My throat tightened and my eyes stung. I pulled off my rucksack, grabbed my water and drank it straight back, then I tore open a cereal bar and ate as I walked. I felt my energy levels revive, my self-doubt evaporate, and I jogged along the middle of the track where it was most even.
As I reached the outer edge of the woods, the trail narrowed and drew me in. The long, spiny branches of the Norwegian spruces reached out to touch me, and it grew darker as daylight waned and struggled to permeate the tree canopies. The track felt familiar, though there was nothing that accounted for it. There were thousands of similar tracks all over Scotland, hundreds of which I had walked down before.
I stepped off the track and into the trees for a much needed wee. The bracken nipped as I squatted and the sound of pine needles cracked underfoot. I peered through the undergrowth and trees. Some way down I saw a faint but definite glow, and I knew it could only be coming from Deeren Farm. My map confirmed this and I continued my approach under the safe concealment of the trees, rather than take the easier but more exposed track.
Instinctively, I felt for the knife, despite there being no obvious threat of imminent danger. I remembered I hadn’t turned off Dad’s phone and my heart pounded. It hadn’t rung or beeped in a couple of hours, and I guessed I was too far from any mobile masts. Even so, I couldn’t risk it giving me away, assuming I was right about the farm. I turned it off and zipped it into my coat pocket.
Something disturbed the stillness, then a shrill cry from somewhere cleaved the silence and startled me. I spun around, senses frayed. It hadn’t sounded human, and I imagined it was only an eagle or a fox out hunting. Nevertheless, I felt a heady spike of unease.
I threaded my way through the trees, onwards and ever nearer. The light appeared to ebb and flow as though it flickered. Perhaps it was candlelight and therefore no mains electricity. I heard a steady but soft rumble and I paused. It was the sound of water and within a few steps I stood at the top of a short but steep bank. I looked down at a fast-flowing burn.
There didn’t appear to be a way past, so I looked for a narrow section to jump over. I walked upstream and down, but it was at least four-feet-wide at its narrowest point, too far to leap across cleanly. Maybe it wasn’t too deep and I could step on a stone or branch to avoid a soaking. I scrambled down the bank and decided I had to risk it. I stood at the edge and realised it was full from recent rainfall, and impossible to judge with the water so heavily peat stained. I placed one foot behind the other and launched myself across. Straightaway, my foot slid beneath me. I fell forwards, and my hands raked through the mud on the opposite bank as I plunged into the ice-cold water. My feet skimmed the bottom briefly, but the force of the water flow dragged me downstream. I braced my legs to halt my progress, and looked for something, anything, to grab onto. I was frantic with every second and I grasped a clump of grass, which came away from the loose earth. My feet slithered through the muddy floor, and I sank beneath the water, as though clawed by invisible hands. Its strength carried me along. I thrust my head up and gasped for air, my mouth full of silt-laden water. I spluttered for breath as the current pulled me downstream, and I snatched desperately at the bank for a branch, a rock, anything to escape. My thigh scraped along something razor-sharp and I shrieked. I panicked at the sheer speed and ferocity of the current, which had looked more innocent from the bank. As I drifted with the flow I twisted onto my back. I spotted a sapling with wiry branches hunched over the water. As I drew alongside I made a determined grab for it, and felt the notches of the branch as my fingers scraped along its length. I doggedly kept hold. Inch by inch I hauled myself out until my shoulders and chest were against the bank, the flow still clutching me. I gained a lucky foothold and with one final motion, I dragged myself up the muddy embankment. I crawled away from the water’s edge and lay on my back, shaken, as each breath came in sharp rasps.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
Why didn’t I just walk back to the track where there must have been a bridge over the stream? What an idiot. I’d almost drowned myself, nearly broken my leg and wasted god knows how much precious time doing it. The only positive was that I was on the right side of the water, though that was more through luck than judgement.
