, though the lettering was legible. He turned his head to read it and immediately understood. Joe Melia hadn’t reinvented the wheel to find somewhere so perfectly suited to his purpose. He’d taken the obvious route and been rewarded.
CUNNINGHAM AND McCLURE
ESTATE AGENTS
LANARK
01555 964142
What had brought him back to that God-forsaken house a third time was the nagging doubt his sister had planted on their last visit. At first, scaling the hill, slipping and sliding on the dewy grass, he’d truly no idea what he was looking for. Another man would have seen the Lowther Hills melding with the sky in every direction and turned back. He wasn’t that man.
There was no reason, no excuse. The stalker was dead. Everybody was satisfied. Everybody but Mackenzie. And now him.
There were no other vehicles on the forecourt at Abington when he pulled up to the pumps. He filled the tank with fuel he didn’t need to the hum of lorries and trucks going south. With the sun warming him it should’ve been hard to hold onto the memory of the house, or dismiss it as the lingering fragment of a nightmare.
It wasn’t. It had happened. It had been real.
Inside the service station he added a cup of muddy coffee from a machine to the petrol and went into his act with the fair-haired woman behind the counter, the same one as before, guessing she wouldn’t remember him. It was two months and she hadn’t recalled the guy in the black coat minutes after he’d been in the shop.
‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘I’m a city guy but, on a day like today, I envy you living here.’
She smiled and handed him a receipt, pleased by the admission. ‘It’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but I like it.’
Gavin turned away and turned back, feigning uncertainty, drawing the Christmas party print-out from his pocket like a spur-of-the-moment decision. ‘I wonder. Do you recognise anybody in this picture? I’m supposed to meet somebody here – one of these guys – but I’m not sure which one it is. All I know is he’s a local.’
She glanced at it then at him, her willingness to help tinged with a shadow of distrust. The smile disappeared. Seconds passed before she answered. ‘As a matter of fact I do.’ Her fingertip settled on Joe Melia’s drunken grin. ‘Him. But he’s not local. Seen him a few times. Hasn’t been in recently though.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
He started to fold the sheet and was about to thank her when she touched his arm, her hand hovering over the group. ‘And him right at the back. Came in together a few times.’
Gavin couldn’t speak. He’d been so focused on Melia and the people near him he’d paid no attention to the crowd at the back by the bar.
‘Sorry, you say they came in together?’
‘Once or twice, yes.’
The Clyde Valley runs through countryside which, in its own way, is as glorious as any in Scotland. Lush and green, peaceful and ordered. None of it registered. Gavin gripped the steering wheel, driving faster than was wise and, for a short stretch early on, almost winning a race he was always going to lose with a train from London heading to Central Station in Glasgow. Unfamiliar villages with unfamiliar names: Roberton, Wiston, Thankerton and Carmichael, came and went unnoticed. It was only when traffic lights at the single file Hyndford Bridge halted his progress that the full implication hit him. He’d come, hoping someone or something could offer an insight into why Melia had done the terrible thing he’d done. Instead, he’d uncovered a crime too bizarre to believe. And try as he might, he couldn’t get his head round it.
But he did believe it. He knew it was true. The lady at Abington’s confident identification meant it could be no other way.
Four miles further on he hoped an estate agent would finish it. The accelerator hit the floor and the engine roared as the SUV shot up Hyndford Road towards the Royal Burgh of Lanark.
At the top of the hill, golden shards of sunlight pierced the branches of dense fir trees on either side of the road, the temperature dropped and he was reminded again of the dungeon in the Lowther Hills. Gavin glanced at his watch; it was still only ten o’clock in the morning. Further on, the Inn On The Loch and then a row of detached houses on one side of the road told him he was almost there.
With no idea where he was going it made sense to take the first parking option that came his way, which turned out to be the car park at Morrisons, off Whitelees Road. He found a space between a green Renault and a black Citroen, got out and started to walk.
History wasn’t his subject though he was familiar enough with Lanark to know it had been a market town since medieval times. Unfortunately for the local traders, impressive though that boast was, it counted for nothing in the 21st century and the High Street was faring no better than most.
