Saturday, 2nd of December
Morna woke up, slowly. Looking at a ceiling she didn’t recognize, a wooden slatted roof with the cross beams stuffed full of some yellow packing stuff that looked like fluffy clouds or dandelion heads. She was under a warm duvet, she was fully dressed, except her boots that she could see paired neatly on the floor beside the bed. Her head hurt but she wasn’t injured. She eased her limbs one by one. And she could smell dead fish.
She had been found by somebody and brought here; she slid out from under the duvet thinking about finding Finn, and finding a toilet. She looked around, she had her anorak on when she’d been outside, and in the pocket was her mobile phone. She looked out the window, nothing there just trees and brown ferns, no sign of the cliffs, no sign of the rock stack. She pulled back the curtain that served as a door, it covered nothing more than a fire and a chair, an ancient chair piled up with dirty cushions. There was a radio on a shelf, some electric equipment, and a pile of blankets on the floor. She recognized it immediately as a dog bed. There was a Calor gas cooker in the corner, a plastic bag from the local co-op.
This was somebody’s secret hideaway? Or did they live here? Her anorak was on the back of the chair and her mobile was on a shelf. She grabbed at it but it felt too light, somebody had taken the battery out.
She looked around; there was no sign of life, nothing.
Morna wasn’t staying, so she slipped her boots on. She opened the door and pulled her hood up, the wind had got up but it had stopped raining. She made her way round the back of the hut and squatted to empty her bladder, hoping the relief would help her think clearly.
Looking at the sky, the cloud cover had lifted a little so she could see the flat peak of the rock stack, and from that, she knew roughly where she was, inland to the south of the stack, so the coast road would be right in front of her as she stood here. She needed to make her way down there. But she didn’t, she turned round and went back in, switching on the radio, being careful not to untune it to the station it was already on. She knew it would be local, for the weather if nothing else. She listen for a few minutes, realizing the time, hearing the news, the local news. Nothing about Finn, nothing about her boy.
She felt sick. She was on her own, there was some conspiracy going on. DCI Patrick and his little smiles. He had done nothing. She was a cop and she had been abducted, just to get her out the way? Why? To get Finn out the village?
She looked round, searching for clues, opening bags, looking under the bed, the person that lived here led a very simple life. There was an old bookcase, shackled together, stuff that a charity shop would throw out; there were a few tattered books, a couple of candles. A battery-powered lamp, a good torch. And at the bottom, yellowed and musty was a curled page on a pile of old newspapers. She bent down and looked at them, thinking she might see a headline of other children that had gone missing, children she knew nothing about. Other victims. These papers were old.
She lifted the top one, Jennifer Argyll, November 1987. A beautiful photograph of Jennifer, on the front page, curled and fragile with time. It was a familiar picture for her, the official press photograph. And a clipping, the name of the newspaper cut off the top. An attack on a mystery woman, raped, a twenty-three-year old. The following newspaper carried the same story; a story that went nowhere. Then Sharon Sixsmith, the one found at the bottom of the gorge and then one she didn’t recognize, Patricia Sandyman. The article was cut out. No date. Morna looked round until she saw a small army knife on top of the pile of books.
It would do. She slipped it in her pocket and ran.
There is some comfort in knowing that today is the last day of your life.
No better player than a woman with nothing to lose.
There had been a lovely item on the news that morning, a still from CCTV six weeks before, on the Kelvindale walk. A picture of a person, walking, probably a man, just a person the police hoped might be able to assist them with their enquiries as they might have seen something pertaining to the murders of Abigail and Malcolm Haggerty. To anybody else watching it looked like a bloke walking home with a package under his arm. Thirty-three inches long, twenty-two inches wide, carried on its side so it fitted under his arm.
She recognized it, she had built it.
Valerie had paused the TV screen, and looked closely. She knew that shape: the Millennium Falcon.
She had known that she had to move and move fast, Mathieson was close to the truth, but she was closer, so she rolled the white Fiat into the trees and down into the thick bracken. There was only dense undergrowth in sheltered places, and there was little shelter on the headland, up near the lodge. She’d do the last bit by foot. But she had her boots, her jacket and her gun.
