So, this is what it felt like to drown.
He’d helped drag bodies from the River Clyde, sat in on their post-mortems. He’d listened to what they had gone through in the moments before their death, but he’d never tried to imagine what it must have felt like. Now he knew.
In those few moments, he was surprised to find a series of images of his life flash before his eyes. He relived his childhood fear of enclosed spaces, of the terror of the dark, of monsters under the bed. He replayed the gunshot that had exploded inside his body, shattering his internal organs. He saw again Chrissy’s terrified expression as he shielded her and her unborn child, then Rhona’s as she’d held him to her, trying desperately to stem the blood. It had all been in vain, because death had let him go only to return to claim his prize.
Drowning encompassed all his fears. In the thick darkness, the monster that was water pressed on him from all sides, his breathing space a tiny portion of what he needed. It caged him in a claustrophobic metal shell. It compressed his chest, crushing all attempts to take in air.
As he drifted into unconsciousness he realized that being shot had been easier, kinder and infinitely quicker.
To Megan, travelling the road in her beat-up Volkswagen, the river looked its normal self, if a little swollen by the recent rain. She wasn’t looking for an accident, she was searching for a young girl who had set out and not returned. It was Megan who had advised her how to reach the standing stones. Therefore she felt responsible for her visitor.
She headed for a passing place as the blue dot of a neighbour’s van came into view. As she drew in, she realized something had happened at this spot. Glass littered the road, skid marks gleamed darkly against the tar. This was a tricky stretch for the unwary. Tourists needed to stay close to the rock wall, but afraid of hitting it, they often strayed out, too near the scree.
She came to a halt and stepped out of the vehicle. She gave the passing van a wave, then crossed the road and looked down. The skid marks met the edge, but did not swerve back.
Megan examined the bank of scree and noted the bent saplings. She shaded her eyes and checked the foot of the bank and found nothing. She stretched her gaze towards the river.
Then she did see something. The sun caught metal and flashed it back at her, like a mirror signal. The water was tumbling over something and it wasn’t a rock.
Fear took her over the edge. She slithered downwards on her bottom, propelling herself with her hands. It wasn’t the first time a car had gone over at this spot, and the previous occupant hadn’t lived to tell the tale.
Reaching the foot of the bank, she rose shakily to her feet and hurried across the rough grass. Down here it was clear that a vehicle had come this way and that it had entered the water.
Lying a couple of metres from the edge, the vehicle sat wedged behind a rock, which had prevented it from being swept downstream. For the most part the flow of water parted behind the obstruction, with an occasional eddy breaking across the roof.
Megan edged further in.
The water was thigh high now and dragging her feet from under her. She knew she should turn and go back, call for assistance. She also knew that there was no signal at this spot, which meant she would have to drive until she picked one up, further down the glen.
And there might be someone trapped inside the car.
Megan grabbed hold of a branch of a nearby alder bush to steady her passage and kept going. She had almost reached the vehicle when she spotted a man’s head. It was bent backwards, the neck arched, his nose periodically above the water. She saw an explosion of bubbles and realized he was trying to take a breath from the pocket of air trapped in the underside of the roof.
Megan let go of the branch and grabbed for the door handle, just as the door swung open and the man launched himself out.
They immediately became entangled and were swept downstream, like jammed branches, flailing, surfacing, choking and sinking again in the swift current.
McNab’s feet found ground first. He grabbed at a sharp rock protruding above the surface and dragged himself ashore. As he dropped to his knees, a hand caught hold of his ankle. McNab kicked back sharply in response and heard a crack as his heel hit bone.
Megan, gasping in pain, lost her own footing and submerged, swallowing water. Stunned by the impact of McNab’s blow, she rolled. Now her face was under water and she had no strength left to right herself.
McNab turned in a fury. If the mad guy in the camper van wanted rid of him, he would have to try harder than this. Then he caught sight of the slim female body, face down in the river.
Christ!