This wasn’t his first visit. Once, when he was a child, an uncle brought him to the cattle auction. He remembered sitting beside him while, in the ring, monsters with huge heads pawed the ground, snorting steam, saliva foaming at the corners of their mouths as farmers in overalls and tweed jackets appraised the beasts with critical eyes and listened stone-faced to the auctioneer rattling through the bidding.
On another day the memory would’ve been a thing to savour. Today his need for answers sucked the pleasure from it.
Now, apparently in this part of the world, selling houses was the business to be in. He came across three estate agents on the High Street. Cunningham and McClure wasn’t one of them and Gavin Darroch had a terrible thought. What if they weren’t in business anymore? At the bottom, in Wellgate, their office was sandwiched between an Italian restaurant and a dry cleaner promising twenty-four hour turnaround. The agent’s windows were filled with properties, mostly flats and bungalows to buy or let. No sign of the house in the Lowther Hills.
A woman in her late-thirties looked up when he went inside. Across the room, a male colleague was talking on the telephone, the top button of his blue shirt open and his tie loosened. He saw him, turned away and lowered his voice. Confidentiality, it seemed, was valued. The woman smiled and spoke. ‘Good morning. How can I help you?’
‘Are you the agent who deals with the Lowther Hills?’
‘No, that’s Megan.’
She pointed to a desk, neat and tidy apart from sunglasses on top of a pile of folders. ‘She’s late. Won’t be here ’til eleven. One of her kids is sick.’
‘But she’s definitely coming in?’
‘Yes. You can wait if you like.’
It was a nice offer; he turned it down. ‘No, I’ll come back.’
‘It wasn’t something I could help with, was it?’
‘I don’t think so, but thanks anyway.’
He called Geddes and heard his message go straight to voice mail and for the next forty-five minutes walked around the town centre, up one side of the High Street and down the other: four circuits and still had time to kill. What he’d learned was almost beyond belief. Too shocking to take in.
Where Wellgate met High Street, he stopped and called Andrew again. The detective’s phone stayed switched off and Gavin had to stop himself from throwing the mobile away in frustration.
He settled for cursing Geddes out loud. ‘Answer for fuck’s sake!’
He loitered anxiously outside the old tollbooth near the provost’s lamp, turning over what he’d learned so far, unable to completely believe it. When the clock on St Nicholas church above a statue of William Wallace struck eleven, he raced round the corner to Cunningham and McClure.
As soon as he went in he realised Megan hadn’t arrived yet; her chair was still empty. The woman he’d spoken to earlier was about to launch into an apology when the door opened behind him and a petite blonde burst in looking flushed and flustered.
‘God what a morning, you wouldn’t believe it. Sorry I’m late. Jake was sick all over the bed. Twice.’
Her colleague’s brow furrowed with concern. ‘Are you sure you should be here? How is the poor wee soul?’
‘Seems okay now. Can’t always tell with children.’
Her colleague pointed to their visitor. ‘This gentleman’s been waiting. He wants to speak to you.’
Megan moved past the window and shrugged off her jacket. ‘Let me get myself settled. Have a seat, Mr…’
‘Darroch. Gavin Darroch.’
‘Have a seat Mr Darroch. Can I get you a coffee, I’m having one.’
The hospitality annoyed him. He struggled to keep irritation out of his voice and just about managed it. ‘I won’t, thanks. It’ll only take a minute.’
‘Then the coffee can wait.’
‘I’ve just come from a property in the Lowther Hills with your sign outside it. The windows are boarded and the roof’s caved-in. Do you know the one I mean?’
She screwed up her face. ‘Yes, for my sins. The Baxter house. The original owner emigrated to Australia – or maybe it was Canada. He died, I understand. It belongs to his nephew. Spoke to him on the phone once. He lives in Antigua. Never even seen the property. Couldn’t care less about it. Over the years, as no doubt you noticed, it’s fallen deeper and deeper into disrepair. Are you interested in it? Do you want to put in an offer?’ She got up. ‘I’ll find the schedule. Pretty certain he’d accept just about anything to get shot of it.’
