As they rose into the air, Grant waived at them, but McKenzie’s attention was on the hive of activity that was visible just beyond the house.
A tent had now been erected around Daniel Gray’s body, glowing yellow against the darkness of the grass as the forensics team went to work inside.
As McKenzie settled down into his seat, reassured by the copilot that it would be a smooth ride, he thought briefly about his last sight of Daniel Gray’s head.
Just as the words written across his forehead had so clearly instructed him, McKenzie would never forget Daniel, or the horrific scene McKenzie had found at the site of his death.
For a moment, McKenzie thought about the words of the poem often read out at Remembrance Services for the Fallen Heroes of the Great World Wars. What was it they said? Something like, ‘At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them.’
From now on, whenever he heard those words, or he heard the bugle being played in the future, he would remember Daniel Gray, his head resting in the bracken and heather, his eyes watching the setting sun.
McKenzie would also remember that it was he himself who had led the killer to Daniel Gray’s door.
Now gaining altitude, Daniel’s cottage quickly shrunk and receded into the distance, McKenzie opened up Daniel’s copy of ‘Remember Me?’ and started reading from where he’d left off in his own copy.
Accepting that the writing would never win the Booker Prize, but now also knowing who wrote it, he was quickly immersed in the sequence of events that the book portrayed.
Maggie had done her best to build a story around the true events that happened, and then use her imagination to spin a series of fictitious reprisals against everyone involved.
Knowing now he was reading Maggie’s words, it was almost as if he was seeing the world through her eyes.
He began to feel some of her emotions. Feel some of her anger. Her frustration. To that extent the writing was successful. McKenzie became involved in her plight.
As the pages turned, he could see how the main character, quite clearly now Maggie, had carefully planned and carried out the executions of those who had somehow slipped through the criminal justice system.
McKenzie could also see that in some way, perhaps, the writing of the book had potentially been cathartic for Maggie.
In her imagination she had been able to mete out the justice she thought her aggressors had deserved, although perhaps the extent of it had been exaggerated by the anger she felt when they had walked away without blame or reprisal.
McKenzie had been involved in many rape cases in his career. The one thing he had learned from them was that they were often complicated. He was not an expert in these matters. The apportionment of blame, if there was any, was often very difficult to determine. Sometimes it was clear a rape had taken place. Other times it was not. When it was not just a matter of brute physicality but also of human emotion, then McKenzie always relied on those who were specialists and trained in all aspects relating to such cases.
Reading the words of Maggie Sutherland he had to keep reminding himself that this was one representation of the facts, written from the perspective of Maggie who was according to the testimony of Daniel Gray, already an emotionally troubled individual even before the sequence of events which she experienced. Unfortunately, McKenzie could not read the same story from the standpoint of Weir, Blake or McRae.
As he read the pages, he could feel himself beginning to side with Maggie, and felt a growing sense that Maggie had originally started out innocently, as probably many young women might do, but then she got in rapidly over her head, and was not able to cope with or control what happened next. And then she was raped. She reported it, but was scared to expose herself even more to the establishment and become even more of a victim. And so, with no parents she could turn to, she had innocently requested help from the one person she thought might be able to help her: the Head Master.
He was an adult, had seen things from another perspective. He’d wanted Maggie to report it to the police and let others pass judgement, not him. She’d been scared. She’d left it to the Head Master to take action.
He’d struggled with what to do. Had not been able to determine the truth of what had happened. And had then effectively sided with her aggressors.
In Maggie’s eyes, the Head Master had then become one of them.
He had failed her. Blamed her. Looked down on her.
Not supported her.
Abandoned her.
She had begun to hate him.
Blame him.
And soon her writing had included him as a victim.
In her imagination she had found him as guilty and culpable as the others, and as an outlet for the whirlpool of emotions that ripped her apart every, single, day, she’d carefully plotted out how justice should be served on him too.
In her story, Daniel Gray’s head had been cut off, and then stuck on the flag pole at the front of the school.
His body had been fed to the Koi Carp in the large pond in the centre of the campus.
Obviously, she had not been able to predict that in real life, Daniel Gray would go into hiding, or that the school would close.
Perhaps however, Maggie would have taken some comfort from knowing that Daniel Gray had been sentenced to years of torment, spending the rest of his life berating himself for the decision he’d made, questioning as he did every day whether or not he had done the right thing in response to her plea for help.
McKenzie could not judge what had happened - given the absence of facts and not able to question witnesses, the accused or Maggie - but he couldn’t stop thinking that Daniel had also become a victim of the events that night. He lost his peace of mind, his home – he’d been forced to go into hiding, and ultimately, he’d lost his life.
Was he actually guilty of anything?
McKenzie would never know.
As he read the pages, McKenzie became aware that his thoughts were wandering.
For now, his focus had to be on what would happen next and the most urgent question that remained.
Who was GasBag?
Was she also destined to die, and if so, how?
