by Ian Rankin
‘I’m beginning to wonder if you’re jealous.’
‘Jealous?’
‘It’s a normal enough emotion,’ Pears said, ‘when you see someone with something you’ve not got and probably can’t get. It’s what drove Alan Carter – doesn’t matter if it’s money, status or love, it can make you a bit crazy.’ Pears paused. ‘How’s your father doing?’
Fox glared at him.
‘I know your own marriage didn’t last long,’ Pears continued. ‘You’ve got a sister who’s seen some trouble in the past. And now your father’s been in hospital. He’s home, though, right? Not at that care home – but home with you?’
Fox was still staring. Without looking, Pears knew it.
‘Private care costs money,’ he went on. ‘A sister with no job can be a bit of a drain. Then you look at what Alison and I have got – not that we didn’t work hard for it, but sometimes there’s luck involved too.’ He paused again. ‘I know you’re not after money, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel bitterness at others’ good fortune.’ Pears gave Fox a good long look. ‘How am I doing, Inspector?’ he asked, throwing Fox’s question back at him. ‘The world’s missing one alcoholic womaniser and one blackmailer. Three cheers for the world …’
‘I think I know where we are,’ Fox said quietly, gazing out of the passenger-side window.
‘Where else would we be?’ Pears pulled into the lay-by, braking hard. There was a churning of gravel. He switched off the engine and turned to face Fox.
‘A walk in the woods?’ he suggested.
‘I’m fine here, thanks,’ Fox replied.
But Pears had reached beneath him and brought out another handgun. A pistol this time. ‘Kept a few souvenirs of the old days,’ he explained, aiming the barrel at Fox’s chest.
‘You’re forgetting the witnesses,’ Fox stated. ‘The surveillance van, for one thing.’
‘As plans go, it’s by no means perfect,’ Pears allowed.
‘So am I shooting myself in the head, or what?’
‘You’re going to hang yourself.’
‘Am I?’
‘At the scene of your obsession. I saw proof enough of it at your house – all those papers, a computer filled with guesswork. Francis Vernal got beneath your skin. Add that to your recent problems at work, and an ailing parent …’
‘I decide to end it all?’ Fox watched Pears nod. ‘And what are you doing all this time?’
‘We drove here together. You proposed some crazy theories. You directed me to this place, thinking it would mean something to me. Then madness got the better of you and you ran into the woods. I left you to it and drove home.’
‘It’ll all still come out – you and Alice, Vernal and Alan Carter …’
‘There’ll be hearsay,’ Pears agreed. ‘But I doubt the media will make much of it.’ He paused. ‘I have a battery of lawyers at my disposal, and I believe injunctions are all the rage. Trust me, precious little will be allowed to emerge. Why not toss your mobile phone on to the back seat? You won’t be needing it.’
Fox hesitated, and Pears dug the tip of the gun into his ribs. He winced and removed his phone, threw it into the gap between the two seats.
‘Out,’ Pears ordered. He had opened his own door, keeping the pistol pointed at Fox. Fox undid his seat belt and got out of the car. The air was cold and clear: country air. They were next to the small cairn commemorating Francis Vernal’s life.
A patriot.
It was a silent rural road. There would maybe be another car passing in half an hour or so. Plenty of time for Pears to carry out the execution – and no witnesses. There was a barking in the distance – a farm dog, or maybe a fox. Fox wished he was more like his animal namesake: swift and lean and nimble.
Cunning, though: there was always cunning …
Pears had closed the driver’s-side door and come around to Fox’s side of the Maserati. He slammed shut the passenger door.
‘Not often you see an expensive sports car parked here,’ Fox speculated. ‘Sure you don’t want to leave it somewhere less visible?’
‘I’ll just have to risk it,’ Pears responded. ‘Let’s get going.’
‘No rope,’ Fox told him.
‘It’s waiting for us.’ Pears waved the gun in the general direction.
‘Bit more planning than I gave you credit for.’
‘I read about it a while back. A man walked into a forest somewhere. He was too old to get the noose over a high branch, so he just tied it to a lower one, placed his neck in it, and leaned all the way forward …’
‘That’s what I’m going to do, is it? Sounds like I’d be better off refusing and taking a bullet. At least that way you’ll be in the frame.’