‘No, please, I don’t want to buy it. I wanted to know if you’d had any interest in it, any interest at all.’
She pursed her lips, considering how to answer the question, caught the tension in him and became defensive. ‘Why’re you asking? Why do you want to know?’
The truth would take too much time to tell and, if he was right, there was no time. Gavin looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that at the moment but I will say this: either you tell me or you tell the police. Sorry to be so dramatic. It’s very important.’
‘I’ve already spoken to the police about this. They showed me a picture of a man and asked if I’d ever seen him.’
‘And had you?’
‘No. Never.’
The turn the conversation had taken rattled him. He recovered and deliberately misled her. ‘Some new information has come to light. So, are you saying there hasn’t been any interest?’
She hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact there was.’
‘When?’
‘I had a viewing with a man but it was months ago. I’d have to look it up.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
‘Not off the top of my head. Took him round a few places. The Baxter house was the only one he got out the car for. Wasted an afternoon on him.’
‘He didn’t buy?’
She almost laughed. ‘Would you?’
‘What did he say?’
The estate agent shook her head, searching for the words. ‘He didn’t talk much. Shouldn’t really tell you this. I didn’t like him.’
‘Why?’
‘There was something…odd. Hard to describe. He was remote. Aloof.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
‘Maybe.’
He took the print-off out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘Is he in this picture?’
Megan’s eyes wandered over the Christmas party revelers. ‘Yes.’
This harassed mother held the final piece of evidence. From here on there could be no going back. He needed her to be absolutely certain.
‘Which one? Which one is he?’
Her finger stabbed the paper. ‘The man at the very back.’
He ran, half-staggering, his skin clammy and his chest so tight he might have been on the edge of a heart-attack. People who saw him assumed he was drunk and got out of his way. Later, he’d have no memory of getting to the car. Outside Morrisons, his fingers wouldn’t work and he fumbled for his keys. Driving was out of the question; he wasn’t fit. He waited until his pulse returned to normal before turning on the engine, at a loss what to do or where to go. It was bizarre. Twisted beyond anything he could’ve imagined.
He knew. He didn’t understand, but he knew.
The stranger with a grudge didn’t exist. Had never existed.
No matter how far-fetched it sounded, it was true. Derek Crawford had had his own wife abducted and used a disgraced former employee to do it.
Had he promised him money? Or was it the threat of going to prison that swayed it? Either way, from the beginning, Melia’s fate was never in doubt. Mackenzie could identify her captor and Gavin was certain the stranger who was his brother-in-law wasn’t the kind of man to leave a witness to his twisted plan, or open himself to blackmail.
Silencing him was inevitable.
But why? What could Derek possibly hope to gain?
The estate agent had unwittingly found the right location for him. The derelict Baxter house couldn’t have been more ideal. After that, it was simply a case of fitting-out the basement and setting the plan in motion. Melia had played his part well, making his unwelcoming presence obvious, creating the illusion of a stalker. Mackenzie’s erratic drink-fuelled behaviour at Adele’s birthday party and her lie about a lover couldn’t have served Derek better. Far from humiliating him, it convinced the family he was the victim.
But again, why? Why would he do that to her?
The chase from Glasgow was a sham, orchestrated to lure Gavin to the house in the Lowther Hills to witness the fight to the death: Melia’s death. Crawford must have been sitting in his car somewhere, calling the shots. Toying with him. Getting him in position to be able to testify to his innocence.
The perfect murder. The perfect plan.
Could he actually put his wife through that kind of hell to keep her? Could anyone?
Gavin banged his fist on the steering-wheel. It was too much to take in. Every possible answer threw up more questions. He couldn’t make sense of it by himself and called Andrew Geddes again. Still no reply. This time he left a message.
‘Get to Derek Crawford’s house as quick as you can. It’s him.’
He broke the speed-limit and raced to Wellgate, fighting down panic – past the statue of William Wallace and on towards the motorway, with only one thought in his mind. Right now, why didn’t matter anymore.
Derek Crawford was a madman. He had to get Mackenzie away from him.