McNab flung himself back into the water as the current swirled her from him. He grabbed for a leg and caught the hem of her jeans, but the flow fought back, keen now to whisk its prey away. McNab’s strength was ebbing, his grasp weakening. He was going to lose her. He half dived, half flung himself at her retreating form, wrapping his arms round her legs. They were swept away again, entwined but no longer fighting.
McNab tried to find the bottom. Careering like a drunk man, he stumbled across stones, the swift flow defying his attempts to get a foothold. He changed tack and dragged himself up her body. When he reached her shoulders, he rolled her over and caught her with one arm against him, exposing her bloodied face to fresh air, then, cradling her against his chest, he kicked them both shorewards.
His heel had opened the skin on her cheek, maybe even fractured the bone. McNab pressed his mouth to hers and blew in a breath. There was no response. He blew in again, her mouth soft and cold under his lips.
He pounded her chest, then blew once more. There was a long moment when he convinced himself he’d killed her, then she coughed. Bloodied water spouted from her mouth. She coughed and more spurted out. McNab gave her time to clear her lungs, then gently rolled her onto her side to recover, and sat down next to her.
She was in her twenties, he guessed. Slim, probably fit by the way she had fought him and the water. Her face was beginning to swell from his kick, but the gash was no longer seeping blood. He was horrified by the damage he’d done, but his last memory was the onslaught of the van, and looking up as van man’s boot had descended on his face.
After that his world had taken off on a nightmare ride of screeching metal and crunching stones. Then the cold rush of water and the desperate need to take in sufficient air to help him force the door open and escape the car.
When the hands had grabbed him from behind, he’d assumed his foe had come to make certain his end, so had fought back.
And this is what he’d done.
Her eyes flickered open. They were brown. She looked startled and unsure.
‘It’s okay. You’re okay,’ he said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. ‘I’m sorry I kicked you.’
Confusion was replaced by memory. She struggled to sit up. McNab helped her.
‘You were in the car,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
Her body moved into shock and she shivered violently.
‘Where’s your transport?’ McNab said.
‘Up where your car went over.’
He helped her to her feet. ‘Can you make it?’
‘If you can, so can I,’ she said firmly.
They hobbled together along the shore towards the bank of scree. Every bone and sinew in his body screamed in complaint. Her eye was already shutting and her cheek had puffed up. By her occasional concerned glance at him, he guessed he didn’t look any better, and probably a lot worse.
‘Do you have a mobile?’
‘Yes, but there’s no signal here.’ Catching his expression, she added, ‘There’s a landline at my hotel about ten minutes away.’
The scree proved the worse part of the journey. Sliding down was easy in comparison to scrambling up. He reached the top first and gave her a helping hand. They lay panting on the top. Far below he could see the glinting metal of his car.
‘If it had been raining, I would never have seen you,’ she said. She was shivering violently now. McNab offered to drive and she accepted.
He got her in the passenger side first. There was a rug on the back seat and he wrapped it round her.
‘Which direction?’
She pointed back the way he had come.
McNab made a very careful three-point turn. There was no way he wanted to descend that scree again. She indicated a turn-off that he’d passed en route. Ten minutes later they arrived outside a small hotel. He helped her out of the vehicle.
‘You need to get off the wet clothes and get into bed. Have you got anyone that can help you do that?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll manage,’ she said through chattering teeth. She opened the front door and pointed out the phone, then went upstairs.
McNab strode quickly to the phone, then hesitated. Who exactly should he call and how much should he reveal? As soon as he’d engaged with the game, this had become personal. He had no doubt that the dark-haired guy in the van was the one who’d communicated with him. And now as far as the puppetmaster was concerned, he was dead, which was to his advantage. Van man couldn’t have gone far, not on these roads. McNab could of course blow the whistle and have everyone out looking for him, but that would alert him. Alternatively, he could try to track him down himself, then call in the troops.