Pears shrugged. ‘My word against yours, except you won’t have any words. A body could lie out here for years without anyone finding it.’ He gestured towards the forest again. ‘Let’s not think about all that yet, though. Let’s just walk …’
Fox took a few steps forward, until he was within touching distance of the first line of trees. ‘Something nobody seemed to know …’ He tried to sound beaten, resigned to his fate.
‘What?’
‘But you will, I suppose.’
Intrigued, Pears repeated his question.
‘The actual tree Vernal’s car collided with.’
Pears considered for a moment. ‘Probably that one,’ he answered, gesturing with the pistol. The moment it was pointed away from him, Fox made his move, grabbing Pears’s wrist and twisting it. Pears gasped, his fingers splaying involuntarily. As the gun dropped to the ground, Fox scuffed it away with his foot. But Pears was the stronger of the two – he got in a few heavy blows as Fox wrestled with him. It took Fox only a few seconds to realise he was not going to win this fight, not at close quarters. He couldn’t see the gun, so he gave Pears a shove backwards and ran for it.
Pears didn’t follow, not straight away, which gave Fox a bit of time to dart between the trees. He was a good twenty or thirty feet away, the gloom working to his advantage, when a bullet shattered some bark inches from his left shoulder. A splinter penetrated his cheek, stinging like hell. He left it where it was and kept weaving as best he could.
He didn’t know how deep the woods were. How soon would it be till he reached open ground, where he’d be an easy target? There was a half-moon in the sky above, obscured by a thin layer of shifting cloud. Enough light to see by. More than enough for Stephen Pears.
A bullet lodged in a tree: evidence waiting to be found. But would anyone find it? Though times had changed, the police could still be sloppy. He patted his pockets. If he started to discard credit cards and the like, he would be leaving a trail for Pears as much as for any investigators. Another bullet zinged past him and thumped into bark. Pears was heavyset; probably didn’t get much use of the gym at the house – did Fox have half a chance of outpacing him?
Didn’t matter: it was the bullets he had to outpace, and that wasn’t going to happen.
Outmanoeuvre him, then – but how? The road was his best chance. It would depend on an elusive passing car, but his run of luck could change for the better, couldn’t it? Another option: double back to the Maserati. Pears hadn’t locked it, but Fox couldn’t remember if he’d left the key. His phone was on the back seat. So was the little recorder he’d borrowed from Joe Naysmith. He’d thrown it there along with the battery pack, having switched it on first. Everything said in the car would, he hoped, be on it – and audible.
But only useful to him if Pears didn’t find it …
Another shot, another miss. Would a farmer maybe hear? A poacher? Sweat was running down Fox’s back. He could remove his jacket, but it was darker than his shirt and he didn’t want to give his pursuer a more inviting target. His chest was hurting. He remembered the stitch when he’d run across the Forth Road Bridge. Stitch or not, this time he had to keep moving.
The fourth shot, however, found its target. He felt the impact against his left should
er. It went in and out again, numbing him for a moment. His legs almost buckled, but he wouldn’t let them. A burning sensation, and then pain shooting down his arm all the way to his fingertips.
He gritted his teeth. Knew he couldn’t stop, not even for a second. Warm blood, oozing and running. He gripped his left hand in his right, cradling it against his chest.
And ran.
Risked a glance behind him but could see no sign of Pears. He realised he was being stalked. Pears wasn’t panicking. He was being his usual methodical self. He was watching, listening and calculating. He was wearing his quarry down. Let Fox run in circles, then pick him off. Fox cursed his own stupidity and kept moving. Images flashed into his mind: Mitch and Jude; Imogen Vernal and Charles Mangold. Mangold getting him into this in the first place.
No, who was he kidding – he only had himself to blame.
Paul and Alan Carter …
Scholes and Haldane and Michaelson …
Evelyn Mills and Fiona McFadzean …
Players in the drama of his life and death.
Alice Watts morphing into Alison Watson.
Hawkeye hiding behind the eyes of Stephen Pears.
