McNab pulled into the petrol station. According to the sign this was the last chance to fill up before he hit the wasteland. McNab didn’t like wide open spaces, nor the scent of things growing. The mean streets of Glasgow, even the area round the Union bar, were sweet in comparison to what lay around him.
Mountains, emptiness and silence.
Still stiff from the long drive, and his overnight sleep on the back seat, he eased himself out of the car, filled up and went to the kiosk, taking out the pay-as-you-go mobile and checking it as he entered.
‘No signal here, pal,’ a Glasgow voice informed him from behind the counter. ‘The mountains,’ he added by way of explanation.
‘No signal? Anywhere?’ McNab said, aghast.
‘Hit and miss most of the time. Where you headed?’
‘West,’ McNab said.
‘It gets better when you hit the coast.’
McNab gathered a selection of snacks and a bottle of Irn Bru and paid for them along with the petrol.
‘Hope you booked a bed ahead. It’s busy this time of year with tourists.’
The word busy didn’t work for McNab, not surrounded by emptiness.
‘How long before I meet the sea?’
‘Three hours, give or take a caravan or two.’
Jesus, three more hours of this.
‘Don’t bother with the sat nav. It’ll send you the wrong way,’ his advisor threw after him in a sarcastic voice as he departed.
McNab started up the engine and drove away. In the rear mirror, the Glaswegian who’d bizarrely departed the city to live in this wilderness watched him leave.
McNab turned on the car radio. The result was a hiss of indecipherable words, regardless of which station he sought. So no radio reception either. McNab didn’t do music plugged into his ears, so he would have to travel in silence.
As a result his brain replayed the scenario that had brought him here.
He’d initially failed the entry test to the game, then received a message via his mobile, declaring him a player. That had suggested the puppetmaster had been aware of his identity. Not only that, he’d also got hold of McNab’s number.
McNab thought back to the trashed flat and the suspicion that his mobile had been compromised. Maybe he’d been wrong about Iona. Maybe she hadn’t been stalking him because of the cocaine stash. Maybe she had something to do with Stonewarrior.
He briefly considered that possibility, but didn’t wear it. Nothing she’d said or done suggested any link with the game. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t sold his number on to whoever sought it.
Another possible explanation was that there was a mole at the police station, maybe even in the Tech department. Personnel were vetted for both the force and the support staff, but it needed a techie to play the game, and what better if you played it from the inside?
Iona, Ollie, Big Davy. How many more people couldn’t he trust?
An image of Rhona came to mind. He’d asked her to forensically examine the flat without an explanation. What would she do when she found out what he’d tried to clean up, as she undoubtedly would? If she suspected a crime had been committed, it was her professional duty to report it. Her first instinct, he thought, would be to try to talk to him. He glanced down at the silent mobile. And that wasn’t a possibility until the twenty-four hours were up.
As for DS Clark, he’d dumped her in more shit than had been spread about his flat. His sergeant, McNab was certain, would try to protect him as long as she could. Something he didn’t deserve.
The road had narrowed to a single track, weaving through an expanse of bog, interspersed with rocky outcrops and stagnant pools. Ahead of him, a camper van trundled, obviously in no hurry. McNab put his foot on the brake, cursing. Stuck behind a tourist would see a three-hour journey extend to four.
He blasted the horn.
His demand bore fruit, sending the van into the next passing place to allow him to overtake. McNab signalled his thanks by raising his hand. A young male watched McNab sail past.
Ten minutes later he emerged from the valley, and the pay-as-you-go on the passenger seat lit up a possible signal. The puppetmaster’s instructions had been clear. Any communication from McNab en route to their meeting place and he would forfeit the game. Since he had a trace on McNab’s mobile, he would know if it was being used. McNab had chosen to believe him, and left his mobile with Sean. But he wasn’t fool enough not to have a back-up.
At that moment the ‘no signal’ message appeared again on the screen. Some back-up.
The sun had moved behind the mountain range, casting the road valley in deep shadow. McNab shivered and took his eye briefly from the road to switch off the air conditioner. Checking the rear-view mirror, he caught a glimpse of the camper he’d passed a while back, coming up behind him at high speed.
So he had pissed the driver off and now it was his turn to be tail-gated.
McNab contemplated the fast-approaching passing place, then decided against it. If the driver of the shagging wagon wanted a rally, who was he to deny him?
McNab put his foot down. The car sprang forward, like a horse kicked in the flank, leaving camper boy way behind. McNab smiled. Maybe single-track roads weren’t so boring after all.
But his challenger wasn’t giving up that easily, and whatever was under the camper’s bonnet had plenty of horsepower. Plus, it was obvious by the way he took corners that he was familiar with the road. This wasn’t going to be a one-horse race.
The road had left the bog and now wound its way through a ravine. To the right a fall of scree ended in a riverbed. To the left rose a wall of rock. McNab took the first two corners too wide, and got a brief glimpse of how far he had to fall, should he make a mistake third time round.
‘Don’t be a stupid bastard for once,’ he told himself. This wasn’t the place for a race, especially against someone who was familiar with the terrain.
First passing place, and he was in it.
Two bends later, one appeared. McNab braked and began to draw in, happy to acknowledge defeat by giving the thumbs-up to his erstwhile racing companion. He never got the chance.
The camper van hit his boot straight on, thrusting it forward. McNab felt the snap as his neck whiplashed back and forth in quick succession. Before he could gather his wits, the van hit again. McNab, stunned by the impact, lost control of the wheel and the car took an abrupt turn to the right. He’d been travelling at twenty, the van much faster. Their combined speed sent him hurtling towards the bank of scree. McNab hit the brakes, while simultaneously pulling on the handbrake. There was a sickening screech as the car tried to obey. Smoke rose in nauseous waves as the wheels grabbed frantically at the tarmac. The car slithered onwards, albeit slower.
The van had blasted into reverse and was coming at him again.
It hit the passenger door this time, causing McNab’s head to strike the side window with a crack. He had to get out of the car before the bastard sent him over the edge. Eyes watering from the impact, McNab managed to release the seatbelt and scrabbled with the door.
It flew open and he fell out, the back of his head taking the impact this time.
A figure appeared to block McNab’s watery view of the sky.
His last thought before blackness overtook him . . . who the fuck was this guy?