She was going to end it now. She’d been following Haggerty for a couple of days now. He had been doing nothing but lazing around, drinking, meeting his friends and socializing, constantly on his mobile to somebody. The one place he had not been was the care home where his dad was. This morning was different though. Haggerty had been up, ready and was moving quickly. She could sense things were coming to a head. He would have seen that footage from the bridge and she was going to get him before he boarded a ferry and slipped away.
Her decision was made.
Valerie Abernethy felt the happiest she had felt for ages.
DCI Alastair Patrick was back at the rock stack, standing in the shadows, as motionless as the standing stones. His utter stillness made him invisible, the way an aboriginal standing can be mistaken for a tree. His background of grey rock matched the pallor of his face.
‘Is this where Oscar lives? Up here at Dolphin Point?’ asked Anderson, sotto voce.
‘Be quiet and keep your eyes open. And don’t move, if you move you will be seen.’
‘But is this where—’
‘Quiet.’
He had got a similar answer when he asked, ‘What are we doing up here?’
They had been there for two hours, at Dolphin Point, on the far side where the outer limits of the house used to be. Anderson was in awe of Patrick’s ability to remain motionless. He tried to amuse himself, keep himself warm, closed his eyes and tried to keep standing up, got cold and numb. He wanted a hot coffee and his bed, a cooked breakfast, anything but to be here. But he didn’t really trust Alastair Patrick. Not one bit.
‘Hear that?’ whispered Patrick.
‘What?’
‘Vehicle coming.’
‘You can hear that?’
‘I can if you don’t speak.’ Patrick’s head was down, looking at his feet, as if he was concentrating on his ears.
‘We should be out looking for Morna and the boy. Abigail and her boy were killed, now Morna and her boy have gone missing.’ It was the fourth time he had said it.
Patrick said, ‘Huge difference between being missing and being dead.’ Then he ignored him.
The noise of the engine stopped. To Anderson it only sounded like the wind dropping a little. Patrick held his hand up, telling him to wait. And pointed to the Sound, where the land flattened off. In the cine film this had been where the tennis courts were, flat all the way to the cliff with a gentle seaward fall. Anderson suddenly got a very bad feeling about this, he watched where Patrick had indicated to look, and saw a disturbance in the trees. He dropped down a little to stay out of sight as they walked into view. The two of them.
‘Who is that?’ he whispered.
‘If there is a god it will be Haggerty and Taverner,’ whispered Patrick, then turned to look straight at Anderson. ‘Why? Who were you expecting?’
‘The Argyll and Sutherland Pipe Band for all I know.’ Anderson grew silent, fascinated as he watched the two men; Haggerty, the smaller figure out in front, walking through a plain flat field of grass but following a definite path. Neil Taverner, taller, at the back was less certain, he kept turning round, checking the horizon. Alastair Patrick didn’t move, he stayed very still against the rock face. Neil Taverner’s eyes passed right over them. Anderson wondered how often Patrick had stood here, watching.
‘Who is that?’ asked Anderson as a smaller figure came walking over the hill, from behind the rock stack. They too, were heading towards the sea.
‘I have no bloody idea,’ replied Patrick, almost in admiration that something was going on that was unexpected.
‘I think I do, I think that’s my DI.’
‘The untraceable Ms Costello? Well, she’s come ready for the party. That’s a firearm in her right hand.’ Patrick raised his binoculars. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘She can’t be allowed to do this, she can’t risk everything to take Haggerty out. We have enough on him.’
‘She doesn’t know that though.’
Patrick remained immobile so Anderson made a decision and ran, slipping out from his hiding place and moving fast across the ground, losing height with every forward stride, gaining on the two men from behind. They both took off at the sound of footfall without looking round, but they had seen the woman with the firearm. They were caught in a pincer movement. Both ran towards the edge of the cliff, trying to outrun them before they ran out of land.
Anderson could hear Patrick behind him, shouting, and then the woman held the gun up as if to fire it. She took aim and seemed to pull the trigger. Anderson yelled at her, holding his arm out.
It all happened in perfect slow motion.
Absolutely nothing.
The woman tried to pull the trigger again.
Nothing.
Anderson was still shouting Costello’s name. He’s not worth it.