DCI Jackson, caretaker of state secrets.
Chris Fox.
And back to Mitch and Jude again.
They swirled around him as he headed up a noticeable incline. Moss and leaves mulched beneath him. Every breath he drew into his tired lungs tasted of loam.
‘Fox!’
The yelp from Pears told Fox that the man was maybe thirty or forty yards away. It also hinted at irritation, and this gave him a glimmer of hope. He tried to smile but couldn’t. He licked his lips instead, his saliva as sticky as wallpaper paste.
And he ran.
‘Fox!’
Keep shouting, pal: means I know where you are.
Every movement he made sent another jolt of pain through his shoulder. Blood was dripping on to his trousers and shoes. Thinking about it made him nauseous. He swallowed hard, tasting iron and bile. Emerging into a small clearing, he paused for only a moment to stare at the noose hanging from a tree branch, almost exactly in line with his eyes, one end wrapped around the trunk and knotted fast.
Move, Malcolm.
A steeper bank, a single line of trees and then a gap. He knew it had to be the road. He was forced to claw at the ground with his right hand as he climbed. When he stood up again, he was inches from the tarmac. He looked to left and right. The boot of the Maserati was just visible, the rest of the vehicle hidden around the curve of the road. Fox headed in the other direction. He was out in the open now. Couldn’t hear any traffic or spot headlights in the distance. His eyes stung and he wiped the perspiration from them. He could always dive into the woods on the opposite side of the road. Safer there, but more isolated, too.
Wait …
The sky was brightening. He could make out the treeline, silhouetted against the night. And now he could hear the faint roar of an engine. He remembered the local boy racers, their names scored into the memorial cairn. Would they stop for him? Were their brakes equal to their reaction time? It would be so bloody typical: escape a gunman just to be mown down by a spotty teen in a super-tuned Cosworth.
The roar was definitely getting louder. He was on a nice straight stretch. He started to remove his jacket – the lighter shirt might now be an advantage.
‘Fox!’
Fox turned. Pears looked mightily pissed off. The pistol hung at his side as he emerged from the trees. Seemed to Fox that he had tripped and fallen. A definite limp, clothes and face smeared with dirt.
He took a few deep breaths, straightened up, and started to raise the gun. Fox was barely thirty feet away. But the car was approaching. Fox was waving with his working arm. Pears was aiming at him as the car came into view, headlights flashing from full beam to dipped and back again, horn blaring. A small car with a big engine. Fox was trying to shield his eyes. A half-glance back told him Pears was doing the same. The car skidded to a stop, ending up side-on to the direction of travel. The passenger-side door flew open.
‘You trying to get yourself killed, pal?’
Just a kid, maybe not sixteen yet. Bass booming from inside the car. The driver leaving the engine idling as he too emerged, another car arriving behind him. More kids getting out. More thumping music.
Fox was staring at Pears. The gun was no longer visible, hidden behind him. He was making to retreat, backing away.
‘Is that blood?’ someone was asking Fox. ‘You crashed your motor or something?’
Pears was no longer visible. Fox asked the passenger if he could borrow his phone.
‘Aye, sure.’
But Fox’s hand was shaking too hard, his fingers slippery with blood. So he recited the number instead, the teenager punching it in and holding the phone towards his ear as he started to talk to Tony Kaye.
The Mondeo turned up a couple of minutes after the Armed Response Unit. Fox had given the four officers the lowdown: type of weapon; rounds already fired; direction taken by assailant. The teenagers had stuck around, slightly nervous that there might be some hidden agenda, despite Fox’s assurances. They leaned against their cars, smoking cigarettes and staring at the weaponry. When one tried to take a photo, a wagged finger was enough to deter him.
Tony Kaye was first out of the Mondeo, followed by Joe Naysmith. The last of the armed officers was disappearing into the woods as they walked towards Fox.
‘Does it hurt?’ Naysmith asked, nodding towards the wound.
‘Like blazes,’ Fox informed him.
‘Called an ambulance yet?’
Fox shook his head.
‘You’ve lost a bit of blood.’