On the drive to Glasgow, he tried to put the pieces together. The nearer he got to the city the more he realised he was out of his depth. None of it added up. He overtook a long line of cars, one after another, and glanced at his silent mobile on the passenger seat. Where the hell was Geddes?
Heavy traffic on the Kingston Bridge slowed his progress. He thought about his sister and his wife. Adele and Monica had never understood Mackenzie’s unhappiness. Married to a man who gave her everything, who adored her, what more did she want? To them, Derek was a loving husband who worshipped his wife. Impossible to believe he was anything else. And they hadn’t. Only Blair had realised something more fundamental was wrong. Blair, whose own relationship was in pieces.
In Whitecraigs, the silver Audi – Derek’s pride and joy – was outside, and Gavin’s hope Mrs Hawthorne would be with his sister died. Derek opened the door before he reached it.
He smiled a thin smile. ‘What brings you here in the middle of the day? Monica thrown you out, has she?’
Gavin faked a smile of his own. ‘Not yet, thank God. Finished early. She suggested Mackenzie might like to spend a couple of hours with Alice. Do her good. Give you a break as well.’
Derek was convincing, his disappointment came across as genuine. ‘Should’ve called to let me know you were coming. Mackenzie’s asleep. Better if I don’t wake her.’
‘Didn’t Monica ring you? She was supposed to. I’ll wait ’til she wakes up. See if the idea appeals. You could go out if you wanted.’
They were still at the door. Derek hadn’t moved to let him go in. ‘That’s all right, I’m good. She didn’t have a great night. Doubt she’ll be up to it.’
Gavin stepped past him and Derek followed. ‘Worth a try. Besides, I’m here now.’
The lounge was showroom-tidy apart from his sister sleeping in an armchair. Her eyes fluttered open. ‘Gavin.’ She reached up and kissed him.
He felt Derek’s presence behind him. ‘Monica had a notion you might like to see Alice. Getting to be a big girl. Only right she knows who her Aunt Mackenzie is.’
Mackenzie fussed. ‘I’m a sight. Look at me. I’d have to get ready.’ Her eyes went to her husband for approval. ‘Should I make an effort and go? Haven’t seen Alice in ages. She’ll be wondering if she even has an auntie.’
‘Don’t think it’s a great idea. You know how tired you get.’
‘As soon as she starts flagging I’ll whisk her back.’
Mackenzie was unaware of the danger she was in. She answered brightly. ‘But I’m feeling fine. Babies cheer you up.’
Derek’s voice took on a firmer tone. ‘You’re better off here.’
Gavin stepped between them. ‘’Fraid I’m going to have to play the big brother card. My little sister could do with some colour in her cheeks.’ He spoke without taking his eyes off Derek Crawford. ‘You’re fine as you are, let’s go.’
There was something Mackenzie didn’t understand. She forced herself between them. ‘What’s happening? Will somebody tell me what’s going on?’
Her brother answered. ‘Just get in the car.’
‘She’s going nowhere.’
‘Yeah, she is, Derek. She’s going with me.’
Derek lost it. ‘She’s my wife, Darroch! She’s staying with me!’
Mackenzie started to cry. ‘What’s wrong! Tell me what’s wrong!’
Gavin didn’t see the punch coming. It caught him on the chin; his head rocked back. Derek lunged at him and pinned him against the wall. Gavin shouted ‘Get to the fucking car! Go! Now!’ Crawford’s hands closed round his throat. He dragged them away. ‘It was him, Mackenzie!’
‘What?’
‘The stalker, the house. All of it.’
Her husband spoke quietly. ‘Don’t listen to this lunatic. I’ll deal with him. He’s had a few too many or something. Go upstairs and don’t worry. Doctor Chilolo said you mustn’t get stressed.’
She wasn’t listening to him. ‘What are you talking about, Gavin? It was revenge. The police said it was revenge.’
‘It wasn’t. They were in it together.’
Mackenzie’s arms dropped to her side. The horrific realisation of what her brother was saying dawned. ‘He kept the balaclava on. He kept it on because it was you. You were there.’
Crawford dropped the pretence and turned on her. “’Til death us do part”. Remember? I wasn’t going to let you leave me. No fucking chance. Not then. Not ever.’