She didn’t seem to hear, but he had no idea if she could hear him. Then she was running, still holding the gun, making for the smaller of the men. She was going for Haggerty, getting closer before she tried firing again. Anderson saw Patrick cut off to his left, blocking any escape that Neil Taverner might think he had.
The two men backed up, Anderson noticed how much land they had covered, how little grass was left between them and the cliff top. Then he saw the hand rise again, gun perfectly level, this time in a double-handed stance, like a police officer. She stood firm, and pulled the trigger, nothing happened.
Haggerty stopped and turned towards her. Facing her, he brought the palms of his two hands together.
Clap clap.
Then he turned, resuming his flight.
Patrick was running up fast behind her, reaching for the gun. The woman screamed as it was wrestled from her hand, she twisted free and started running, running as if the devil himself was after her. The look on her face was one of intense concentration, beyond human, she was a killing machine.
And she ran. Heading for Haggerty.
Anderson stopped, watching in horror as she kept moving, grabbing Haggerty round the waist. He had been expecting a punch or a blow but not to be held, so low, her arms round his waist, her shoulder pushing him off balance. She was light, but quick, and she had the momentum of the roll of the land to carry them both stumbling towards the edge of the cliff. He saw Haggerty’s heels dig into the soft ground, his hands trying to prise himself free from her, but she had her prey. She wasn’t letting go now. Anderson thought he saw Haggerty manage to force up her head, forcing her to choose between releasing him or having her neck broken.
Anderson didn’t know if they went over the edge together or apart. He saw, he thought, blue sky and grey sea between them, before they hung in mid-air for the briefest of moments. Then they plummeted from his view.
Anderson stood shocked, blinking, thinking about running forward to make sure, but his legs didn’t move. He heard the waves, somebody screaming and somebody shouting. He turned. Patrick was pointing it at him, right at his forehead.
‘Drop! Drop.’
Anderson opened his mouth but dropped to his knees, this had all been so, so wrong. He heard the gun fire once, a bang so loud even the wind stopped in shock. Anderson felt himself fall. Face down into the grass, it was wet on his skin. He heard another blast then another two. He felt the rain fall on the back of his neck, a dribble leaked from the corner of his mouth. He heard Patrick approach. He thought there might be another bullet in the chamber; the muzzle would be cold against the back of his head. Military precision, Mathieson had said that. Why had he not listened?
He thought about Moses, about Claire and … then he felt a hand on his collar, pulling him up.
‘Silly bastard. That piece of shit was right behind you.’
Anderson raised himself up on his elbows and looked behind him. Neil Taverner, lying with bits of him missing, staring at the sky. Glinting in the grass was a knife, with a long thin blade. He was less than two feet away. Anderson had seen the damage that knife could do.
So very close.
Anderson put his head back on the grass, He wasn’t going anywhere for a wee while yet.
Anderson had to crawl the first few yards before he was up on his feet, walking towards the edge. His shoes slipped on the damp grass as he neared the precipice. Slowing, he stepped carefully, the edge was unstable, broken, land slips, mini cliffs, bites taken out here and there. He got back on his knees, hearing a warning shout from somebody behind him. He crawled to the edge, looking, his dirty fingers clawing through the mud then over at the waves crashing on the rocks below. Down near the narrow band of soft white sand lay the body of George Haggerty spread-eagled on the waterline. His head in the water being buffeted, rolling back and forth with the advance and retreat of the smallest waves like a nodding puppet. If the fall, over a hundred feet, had not killed him, then the sea surely would.
Anderson steeled himself to look along the water’s edge. Nothing. Then he moved closer, looking directly down, scanning the cliff, then he saw her, caught on a ledge. He shouted down but there was no reply, no response at all. He looked past her to the mass of blonde hair caught on a grassy ledge further down.
Not Costello.
Back at the Exciseman, Anderson had spent a long time in a hot bath thinking about Costello and where she was. As Valerie had been lifted from her narrow grassy hammock on the side of the cliff onto a cradle and winched up the cliff face, her eyes had sought out Anderson. They suspected a spinal fracture and a few broken limbs but as they carried her past she had weakly pointed a finger at him. He had lifted her oxygen mask just enough for him to hear, ‘Costello’s fine. She did good.’
He whispered in her ear, ‘And so did you.’ He replaced the mask, her eyes closed with a sense of peace. Mission accomplished.