As he progressed through the book, now trying to discipline himself not to skip pages or scan ahead, he discovered that GasBag was destined to meet as gruesome a death as the others.
Frustratingly, the pages didn’t explicitly reveal who GasBag was. Neither did the notes which Daniel had periodically scribbled on the sides of the pages alongside the paragraphs.
Maybe Daniel had not known?
As he began to read about her death, it occurred to McKenzie, that surely, had Daniel known who she was, then he would have volunteered that information to McKenzie. Perhaps by doing so, Daniel could have sought some form of absolution for his past, and helped to save a life.
From the fact that he hadn’t, it indicated he didn’t know her identity.
McKenzie read on, desperate to find out what happened next.
He didn’t have to wait long, and the pages soon told him most of what he needed to know.
Maggie had been furiously jealous of GasBag. As her emotions had become increasingly troubled, GasBag morphed into the one person on the planet who was preventing Maggie from attaining happiness.
Maggie seemingly became convinced that if GasBag had not existed, had not been so pretty, and had never attracted or flirted with Ronald Blake, then surely Ronald would only have had eyes for Maggie?
GasBag was the one person in the world who was preventing Ronald from falling in love with Maggie.
It was GasBag’s fault that she had been raped.
If it were not for her, Ronald would have made love to Maggie. Passionately, Caringly. Affectionately.
Ronald would have been in love with Maggie.
Together they would have been happy.
When Ronald had blurted out GasBag’s name during sex, it was the last straw.
In that moment, the Maggie
had begun to plan revenge against GasBag.
She would die, just like the rest of them.
It would be Maggie that had the last laugh, exacting revenge on GasBag which was ‘oh so sweet’, and fitting.
GasBag would be put in a big bag, filled with gas, and then blown up.
Blown to smithereens.
From here to Timbuktu.
Chapter 44
Wednesday
Somewhere above the River Forth
02.15
McKenzie spent the entire helicopter flight immersed in the book. After he finished the story, he had scoured back through Daniel Gray’s copy for any notes which he may have missed that could add some insight as to GasBag’s identity.
He found none.
The book itself had ended - as far as McKenzie was concerned - rather disturbingly. It perhaps also revealed something about the state of Maggie’s mind, which caused McKenzie to feel quite uncomfortable.
In the end, it turned out that following the rape, Maggie had been pregnant.
In her version of the story, she’d had the child.
It was a boy.
She’d called him Ronnie.
In her story she’d always assumed that the father was Ronald Blake, and not either of the other two men she mostly referred to as ‘the rapists’. She’d brought Little Ronnie up as Blakes’s son.
Little Ronnie would have been about two years old when Maggie had killed his father, in the book.
In real life, McKenzie couldn’t help but wonder if Maggie actually had that child.
If she did, that boy would now be a man.
Capable of murder.
Had he found the sixth copy of the book, and realised his mother’s dreams for vengeance?
Had Little Ronnie acted as an executioner appointed by his mother’s court?
“Found guilty for the sentence of rape, or aiding, abetting, or flirting with the accused, I sentence you all to death.”
If so, that would mean that Little Ronnie had murdered his own father in cold blood for raping his mother!
McKenzie shook his head.
This was a very sick world.
Certainly, if Little Ronnie existed, he would top the list of suspects.
Unfortunately, it was a very short list, with only two people on it.
Hamish, who didn’t seem to exist anymore, and of whom no one could find any mention. And Little Ronnie of whom there was mention in Remember Me?, but who probably didn’t exist in real life.
Certainly, if Maggie had a child, there was no record of it. McKenzie had already had his team look into it, and the answer was that Maggie had no surviving relatives.
Most likely, Little Ronnie was just a figment of Maggie’s fertile imagination, and an indication of just how desperate she was for love, and for being loved by Ronald Blake.
When she couldn’t have him, she’d fantasised about having his son.
It had been a short flight. With no winds to fight, and no turbulence en route, it had passed quickly. During the trip, McKenzie had learned a lot.
There would be only one more victim. And she would be blown up in a cloud of gas.
With only about ten minutes to go before landing at Edinburgh Airport, McKenzie’s mind turned back again to the six copies of the books that had been printed.
Four had been given to the victims. That left two.
It seemed a logical conclusion that Gasbag would have one copy, and most likely Maggie Sutherland or the killer had the other one.
Therefore, finding out who had the other book, could be the way to finding GasBag and then saving her.
Right from the beginning, the killer had been taunting McKenzie. Rubbing his nose in it. Making him and his team acknowledge that the killer was always one step ahead of them.
McKenzie knew that he was exhausted. Tired. And not up to his normal self. He was beginning to make mistakes. Potentially miss leads. Get things wrong.
He desperately needed DCS Wilkinson to give him more staff.
What if the obvious was again staring him and his team in their faces, and they were missing it, just like they had missed the tunnel?