Shock drained the little colour she had. ‘You did that? You did that to me?’
‘He was never meant to hurt you. You know I could never hurt you. Melia was only supposed to scare you. That’s what I told him.’
‘Why? Why, Derek?’
‘You’d forgotten how much you need me. I had to make you remember.’
She didn’t hear. ‘That awful house…the rats…him.’
‘I can explain. Just come with me. Come with me now. We’ll go away. It’ll be all right. I’ll make it all right.’
Gavin shouted. ‘Mackenzie! Don’t listen to him! He’s insane!’
Crawford’s free hand stretched towards her; she backed away and fell to her knees.
‘I was chained. Chained! Do you understand what he did to me?’ She screamed. ‘Do you!’
Gavin Darroch punched Crawford on the side of the head. The bigger man staggered back and stumbled, regained his balance and ran to the door. Gavin rushed to his sister and helped her to her feet. ‘Stay here. Stay here. The police are coming. I’m going after him.’
The Audi reversed into the street and shot away in a crazy zigzag just as Andrew Geddes pulled up and jumped out. ‘What the hell’s going on? Crawford almost ran me off the road.’
Gavin answered angrily. ‘Took your fucking time, didn’t you?’ He started the engine. ‘Get in or we’ll lose him.’
The back door opened and Mackenzie scrambled inside.
‘I asked you to stay. He’s dangerous.’
The look she gave him told her brother he was wasting his time.
They were on the motorway, racing towards the city.
Crawford’s silver Audi was in the outside lane, its lights flashing to intimidate the drivers in its path. Some moved aside to let it pass, others stubbornly held their ground, stopping its progress, among them a black Transit van which refused to go faster or give way. At times, their bumpers were no more than inches apart. Forced to accept it wasn’t on, the Audi cut in front of a bus. The driver braked hard and it edged into the gap. Seconds later it was on the move again, crowding out a beat-up Ford. Gavin kept his eyes on the road and told Geddes what he’d found out in the Welcome service station at Abington, confirmed by the estate agent in Lanark.
Geddes listened in silence, recalling a lecture he’d attended as a young detective: The Killer Within. One afternoon at Tulliallan Police College near Kincardine, he’d learned that given the right conditions, we were all capable of brutality beyond imagining. Everyone had a trigger. In a Polish town in 1940, a Nazi uniform had turned the village postman into an executioner. Innocent men, women and children died, their bodies buried in a ditch they’d been forced to dig themselves.
With Melia, an abandoned house and the role of abductor unleashed his monster. Why was chillingly obvious: because they could.
Geddes had been repulsed by the bitter truth then and was repulsed now.
Gavin weaved between cars, somehow managing to stay in touch with the faster Audi. On a clear road it would be a different story. Thanks to the traffic he had him in his sights.
But unless he drove as crazily as Crawford, he’d lose him. That knowledge spurred him on. One foot pressed the accelerator into the floor while the other tapped the brakes in time to avoid hitting the car in front. Gavin changed down to fourth, determined to find something extra under the hood and heard the engine complain. The driver waved an angry fist at him.
In the passenger seat, Andrew braced himself against the dashboard with his outstretched arm; they swerved round a Honda Civic, missing it by inches.
‘Fuck’s sake. You’re going to kill us!’
That wasn’t Gavin Darroch’s plan. He gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles threatened to break the skin as the outside world raced by. Geddes spoke urgently into his personal radio. He covered it with his hand and shouted across the car, his voice hoarse with tension.
‘A team’s on the way. Don’t lose the fucker. Stay on him!’
Gavin sensed his sister leaning forward between them and looked at her. Mackenzie’s eyes were locked on the Audi and the stranger who’d been her husband. There was hate in them.
Inside the A5, Crawford hunched forward, completely focussed on escape. Blue flashing lights in the wing-mirror and the distant sound of sirens signalled they’d been joined in the chase. Derek Crawford would hear them too and know the net was closing in. As the police cars roared by in the outside lane the Audi seemed to slow, drifting to straddle the middle of the motorway. The police caught up and boxed it in and Gavin was certain it was almost over.