He had felt like crying, Patrick had stood back, giving him a moment.
At the Exciseman bar, the owner was now very friendly, telling Anderson to get his jacket, there was a double measure of eighteen-year-old Glendronach waiting outside.
‘Outside?’
Beyond prying ears.
Alastair Patrick was sitting alone, on a bench on the seafront, two crystal glasses cradled in his gloved fingers. Without looking, he passed one over to Anderson and for a moment they sat in silence, the wind had died, the rain had stopped. They looked out over the dark water of the Sound, it merged into the darker sky somewhere beyond the horizon. Patrick seemed hypnotized by the rhythmic sweep of the beam of the Rua Riedh lighthouse.
Anderson felt comforted by it. How many sailors out there in the unseen darkness, were watching.
‘So, what are you SO14? SO15? Any other number we mere mortals are not allowed to know about?’ asked Anderson, sipping the malt. It warmed his heart.
‘SO 15? Do I look like a tosser?’ Patrick whispered. ‘Anyway, all this almost makes you believe in the Good Lord, now that the demons have been chased, the resident evil is no longer … resident.’
‘That was some shooting you did.’
‘Not that difficult. I wasn’t caring if I hit you.’ Patrick kept his eyes on the water.
‘You a weapons man, somewhere?’
‘Some might say.’
‘Was Valerie trying to fire that gun? Did it jam? How did you know it would fire?’
‘Ruger. It fires OK if you release the safety.’
Anderson smiled.
Patrick continued, ‘And for your paperwork, you need to know that Kieran Cowan was never left alone after he was discovered. The chain of evidence was kept intact, your little orange fibres are safe evidence. And he’s alive to testify that it was Haggerty who attacked him.’
‘Would I regret asking who was watching over Cowan on the Bealach that morning, if I needed a statement?’
‘No, you wouldn’t regret it. But you wouldn’t get an answer.’
‘OK. Is something going on up here? Something important?’
‘Some folk might say that. Preparation. Exercises. You’ve seen the news.’
‘The Yemen? Are they going to—’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
Another silence felt between then.
‘You saved my life, Neil Taverner was going to slit my throat.’
‘You would have survived. He’s watched too many Hollywood films to do it properly.’
‘You knew for a while though. About them both.’
‘They were clever but it was a house of cards. We needed a catalyst, after we found Cowan, I knew it was game on. It was stepping stones after that. The McCaffrey boy. Then the Abernethy woman came here, stuck out like a sore thing. We were watching, of course, waiting. And she was following him. He wasn’t expecting that so his guard was down. Sneaky woman, Abernethy, surprised me.’
‘He thought he had killed the woman who had been following him. Haggerty must have thought they got away with it.’
‘Feeling secure made them sloppy.’
‘Why did you take Finn?’
‘For his own safety. Morna said she was doing her sergeant’s exams. Neil immediately increased her life insurance. Then there were a couple of accidents, incidents? Nothing was going to happen to Morna on my watch. Easier to lift them and contain them. She’ll forgive me when she calms down. She has more to concern her.’
‘It was not lawful. And what happened to Neil Taverner wasn’t lawful.’
‘It was quick, better than he deserved,’ Patrick’s voice was hard.
‘What happened to his body?’
A shrug.
‘I thought you might have an idea.’
Patrick ignored him. ‘The Millennium Falcon is in Taverner’s garage. Abernethy’s fingerprints are on the inside which is perfectly natural as she’s on record as saying she built it with Malcolm last Christmas.’
Anderson nodded, glad of solid evidence.
Patrick said quietly, ‘Did you not see Neil Taverner roll down that hill? I think his body got washed out to sea.’
‘I saw him lying …’
‘You saw nothing, you were chewing the grass.’ Patrick looked along the water, watching the light sweep. ‘Aye well. They’ll be a wee hiatus in the efficiency of drug running for a while. Hope the drug squad try to capitalize on that. Slip in someone undercover, somebody good.’
‘Sounds like you fancy the job yourself?’
‘Twenty, thirty years ago nae bother.’ Patrick took a large slug, smiling. ‘It’s always the same. You need balls to do that kind of job.’
‘Who dares wins?’
And Anderson thought that Alastair Patrick might have winked at him.