My legs regained some feeling and a searing pain radiated through me. I looked at my leg and drew back the material to reveal a three-inch gash with a thick flap of skin and a shiny ribbon of blood that oozed from it. I rifled in my rucksack for something to tie around my leg to stem the blood flow. I grabbed my spare fleece and used the knife to detach one of the sleeves. I fumbled with my soaked trousers, but managed to pull them down. I held my breath and tied the sleeve securely. Then I removed my sodden jumper, T-shirt and bra, and put on the dry fleece, minus a sleeve. If I didn’t move I risked hypothermia, and I’d be no use to Lyssa then. I stood up slowly and took a hesitant step. The pain felt uncomfortable but tolerable, and now I was so close to Lyssa I wasn’t going to let anything delay me further.
I scanned the trees for the light, but there was nothing, not a glimmer. I turned full circle but saw only scruffy undergrowth, fallen branches, and dense woodland. Now I sensed darkness descending. It trickled its way through the treetops and seeped with intent down the length of the trunks and dripped from branch to branch below. I had lost my bearings, but at the same time I knew the farm was nearby and so I kept on. After a couple of uncertain minutes, I stepped through bracken and brambles and felt relieved to have found a well-defined path, lined with pine needles, bedded down into the soil by footfall. It had to be a public footpath or one used by the inhabitants of the farm. I kept low and continued over a hillock, until through the trees stood a large farm building just yards ahead. There it was - Deeren Farm. Wet, frozen and in pain, all discomforts faded as adrenaline coursed through me and prepared me for what was to come.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Alone in the World
When Inspector Keir entered the interview room her demeanour held more purpose than it had all afternoon. Despite her outward vigour, her skin held none of its former healthy glow. Her appearance laid bare the few hours of sleep she’d snatched during the past three days, and she clung to her coffee cup for support and sipped intermittently.
She sat down and exhaled. “We have information about Corey and his family. I want to share it with you because we believe it is why your car was found in Arrochar.”
Max sat up, alert.
“It’s possible you might think of a location he has taken Lyssa, a place from his past that links with the death of his father,” she said.
Max sensed the Inspector thought he knew more than he had admitted to. “But I only know about Benn Arum, where we found Roy.”
“We’ve learned that Corey was briefly under the care of a psychiatrist last year. His GP referred him because he was concerned that Corey was becoming emotionally volatile and unstable, potentially dangerous. Initially, Corey was unwilling to undergo counselling, but he did attend two sessions, enough for the psychiatrist to make an assessment.”
“How did you find out? I thought that kind of stuff came under patient confidentiality.”
“It doesn’t matter how we know. The point is we believe it to be true.” She set down her empty cup and leaned forward.
“And what did it reveal?” said Max, unsure he wanted to hear the reply.
“In brief, that he was in danger of inflicting harm upon himself or someone else. The psychiatrist concluded it would most likely be someone else. Corey didn’t attend his third session, and the psychiatrist hasn’t seen him since. We know that in cases like this, a person’s emotional state can deteriorate in a matter of weeks or even days and so we can only hazard a guess as to his present state of mind.”
A deep flush rose up Max’s neck and face as he digested her words.
“I’m sorry, Max, but it’s important you know,” she said. “Given that he’s abducted Lyssa, we can assume he’s in an unstable emotional state. Shall I go on?”
�
�Please,” Max replied, and walked across to the window. He parted the blinds.
As the Inspector continued, Max turned and listened.
“He’s moved a lot during the past few years, most likely through being evicted by disgruntled landlords. His current neighbours report they rarely see him come and go, and that he keeps himself to himself. One or two told officers they didn’t trust him, or like the way that he’s spoken to their children. No one we’ve spoken to has seen him for about two weeks.”
Max returned to his seat and picked up a pencil. “What do you mean how he’s spoken to their children?” Max pressed his forefinger onto the sharpened lead causing it to snap.
She pursed her lips. “He wanted to engage them in conversation and find out as much as he could about them. In short, he wanted to befriend them.”
“You mean he’s a paedophile?”