But he was wrong.
The Audi swung right, smashing the outside car against the crash barrier. The car flipped on its side and slid into the centre of the road, losing its exhaust in the process. Crawford turned his attention to the second police car; like a mad bull playing the same manoeuvre on his other side, hitting the driver’s door and pinning it against the rails. The car burst into flames, the noise of tearing steel incredible. Anybody directly behind didn’t have a chance. Screeching brakes and the smell of burning rubber rose in the air as vehicle after vehicle piled into the one in front.
The sheer audacity of it took them by surprise. Gavin was going too fast to stop and had no time to consider the options. He did the only thing possible, threw the steering wheel one way then the other, somehow squeezing between the lines of crashed vehicles. When he looked again, Crawford was still ahead of them.
Their brush with death had stunned Andrew Geddes. He hadn’t spoken since the first police car came to grief, his thoughts with the policemen. But what was there to say? He was fortunate, he was alive. By the end of today that wouldn’t be true for everybody.
For what seemed like forever, yet could only have been minutes, they kept pace with the Audi, neither losing nor gaining. Drivers, recognising the danger, shrank from it and let it pass. Geddes had the radio stuck to his ear, his expression frozen on his face. Whatever he was hearing wasn’t good. He shared the news. ‘Tanker carrying hazardous material has jack-knifed at Easterhouse, going west. Christ knows what’s in it but it’s all over the road: a major incident. They’ve blocked off the carriageway. They’ll do the same the other side.’
‘What’re you saying?’
‘Closing the bridge is out of the question. It isn’t going to happen. They won’t get there in time. We’re on our own.’
The statement fell like a hammer blow and for the first time since the chase began, Geddes realised Crawford might get away. ‘Stay with him. Just stay with him.’
‘I’m trying, but he’s crazy. Got nothing left to lose.’
Derek Crawford had destroyed two police cars and more than a dozen others. At this stage, it was anybody’s guess how many people were injured or dead. Gavin zigzagged between lanes, dodging in and out, living every boy racer’s dream, while Geddes gave a commentary of what was going on to someone in the control room, someone with an overview and the authority to send officers to calls. Frustration marked the corners of his mouth, the stark reality of his words echoing around them.
we’re on our own
The sign for the Tradeston turn-off appeared on the left and the motorway rose towards the Kingston Bridge, high above the brown water of the River Clyde.
Geddes said, ‘He might not be ready to give up but he can’t know what’s ahead. If he stays where he is we’ve got him.’
Gavin was less confident; he gritted his teeth. ‘If the bastard takes the City off-ramp and ditches the Audi, he could lose himself in Glasgow.’
When his next attempt to bully his way to the inside lane failed, Crawford did as he’d done with the police cars and intentionally crashed into the side of a green Fiat. Metal scraped against twisted metal, the Fiat’s front tyres blew out, it rolled over, raked the barrier in a shower of sparks, then spun like a toy on its roof. The driver behind ploughed into it. Sixty yards back they saw his body fire through the windscreen and land in a shower of shards, two lanes over. Gavin Darroch swerved to avoid the wreckage and shuddered.
Mackenzie covered her eyes and moaned.
In the seat in front the policeman said, ‘Cold-blooded murder.’
But the Audi hadn’t escaped unscathed. Crawford lost control and they stared in disbelief as it mounted the sloping back of a Volkswagen Beetle like a mating insect, for a moment welded to it, before shooting over the safety barrier and clipping the top of a Renault on the SECC turn-off, somersaulting into space. At one point, it seemed to glide, then, dragged down by its own weight, it lost height, descending in a lazy roll with the sun glancing like bolts of lightning from its battered silver chassis until it entered the water nose first, throwing spray into the air.
On the bridge, people abandoned their cars, keen to witness a lunatic on his journey to the bottom of the river. Gavin was already running, Andrew behind him, shouting ‘Can you see him? Can you see him?’
The Audi’s tail hung suspended by an invisible force before it disappeared into the Clyde. Geddes’ eyes were hard. When he spoke he was thinking of Mackenzie’s ordeal and the carnage this monster had caused.
