by Lin Anderson
‘Who?’
‘A biker had her picture on his mobile. It was from a video of the West Coast Harley shop where the staff talk about their own bikes.’
‘What did this guy look like?’ McNab demanded.
73
Why a demon mask?
It was easy to understand why the perpetrator would use a mask, but the mask she remembered had been the same demon as depicted in the painting Conor had shown her.
Anyone might be frightened by a demon, but to be drugged and faced with one you might recognize?
There was still a blank in her memory after her attempt at stabbing her assailant, not unusual in the case of date-rape drugs. But her rational thought was returning and with it the possibility that she might work out the identity of her assailant.
McNab had been right when he’d indicated that the perpetrator could be stalking her, and not just with the desire to outwit her forensically. A cascade of images came flooding back. The unexplained gift of red wine, followed by nausea, the headaches, the general feeling of having been poisoned. Then Tom’s brush with death, the seagull deposited on her kitchen floor.
And finally the white wine.
She’d sought to blame her sickness on the early stages of pregnancy, but that hadn’t been the reason, or not the whole reason. She knew that now.
Someone had tried to drug her, even poison her, and that someone must have had access to her flat and recently.
The scene in the park when she’d first met Conor now replayed in her head, but this time Rhona read it differently. This time she imagined it not as a random accident but as deliberate. Their first and subsequent meetings. The way Conor had first made contact, professing to know about her via his volunteer. His invitation to the sleep clinic where he’d shown her the painting. Then their drink together.
And he’d phoned her just when she needed help most in getting Tom to the emergency vet.
Her mind went back to the convenient flat tyre. Had Conor been responsible for that too?
God, in her present vulnerability, she’d almost accepted his invitation to dinner last night. When she’d turned him down, he’d seemed unperturbed, simply saying he would ask again when she wasn’t so busy.
Rhona halted there, aware that fear and paranoia were interfering with logical thought. Conor wasn’t the only one who could have accessed her DNA or entered the flat. The image of the seagull swinging in at her window confirmed this.
Sean had warned her about leaving the kitchen window open for Tom. He’d even climbed onto the roof to illustrate how easy it was for someone to gain access to her flat. If Sean could do it …
And a stalker would know her movements. Know all about her life. Every intimate detail of it.
The nausea rose again although there was nothing left in her stomach to regurgitate. Rhona focused on its retreat. The face of her watch was the only light in the darkness and it told her just how long she had been here in what felt like her grave.
Surely someone would have noticed she was missing by now?
Surely McNab, at least, would be looking for her?
74
The barman’s description of the guy who’d already come looking for Ellie wasn’t difficult to put a name to.
So Symes was searching for Ellie too.
What did that mean? That she’d told him she was coming here, then hadn’t turned up at the shop?
Having ordered the barman to call him if Ellie appeared again or anyone else came in asking about her, McNab took himself outside. The crowd watching the band had grown in size, the atmosphere still good-natured despite the copious amounts of alcohol being consumed.
PC Mitchell had been right in his summation that just spotting Ellie by chance among this throng was unlikely.
Having made his decision, McNab was now on his way to the West Coast tent. If Symes was in Aviemore and looking for Ellie, then he was looking for Symes.
The entrance to the Winking Owl car park was filled with a crowd of locals queuing up to have their photograph taken on a bike that looked like the one McNab now owned. Weaving his way past the excited youngsters and those not so young, he made his way to the corner where West Coast Harley had set up shop, outside of which stood three bikes. One he recognized as a Fat Bob – maybe Ellie’s?
His heart lifting at such a possibility, McNab entered the tent, his cap down to shield his face. He spotted Symes immediately, talking to a potential customer by a rail of jackets. There were also two women in the tent, one of whom, noting McNab’s appearance, made to approach.
McNab barely had time to decide how to react to any enquiry she might make, when Symes bade farewell to his customer and headed for the till. McNab followed.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ Symes said, clocking his presence.
McNab removed his cap and put his face in full view. ‘Where’s Ellie?’
A number of emotions crossed Symes’s face, including puzzlement, annoyance and a flicker of fear.
‘I don’t know, Sergeant,’ he responded in an irritated tone. ‘She was supposed to be working here this weekend, helping in the shop. After she went off sick, she called me to say she would definitely turn up.’ He glanced around the shop. ‘As you can see, she hasn’t.’
‘And the Fat Bob outside?’
‘That’s just it.’ Now the puzzled look found prominence. ‘It’s Ellie’s bike, but we haven’t seen any sign of her.’
‘We need to talk,’ McNab said. ‘I want you across the road at the police station, now.’
‘I can’t just desert the shop,’ Symes began, then noting McNab’s expression, called one of the women over and told them he had to go out.
McNab shut the door of the interview room. The cell might not have been occupied recently, but this place had a more used look about it. PC Mitchell wasn’t on the premises, but McNab had sent him an urgent message and was expecting him to arrive any minute.
In the meantime, he was drinking the strong coffee he’d requested and observing Symes once again. There was something about this guy he simply didn’t like. True, his opinion might have been formed by their meeting in the Glasgow shop, where Symes’s attitude regarding Ellie hadn’t helped. But it was more than that.