“As you know, he’s already been arrested and cautioned for hanging around a school and giving alcohol to minors, so I think we can safely assume he’s attracted to children.” She paused. “A female volunteer he befriended at a community centre has come forward. She recognised him on the news and told us he’d confided in her about the death of his father and how his grandfather used to own a farm in the Loch Lomond area. Corey told her how he used to visit with his parents, and then after his father’s death with his mother and her boyfriend. Seems he wanted to talk about it, as if things were dwelling on his mind.”
“Have you spoken to Corey’s mother?” said Max.
“No, she’s dead. Died twelve years ago of alcoholic poisoning, only thirty-six. Corey was sixteen at the time, still a kid.”
“Perhaps he’s at the family farm. Do you know where it is?” asked Max.
“We’re working on it. We think it may be near to where you came across Roy. It’s possible Roy walked from his father’s farm that day. The problem is there are a number of farms in the area, but we’re hoping the name Simpson will mean something to someone locally. We haven’t seen any mention of a farm in his messages. Have we missed something, did he refer to any locations?”
“Not a farm no, but twice he asked me to meet up with him at Corrieshalloch Gorge, south of Ullapool. Both times I turned up when he said to, but he never showed.”
She pondered. “Strange that he arranged to meet you that far north when he’s living in Cumbernauld, Glasgow. He doesn’t own a car, so perhaps he never intended to meet up and it was merely a ruse to get you running around.”
“Maybe. Look, if you give me my phone I’ll go through the messages, see if I missed anything. And, I need to get hold of Kat.”
“No,” she said. “That won’t be necessary at the moment.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Childhood Matters
Natural light in the room faded, and Lyssa sensed nightfall approached. She watched him slumped in the chair, and the way his head nodded every now and then. How was this going to end, she wondered? Last night, the grey emptiness and the unfamiliar shadows had made everything unbearable. Her tummy grumbled again, and she wondered if she might starve to death. Every time she moved, her head pounded. The dryness in her mouth was unbearable, and she ached for home; for normality. She recalled how sometimes at night, if she woke up thirsty, she would creep upstairs to the fridge, take out the orange juice, and drink it straight from the carton - so wonderfully sweet and cold.
Why wouldn’t he leave? She needed a wee and wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on. She knew he wasn’t going to release her and felt a surge of determination rise up within her.
“Have you got anything to eat or drink?” She didn’t disguise the suppliant tone in her voice.
He glanced at her and turned away.
“Excuse me, have you got any food or water?”
“Not much. I can go without food, so can you.”
“I need the toilet. Please, can I go?”
Again, he didn’t answer but instead began to tap his foot feverishly on the floorboards. “It was too much for Mum. First Jean, then Dad. Mum started drinking ‘cus it took her mind off the bad things. Sometimes, she forgot I was there. She got dressed up and left me on my own. She stayed out all night, and I’d wake up not knowing where she was. I’d go down, make toast and watch telly but it didn’t feel right.” He got up and walked to the window.
“Mum met Ian. I thought he was sound at first. A good laugh. Got us takeaways, took me to the cinema, and fishing down the river. I caught a roach and Ian said I was a natural.” He leaned against the wall and scratched his cheek. “Turned out he wasn’t as great as we first thought. He liked a drink too, and when he got pissed, he’d shout, throw stuff and smack us. I hated him and I told Mum she should dump him. But Mum said he was a good man deep down.” He snorted. “She finally threw him out after he beat her up so bad she had to stay in hospital.” He paused, and remembered.
“This was Grandad’s farm. It got too much for him, Mum said. She said he’d leave it to me after Dad died. My dad liked coming here, but I remember him and Granddad would argue about the farm. Granddad wanted him to take it on, but Dad said he’d never be a farmer. Said it was too lonely and miserable. I like it – the silence. And it was smart back then, nice kitchen, sofas, telly and mod cons. Dad made me a tyre swing in the woods that went right over the stream. I felt like I was flying.”
He flicked his Zippo lighter, and adjusted it so that the flame flickered up and shrank back down again, then he reached for a cigarette tucked behind his ear, twirled it in his fingers and lit up. He dragged deeply and blew a spiral of smoke at Lyssa’s face.