As DI, the first option should be his chosen one, but then again, he was unlikely to remain DI after this. Even DS status looked remote.
Now that the twenty-four hours were up, Sean would hand over his mobile. Then the shit would truly hit the fan. By then, he might well have located the puppetmaster and taken him into custody.
He heard a crash like someone falling. McNab took the stairs two at a time. His Good Samaritan, whose name he did not yet know, was sprawled on the bathroom floor, the shower hissing hot behind her, the room full of steam. It appeared she’d managed to undress and take a shower before passing out. McNab scooped her up and carried her to the nearest bedroom, pulled back the duvet and laid her down. He tucked the cover round her, then checked the pulse in her neck, which beat strongly. He prodded the bruised cheek and decided the bone wasn’t broken. She would come to with a black eye and bodily bruising, but would definitely live, no thanks to him.
McNab looked in the wardrobe for a change of clothes, but it appeared she didn’t live with a male companion. The other two doors on that landing were locked, so he assumed they were the letting rooms. He headed downstairs. The lower level consisted of a comfortable, if old-fashioned, sitting room kitted out for guests. No television, probably because of a poor signal, but plenty of books and magazines. The fire in the hearth was set but unlit. A large kitchen out back was warmed by an oil-fired range. Off it was a cellar and an interconnecting door leading to the bar. It was compact and looked as though it hadn’t had its decor changed in decades, if not longer.
McNab surveyed the ample selection of whiskies and finally settled for a Jura. He poured himself a sizeable glass and tossed half of it back. The descending liquid was the only warmth in his body. He waited until the effect hit his bloodstream then drank the rest.
‘I’ll have one myself. Large,’ a female voice said from the doorway.
His erstwhile saviour was up and dressed, with a little colour back in her cheeks.
McNab selected a glass and did as he was bid. She accepted it with a wry smile and knocked it back, much like he had done.
‘I’ll get you a change of clothes. My brother leaves a store here for when he comes to stay. You look roughly the same size.’
McNab didn’t care what size the clothes were, as long as they were dry. He said so. She disappeared and came back a short while later with a pair of jeans, a shirt and a sweater. She handed them over.
‘Shoe size?’
‘Ten and a half.’
‘Scott’s feet are bigger, but a couple of pairs of socks and you could wear his walking boots.’
She suggested he had a hot shower. ‘You know where it is,’ she said, acknowledging his role in putting her to bed. McNab nodded, making no comment. He had no desire to make her feel embarrassed, considering the injury he’d already inflicted on her.
McNab headed upstairs with his bundle. In the over-the-sink mirror he examined the results of his ‘accident’. The face was more gargoyle than man. His chest was developing a patchwork of bruises interspersed with long and occasionally deep scratches he had no memory of getting.
The shower was both pleasure and torture as it heated his body while stinging his cuts and bruises. He made it quick, then stepped out and dabbed himself dry. The clothes fitted reasonably well. The jeans were a little long, the shirt a little big. He pulled on the double socks and eased his feet into the summer walking boots and laced them up tightly.
Back downstairs, he found her in the kitchen making coffee.
‘Megan,’ she said, when he asked her name.
‘Michael,’ he told her, leaving out the DI part.
She handed him a mug and indicated he should take a seat at the table. McNab, having made up his mind in the shower what his next move would be, was ready when she posed her question.
‘What happened back there?’
‘A camper van drove me off the road.’
She looked shocked. ‘On purpose?’
‘On purpose.’
‘We’d better call the police.’
‘I am the police,’ McNab said. ‘I need to find that van. Can I use your pick-up?’
‘Yes, of course, but . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I need to look for Helena.’
The name rang a shrill bell in McNab’s brain. ‘Who’s Helena?’
‘She’s a guest. She arrived yesterday off the bus. She set off for the stone circle but . . .’
‘She hasn’t come back?’
‘No—’ She halted, having seen McNab’s face. ‘You think she’s in danger?’
McNab was on his feet. ‘Let’s go.’