‘We’ve been robbed.’
Gavin legs were close to buckling under him. Suddenly, he was dog-tired. It was finished but his emotions hadn’t got the message. Geddes’ features were white with anger. ‘The bastard fucking robbed us.’
Gavin didn’t agree or disagree. He went back to the car, parked at an insane angle and spoke to his sister. ‘It’s over, Mackenzie. This time it really is over.’
‘It can’t be. He can’t get away like this. Not like this.’
She leapt out and ran to the barrier where DS Geddes was talking into his radio.
‘Let him live. Please, let him live. It can’t end like this.’
The Finnieston Crane was a black mangle against the cloudless sky.
It had been a long day and it still wasn’t over. The crowd patiently watching from Lancefield quay hadn’t got what they’d come for, not so far, but they wouldn’t forget what they’d seen. This was Glasgow. Stuff like this happened in New York or L.A., mostly in crime movies, not here. Except it had.
The Police Scotland Marine Unit launch appeared. Shortly after, the arrival of a boat owned by an independent specialist contractor, lying low in the water with a winch rising like a phallus from its deck and SANDERSON in red letters on the hull, suggested it wouldn’t be much longer. Three divers in wetsuits and facemasks did a recce to establish where the Audi was and to come up with a plan to retrieve it from the murky depths. In one of his frequent calls during the afternoon, Andrew told Gavin that, just three feet down, visibility was close to nil.
‘They say you can’t see your hand in front of your face. No use hanging around. It’s a slow process. Won’t be much going on for a while.’
Gavin read between the lines. ‘You’re saying we should leave, Andrew?’
‘I’m saying you should leave.’ He softened his tone. ‘It’s better your sister isn’t here when the car comes up.’
Good advice. But Mackenzie wasn’t ready to hear it.
‘Geddes thinks we shouldn’t be here.’
‘You mean he thinks I shouldn’t be here?’
‘Yes.’
She bowed her head. ‘I can’t. I just can’t. This won’t be finished until I see it myself.’
Her brother didn’t argue. He understood.
Closing the Kingston Bridge had caused serious disruption all the way to Ayrshire and it would reopen only when the crime scene examination was complete, a decision that lay with the men by the side of the river. DS Andrew Geddes was one of them.
Meanwhile, chaos reigned: people crowded behind the police barrier, and from the flats along the Quay eyes followed the excitement from every window and balcony. TV crews jostled for the best positions while press reporters interviewed everyone and anyone. On the evening news and in tomorrow’s headlines, this would be the number one story. It seemed like the whole of Glasgow was squashed into a quarter mile and all around phones and cameras flashed, attempting to get the shot which would guarantee fifteen minutes of fame.
Gavin and Mackenzie had made their way to the walkway. Further along, Geddes stood in a circle talking with DI Taylor, the lead officer from the Marine Unit, and the senior diver while two more divers floated in the muddy water. It was an animated conversation, lots of pointing and shaking heads. Even from this distance, Gavin could read Geddes’ body language. He was on edge. Eventually, he stepped away and took a long look towards them, dug a hand into his coat pocket and brought out his mobile. A moment later, Gavin’s rang.
‘Is she listening?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’ He sounded weary. Gavin guessed the long hours weren’t the reason. His tiredness went beyond physical. ‘They’ve finally got a line they think will hold on the back axle. They’re ready to bring the car up.’
Gavin imagined Crawford’s car rising from the river, water cascading from the plush interior of the most expensive scrap metal in the city. The detective hesitated, the words when they came, falling like stones dropped from a height, each one heavier than the one before.
‘Pitch dark down there. Just shapes. Not even shapes.’
‘And what?’
Geddes realised he should talk to the brother and sister face to face and broke away from his colleagues. What he had to say wouldn’t reassure anybody.
The detective joined them and drew them aside. Gavin was impatient. ‘Spit it out, Andrew.’
Geddes tried again with Mackenzie, his characteristic brusqueness gone. ‘It would be better if you weren’t here. Really it would. We’ve no idea how badly he’s been injured.’