Symes didn’t like him either, that was plain to see. Maybe that was because McNab was in a relationship with Ellie, and he’d rather it was him. Or maybe it was because he had something to hide.
McNab suspected the latter, although he had yet to prove it. He concentrated on his coffee and observing Symes for the moment, enjoying the discomfort this was causing.
Eventually Symes could take it no longer.
‘Can we get on with it? I’ve a shop to run.’
‘Big weekend for you then?’
Symes looked taken aback by the question. ‘It’s the largest HD rally in Europe. Of course it’s big for us.’ He sounded offended. ‘That’s why Ellie should be here.’
‘You’re not worried about her then? Why her bike’s there and she isn’t?’
Symes met McNab’s eye. ‘Maybe she’s shacked up somewhere and forgot the time.’
The barb, aimed at him, hit home, because it might be true.
Just then, the door opened and PC Mitchell entered. McNab covered his anger by explaining who Symes was and why he was there.
Now the interview was official, McNab went for the question he really wanted answered.
‘The London Street tunnel. You were aware Ellie was racing down there with three other girls?’
Of all the questions he’d expected to be asked, Symes hadn’t imagined that one. The element of surprise paid off. Symes wanted to say no, yet the glint in McNab’s eye suggested he knew differently.
PC Mitchell who, as far as McNab was aware, would know next to nothing about the tunnel case, managed to maintain an expression that said he was in on whatever McNab had planned. McNab vowed to buy Ruaridh a pint for that at least.
‘Yes,’ emerged eventually from Symes’s pursed lips
.
‘You knew they were down there that particular night?’
He shook his head. ‘Not exactly.’
‘What does that mean, not exactly?’
‘I suspected, but I didn’t know.’
McNab waited for an explanation for his suspicions.
‘Ellie had her tyres changed. Said she wanted a better grip. The tunnel surface can be tricky at high speeds.’
‘You’ve raced down there?’
‘Yes. But not any more.’
‘But you were down there that night? To watch them race.’
Symes’s head went down while he decided what to answer.
‘And you saw Ellie get off the bike at the Cosworth,’ McNab prompted.
Symes looked up again. Either he was genuinely puzzled or he was making a good show of pretending to be. ‘I wasn’t down there. I saw nothing.’
‘Then why call Ellie and claim the opposite?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘But you’re interested in the forensics of the tunnel case?’
‘What?’
‘Did you not enrol on an online forensics course run by Glasgow University?’
‘Yes, but what has that got to do with Ellie?’
‘So you did do the course?’
‘Some of it, yes, but I lost interest. Never finished it.’
McNab observed Symes in exasperation. Everything he’d said up to now rang true, despite his own wish for the outcome to be different.
‘We believe Ellie might be in danger.’
Symes looked totally taken aback by that. ‘You mean because of being in the tunnel that night?’
McNab nodded.
Symes’s face crumpled. ‘Jesus. I didn’t know.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Fuck. That’s why she didn’t come in to work?’
‘Probably. And why we have to find her.’
‘Tell me what I have to do, Detective. I don’t want anything bad to happen to Ellie.’
Once Symes had gone, PC Mitchell turned to McNab. ‘So what now?’
At that moment, McNab had no idea, except for his belief that Ellie had to be somewhere in the throng out there, because she would never be parted from her bike.
Unless she was forced to.
‘Let’s bring the bike over here and take a look at it.’
75
The water woke her, swirling around her face, entering her nose and partially open mouth, sending her into a paroxysm of coughing. She’d been paralysed, reliving the earlier nightmare, the tentacles of roots above her, the earth splattering down to fill her mouth and eyes.
Rhona attempted to drag herself upright against the earth wall, coughing a mix of water and mud up, spitting it out, cursing herself for falling asleep, yet aware her body had had no choice, being weakened by hunger and whatever drugs were still in her system.
She’d been facing away from the stream when she’d dozed off, so for the water to have reached her nose and mouth, the level must have risen. It had been swirling around her nether regions for so long, Rhona had lost feeling there.
Dropping her hands into the flow, it was obvious that the stream had broken its banks, and now covered a bigger area with a film of water, suggesting it had been raining on the surface and she was experiencing the underground run-off from that.
Was that how this sink hole had been formed?
Rhona’s mind raced with the possibility of such a thing happening again. This summer had been known for thunderstorms and torrential downpours. She imagined the water rising and her with it, to finally bring her within reach of the edge, allowing her escape.
Then reality set in. With her feet and hands bound, she wouldn’t be able to tread water. She would likely flip face down and drown.
All the more reason to free herself.
Seated, knees drawn up tight to her chest, Rhona began shuffling her rear to allow the passage of her hands beneath her.
As she did so, a shower of earth and stones came flying down on her head. Quashing her instinct to cry out, she stopped what she was doing and waited, as a further scattering met her head and shoulders.
Were the weak walls of her prison about to collapse in on her?
Even as she contemplated such a frightening explanation, a light flashed on and roamed the space above her.