‘What if… ’ McKenzie began to scold himself. Berate himself.
Something was beginning to niggle away at him. He recognised the feeling. He always had it when he didn’t feel comfortable with the facts.
When he’d got something wrong.
Missed something important.
But what?
It was just as the helicopter flew over the new road bridge across the River Forth, and his mind relaxed for a few moments as he looked out of the window and marvelled at what the engineers had first imagined, then created - and the sheer scale of it! - that another piece of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place.
It was almost as if up until that moment he was trying too hard to think.
His mind was trying to say something to him, but couldn’t be heard.
Only when something else - the bridge - distracted him, was his subconscious able to yell at him and finally be heard.
But once the jigsaw piece had fallen into place, McKenzie knew exactly where he would find the next clue, and perhaps even be able to reveal the identity of GasBag.
McKenzie had been so busy searching for clues, that he’d missed the only one he had, practically given to him on a plate, and which he’d just ignored. Ever since then, McKenzie had been so keen to meet with Daniel a second time and then get him to reveal who GasBag was, that he hadn’t realised that perhaps Daniel had already done it!
What was it that Daniel Gray had said to him during their visit when he’d first talked about GasBag and Maggie, who he’d called Amelia at the time? “Apparently, she turned up at the ball looking exactly like Gasbag. Same dress. Same hair.”
Maggie had known that Ronald was attracted to GasBag, so she’d started to copy her. And she’d gone to the final ball looking like her!
Trying to calm his breathing he pulled out his phone and started to dial, then stuck it under his helmet by his left ear.
He knew it was late, but it didn’t matter.
“Pick up, pick up.” He willed the phone aloud, his voice being drowned out by the throbbing engine of the helicopter.
McKenzie had begun to sweat, and his heart was pounding in his chest.
Why wasn’t she answering?
Where was she?
At last, a very grumpy voice.
“Campbell… are you okay? Where are you?”
“Fiona, are you okay?”
“Yes, we’re both fine. A few more Braxton Hick’s but everything’s okay. You just woke me, up. Sorry. I’m really tired. But happy to hear your voice. I’m a bit lonely. My sister had to go home back to Stirling to check her house and turn off the house alarm. It’s been going off and she might have been burgled. She’ll be back soon, I hope. We’re not very far from Stirling. Only about thirty-minutes or so.”
“You’re alone?”
“Yes, but only for a few hours. I’ll be fine.”
“Good. I’m just about to land at Edinburgh airport. I need to ask you something. Can you remember the photograph we were looking at, at the Ball? The one of all the pupils taken at your school Prom, just after you’d left? I wasn’t really paying attention, but I think you said you had a copy of it somewhere?”
Just then the line died.
He dialled her back and waited.
She picked up briefly, but then it cut out again before they were able to exchange any words.
McKenzie quickly redialled, this time with more success.
“The school photo of the ball? Is that what you want?”
“Yes. DO YOU HAVE A COPY?” he shouted.
“Yes,” she replied. “I think I do. If so, it’ll be in one of my many tins in the attic somewhere. You know, the ones with all my childhood stuff in them… ?”
The line went dead again.
He redialled, willing her to pick up.
“Where?” he asked, as soon
as she did.
“The OLD BISCUIT TINS! IN THE ATTIC!”
McKenzie was really struggling to hear her now. The reception had become terrible, and the sound of the helicopter was drowning her out. It was becoming too much of a struggle.
He tried to say goodnight, and to blow her a kiss, but then she was gone again.
This time he gave up.
Instead he sent her a text message.
“Almost home. I’ll call you in the morning!”
A few seconds later, she replied.
“Ok. NN. Kisses from me and Little Bump.”
McKenzie smiled.
For a few seconds he closed his eyes, to picture Fiona and Little Bump.
He yawned, and then shook his head and shoulders, struggling to stay awake.
He’d been running on auto-pilot for days.
It was amazing just how debilitating stress could be.
He was tempted to let himself fall asleep, but they’d be landing in a few moments.
And there was something else.
Something more.
Another thought gestating at the back of his tired, tired brain.
Trying to get his attention. Trying to tell him something…
Something, important…
McKenzie awoke with a start, the copilot shaking his shoulder roughly.
“Sorry to wake you Guv, but you’re here, and we all want to get home to bed! Although we’ve still got to fly back to Glasgow yet!”
McKenzie couldn’t believe that he’d fallen asleep so intensely for such a short period of time. What was it? Five minutes?
That wasn’t to say he wasn’t grateful for it. He knew now how tired he was and how much he needed to sleep. For everyone’s sake. The last thing he could afford was to miss things, to not see clues that were staring him in the face.
Like the one he may just have missed!
Thanking the pilot’s profusely, he hurried from the helicopter through the airport and managed to catch the only taxi on the rank.
It only took him about forty minutes to make it back across the city on the deserted roads, struggling the whole time to keep awake.
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