‘You mean he’s not…’
Gavin had to take hold of her arm to keep her from falling. She stared at the policeman, her voice trembling. ‘He has to be dead. He has to be.’
The DS saw the fear in her eyes. Until Crawford was on a mortuary slab his wife wouldn’t feel safe. Clearly, she didn’t understand what he was saying. Her brother did. He said, ‘So it could be bad, then?’
Geddes let the question go unanswered.
Mackenzie was on the verge of a panic attack. ‘I have to get out of here.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No. I need to be by myself. You stay…please. I need to know.’
He didn’t argue.
She pushed through the throng excitedly waiting for the car to be brought to the surface, shielding her face from the unwanted attention of strangers. For them this was an event, an entertainment, for her it was a tragedy. Mackenzie had to get away.
Under an arch of the George V bridge, she stopped and tried to process this latest horror; too much to take in. Derek had done this to her in a desperate attempt to keep her. A strong woman was a woman he couldn’t control. He needed her to be weak, weak enough to depend on him totally. And he’d almost succeeded.
She couldn’t run from the pictures in her head. Suddenly, she wanted a drink. The craving gnawed at her, as powerful as it had ever been. Her fingers tingled. She started to shake. A film of sweat broke on her brow. Desperation overwhelmed her. She didn’t know this part of Glasgow: where could she get one?
A cheer went up behind her and brought her back. They’d raised the Audi. Bitter bile burned her throat. Her stomach turned over. The man in the balaclava flashed in front of her eyes. Sitting in the chair. Watching her. A hand went to her mouth in a vain attempt to stem the vomit spewing between her fingers. She leaned on the railing where the giant foundations ended and let it happen.
Who cared if someone saw?
On the other side of the bridge recovering the Audi was cause for celebration. Applause broke out, scattered at first, building to a cheer as the lines tightened and the silver tail broke the surface and hung suspended above the water, both doors open like twisted wings, no longer the sleek machine it had been.
Gavin Darroch heard the reaction and didn’t share it. There was little to feel good about.
‘Fucking ghouls.’
Geddes ran towards him to give him the news. ‘Crawford isn’t in the car.’
‘So where is he?’
‘We don’t know. The Marine Unit officers are good lads. Give them time. They’ll find him.’
‘Could he have survived?’
‘Wouldn’t have thought so. Even if he was thrown from the car, you’d expect the damage to his body to be fatal.’
‘How deep is it down there?’
‘About twenty-eight feet.’ Geddes looked towards the river. ‘Tide’s coming in so maybe deeper.’
‘Could he be on the bottom?’
‘Stuck in the silt? Not likely.’
‘So where can he be?’
The detective leaned towards him. ‘Fucked if I know.’
The jetsam of the city – scraps of newspapers, plastic bottles, rags and leaves and worse – floated on the dirty-brown surface. Mackenzie wiped her mouth, about to turn away when she saw him.
Derek Crawford’s hair was matted above ashen skin, his face cut and bruised. One eye was a bloody hole the other closed as he blindly grasped the wall, trying to get a hold. Mackenzie fell back, unable to believe he was there.
She whispered. ‘Derek. Derek.’
Crawford didn’t respond. She spoke again, louder. ‘Derek.’
The remaining eye opened and her heart missed a beat. His lips moved. ‘Mackenzie, help me. Help me.’
Realising she could save him she climbed over the railing and balanced on the cold stone ledge, stretching her leg towards him as far as she could. Not close enough. She tried again, holding on with one hand, reaching until her foot rested on top of his head. Derek let go of the wall. His fingers closed round her ankle. He mouthed a silent ‘Thank you.’
An unnatural calm washed through her. She looked into the baleful eye that had calmly watched her pain, saw her terror and let it go on.
The man who had put her in harm’s way.
The memory gave her the strength she needed. She pushed down until his head disappeared. Crawford thrashed the water and tightened his grip and Mackenzie felt her hand slip; he was going to take her with him.
’til death us do part
With a strength borne of loathing she leaned forward, prised his fingers from her foot and held him under. A line of bubbles broke the surface, then less, then none.
no one saw
like a leaf falling to the ground, it went unnoticed