Someone was up there. Her abductor or the Urbex explorer?
This time, Rhona decided, she would take a chance and assume the latter.
The thick scratch of a shovel cutting though earth changed her mind. Whoever was up there was digging, but to what purpose?
Rhona found out the answer almost immediately as another flurry of earth and stones came hurtling into her cell.
Smothering a cry, she turned her face to the earthen wall.
76
‘When Sean went round to the flat, Rhona wasn’t there, and there’s been a disturbance.’ Chrissy was trying, but panic was obvious in her voice. ‘A broken wine bottle and glass in the kitchen and blood on the floor.’
Her panic transferred itself quickly to McNab. ‘You’ve called it in?’
‘Yes, and I’m headed there now with a forensic team.’ Chrissy’s voice broke a little. ‘I told you there was something wrong. Rhona would never stay out of touch like that.’
‘She’s pregnant,’ McNab said. ‘I thought it likely she was going to the clinic to have a termination this morning. She asked me not to say anything to anyone,’ he added.
The silence that followed his announcement was more meaningful than any outbreak of cursing from Chrissy.
Eventually she said, ‘Does Sean know?’
‘No one knows but me and that was a mistake,’ McNab said, aware at how hurt Chrissy would be at her exclusion.
‘Do I tell Sean?’
‘No,’ McNab said adamantly. Rhona would be mad enough that he’d told Chrissy.
‘You’re coming back?’ Chrissy was urging him.
A myriad of thoughts swept through McNab’s brain, the overriding one being that there were now two missing women linked to this case.
And I have to choose which one I search for.
The weather had shifted to match his mood.
Drumochter was overlaid by a dense and darkened sky. The rain came on halfway through the pass, beating on his helmet with a vengeance, his breath swiftly clouding the visor. McNab opened it a little to get rid of the condensation and used his gloved hand like a windscreen wiper.
The other disadvantage the bike had over his squad car, or a police motorbike, was the lack of a blue flashing light.
McNab, his beams full on, powered past any traffic he encountered, regardless. If he was caught on camera and intercepted, he would explain the circumstances. Maybe even command a squad car as his escort.
The further he got from Aviemore, the more Ellie was on his mind. Examining her bike had revealed nothing of consequence, apart from the fact that all her belongings had been removed from the paniers. Her tent too, McNab assumed.
He’d called Fran immediately after he’d heard from Chrissy and they’d hatched a plan. It was time, she said, for the Chapter to find Ellie for him.
‘There’s about three hundred in the Chapter. Fifty of them are in charge of the main locations like the campsite, hospitality and merchandise tents, and of course registration. All we need to do is tell that fifty we need to find Ellie and the rest will find out too.’
Fran’s words had been a salve for his guilt.
‘It’s better this way,’ she’d added. ‘There are enough of us to do a proper search. I’ll call as soon as we locate her.’
She’d sounded so certain, McNab almost believed her. Although it took nothing away from the realization that he’d made a choice and Rhona had come first.
How could it ever be different?
He suspected, of course, that the bastard was playing them. Orchestrating their – no – his movements. He knows me well enough to set this up.
If so, the perpetrator was much closer to
the investigation than they dared believe. Close enough to know how he would react to such circumstances.
Had he done what was expected of him?
Rain splattered his visor, but McNab felt the drops inside too, running down his cheeks.
The bikes had been gathering for the mass ride-out as McNab had departed the village. An army of them, good-natured, excited, all sizes, colours, outfits, spectacularly masked or wearing only bright smiles for the crowds of spectators that lined the pavements.
‘By the time we come back from Grantown, every one of the riders will know we’re looking for Ellie. When we get back here, they’ll tell everyone else.’
If she’s here, we’ll find her, Fran had finished by saying.
McNab whispered to himself, Please God they do.
77
Chrissy imagined Rhona there with her, her silent voice at her shoulder.
Take your time. Use every sense. It’s all about context. Remember every question that comes to mind. Write them down. The story’s there, all of it. You just have to read the words to make sense of it.
How many scenes had she visited with Rhona? How many deaths had they catalogued together? How many questions had they answered, actions they’d made clear together?
Forget about how the scene makes you feel. It’s not about you. You don’t matter. Only the victim does.
With Rhona’s words ringing in her head, Chrissy still struggled to do what was advised.
All she could think about was that the kitchen where she’d spent so much time eating, drinking and laughing with Rhona had become the locus of a crime.
Read the scene, Chrissy. Remember, it’s not about testing. It’s about asking questions. The right questions.
Taking a deep breath to settle her racing thoughts, Chrissy attempted to do as instructed.
Letting her gaze sweep slowly around the room, she took it in properly this time, registering anything that jumped out at her. On the surface beside the slow cooker was a plate with a piece of gammon on it, uncovered. Partially gnawed at, it suggested Tom had been helping himself prior to Sean’s return, when he’d been given to a distressed Mrs Harper to look after while the flat was searched.
The window had been left open, Chrissy assumed for Tom. Rhona would never listen about that window, even when Sean had tried to reason with her. A cat needs a measure of freedom, she’d said. Like the rest of us.