“One summer, Ian drove us up here. Mum was giddy, telling Ian all about it, the sheep and cows. Mum said he could have a go at driving the tractor and I might be big enough to have a go too.” He drew on his cigarette and flicked the ash onto the floor. “Granddad knew me and Mum were coming, but he hadn’t known about Ian. Granddad was mad as hell. Mum and Ian started on the booze and had a massive row with Granddad. Ian ended up punching Granddad and split his lip and broke his nose. Nan screamed at them to stop. Granddad must have been scared ‘cus he stormed out and didn’t come back in. I know, because I checked his bedroom in the night and only Nan was there. In the morning, he walked back in when we were having breakfast. Turns out he’d slept in the stinking cow shed. Anyway, we had to leave, and I never saw Granddad again.”
As he continued talking about his past, she decided that if he kept talking, then at least he wasn’t shouting at her, shoving her or making her touch his revolting feet.
“A few months later when the foot and mouth hit, Granddad had to have the cows and sheep burned in a huge pyre. He wrote to Mum and said he was going to sell up and move to the village. It was sad ‘cus Granddad died just after they’d moved into their new cottage. He had a massive heart attack and died straight off. We came for the funeral, but there was hardly anyone there. Just me, Mum, Nan and a couple of old codgers. We all cried when they lowered him into the grave, but at the pub, I remember asking Nan if she was going to be OK. I’ll never forget her reply. She smiled and said, ‘Corey lovey, I’ll be much better than OK. I ‘spose I’ll miss your Granddad sometimes, but life is going to be just fine from now on’. I thought that was a weird thing to say seeing as he’d just died. It made me wonder if she hadn’t liked him much.” He looked down at Lyssa and his eyes narrowed. “Does your mum like your dad?”
“Yes.”
“Then she hasn’t heard he’s a murdering bastard.” He stepped closer to the bed and watched for her reaction.
“My mum never got over losing my dad. Do you know why? He was a real dad and knew how to look after us. He sorted anyone who upset me or Mum. He’d be with me now if your dad hadn’t murdered him.”
Lyssa didn’t attempt to defend her dad; it would only provoke him further. Unable to hold her bladder, a wet patch spread across the mattress.
He took a step closer. “What the…? Have you pissed yourself?” He kicked her.
Lyss
a screamed and recoiled into the corner.
He stormed across to the window and stared into the shadowy darkness as he reigned in his rage. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I still need the toilet.” She stared into her lap.
“What for? You’ve been.”
“I need the other.”
“OK. But if you try anything, I will kill you.”
Lyssa tried to control her breathing as the air caught in her lungs.
He grabbed her arm, and pulled her down the stairs, then through a darkened room and into a narrow passageway.
He pushed her roughly through a doorway. “And leave that door open.”
She gasped as her arm scraped the doorframe. A waft of cool air brushed her skin and she wondered if the window was open. As she felt for the toilet seat a vile smell coiled around her and she pressed her sleeve against her nostrils as her insides cramped. Afterwards, she rearranged her clothes and touched her way back to the door.
“What shall I do with you?” he said, and dragged her away.
In the hallway he stopped and pulled open a drawer and rummaged inside. He clicked on a torch and lit their way up the staircase and into the bedroom.
He beamed the torchlight into her eyes. “I tell you what girl, I’ve had enough of you. I’m sick of you lying there pissing yourself, not talking. You’re not right in the head.” He directed the beam down to her feet and back up again to her face. “I thought you’d be a bit of company, a good listener… give me some comfort.”
He clicked off the torch, which plunged them into darkness. Instinctively, Lyssa backed away.
He switched it on again, held it under his chin and jumped forwards, “Raaaahhh!” His repulsive features became distorted by the light.
He stepped out of the room and snapped the door behind him. Seconds later he threw the door open and pressed the torch against her cheek. “I’m gonna repay your dad for what he did to mine, like for like. Do you hear me?” He walked out, slammed the door, and the floorboards shuddered.
A Family By Design Page 24