‘It’s a graze,’ Kaye stated, giving Fox’s shoulder a cursory glance. ‘Think we should see what they’re up to?’ He gestured towards the woods.
After a moment’s hesitation, Fox nodded his agreement. ‘You lot stay here,’ he ordered the teenagers. ‘And no phones or texting – got that?’
It was quiet in the woods: no voices, no gunfire. Just the crackling of twigs underfoot.
‘You got here quick,’ Fox said.
‘Maniac at the wheel,’ Naysmith responded.
‘What did he have in mind for you?’ Kaye asked, pushing his way past the encroaching branches.
‘Suicide by hanging.’
Kaye shook his head. ‘I thought this guy was supposed to be a pro.’
‘He’s got away with it in the past.’
‘Overconfidence?’ Naysmith guessed. Then: ‘What if we get to him before the ARU?’
‘There’s three of us,’ Kaye growled. ‘Mood I’m in, shooter or no shooter he’s getting a doing.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’ Naysmith asked, noticing that Fox was faltering.
‘Just a bit dizzy.’ Naysmith steadied him. ‘I’ll be fine, Joe, honest.’ Fox wiped sweat from his face with his unbloodied sleeve.
When Kaye looked to Fox for guidance on the direction they should be taking, Fox started to shrug with his one good shoulder, but then stopped as a yell rang out. Sounded like the ARU giving due warning.
‘Maybe that way,’ he suggested.
The three men pushed on at a brisker pace. More voices ahead of them, but appearing to be in movement. It felt to Fox as though he were retracing his steps almost exactly. Part of his brain was telling him to stop, but he kept going, the sweat pouring from him.
They all heard the car engine when it kicked into life. A low growl turning into a roar.
‘Maserati?’ Naysmith guessed.
Sure enough, the Armed Response Unit stood with pistols trained on the car’s windscreen. Not that this was enough to dissuade the figure in the driving seat. The Maserati skidded backwards on to the road, spun, and started to speed away, its headlights switched off.
‘Back to the patrol car!’ one of the ARU men barked to his colleagues. ‘Ronnie, call it in!’
‘What do you reckon?’ Kaye was asking Fox.
‘Mondeo might be up to the job.’
‘Malcolm needs patching up,’ Naysmith warned.
Kaye ignored him, awaiting Fox’s decision. Then came the sound of squealing tyres, followed by the thump of impact.
43
The Victoria Hospital again.
Fox didn’t doubt that the reporter Brian Jamieson would be on the prowl somewhere in the vicinity. Fox’s wound had been cleaned and stitched. Painkillers were swooshing around inside him, and he had a prescription for more in his pocket. His shoulder was strapped and there was a dull ache if he tried moving his left hand. His jacket and shirt had been bagged as evidence. Forensics would head to the scene once it was light, seeking out bullet casings and the pistol and the noose.
No weapon had been found in the car. Pears must have tossed it. Fox was standing in the injured man’s room right now. His was the only bed in there. One of the medics had listed his injuries: a couple of broken ribs, two damaged knees and facial bruising.
‘Why you should wear a seat belt,’ the medic had stated.
A wire cage beneath the bedclothes was keeping pressure off the patient’s legs. He had opened his eyes when Fox stepped into the room. There was a police officer on duty outside. He had noted Fox’s name and taken a good look at his warrant card. Fox didn’t blame him: the borrowed hooded top and baggy jogging bottoms were hardly standard issue for a cop.
‘I think he’s asleep,’ the officer had said.
But Stephen Pears was awake for Fox.
‘We’ll find the gun,’ Fox told him.
‘And what will that prove? That I was so scared of you, I felt the need of it?’
‘Scared of me, were you?’
‘You and your outlandish theories.’ Pears tried to clear his throat, his mouth parched. He looked at the water jug next to his bed, but Fox wasn’t about to oblige.
‘You don’t seriously think that’s going to work?’ he asked instead.
‘You’d just accused me of murder,’ Pears went on. ‘You’d told me to drive to the spot where Francis Vernal died. I panicked, thinking you had a similar fate in mind for me.’ He was staring hard at Fox.
‘And that’s all you’ve got to play with?’