“I’d like to see it anyway. Annie wears her emotions on her sleeve. If she’s under duress, I’ll be able to tell. When can you get me a copy? And how?”
“When I decided to live a blue collar life, I created a persona. So”—he assumed a Cockney accent—“I became Doug the Janny. Most fink he’s good for naught but dumpin’ bins.” He pulled a keyring from his pocket, then jangled it in front of her. “But Dumb Ol’ Doug the Janny got his own key.”
He resumed his normal speech. “I’ll go in early tomorrow morning, copy the disk, and say I’m going home sick around noon—which might not be a stretch after this wretched wine. Could you and your friend be here by one? We’ll watch the footage together. Between the three of us, maybe we’ll notice something out of the ordinary.”
Chapter 30
Maggie sat in the passenger seat of William’s van and held her cell phone up to the wipers banging across the windshield. The weather had deteriorated overnight. Reception was spotty at best. She missed a call from Pennsylvania and couldn’t keep coverage long enough to retrieve the voicemail.
“Wait.” Maggie tapped her phone. “I just had a real good signal.”
William circled the block.
“Here! Right here!” she shouted.
A woman in a dented Vauxhall blew the horn as William slammed on the brakes, put the van in reverse, then backed into a parking spot.
“Up yer arse,” William muttered when she drove past glaring.
They were both exhausted and cranky. Last night had been long. Maggie laid awake for most of it. The absence of snoring meant William did, too. When the sunrise finally turned the hotel curtains from red to pink, she rose to find him dressed and waiting.
“He should have the CD copied by now,” he’d said. “The station opens at six.”
Hopefully, Doug wouldn’t get caught. An arrest wouldn’t go down too well with his “old boy” up in Duncairn.
Maggie tapped her phone and accessed her voicemail.
Hello, this is Lakesha Adams from Congressman Chatman’s office. I just wanted to give you an update on your friend’s situation. I made contact with Police Scotland late yesterday, and they assured me that, together with the British Transport Police, they have an active investigation underway. I couldn’t ask for too many details, as I didn’t want to reveal that we have no proper authorization at this time.
I don’t want to alarm you, but if they’ve involved the BTP, then it seems likely they determined some foul play occurred on public transportation, probably the train, since we know she planned to take one from Oban to Glasgow.
The aide assured her she would call with any additional information.
When Maggie ended the call, William asked, “Well?”
“She said the British Transport Police are involved. The cops must have seen something fishy on the footage. Let’s head to Doug’s.” They’d be early, but she couldn’t wait any longer.
For the second time in two days, William drove her to Doug’s house. This time, he parked his van beside the “3-6-0 Highland Court” sign, then walked with her through the garden. “Jesus,” he said when he saw the manor house. “Ye sure this is it?”
Maggie pushed closer to him under their shared umbrella. “Yeah. It’s a long story, and it’s Doug’s to tell, if he wants.”
Doug swung open the door before they rang the bell. “You’re early.” He beamed at Maggie. “I’m glad.”
Maggie stepped out of the rain and into the hallway. “Did you—”
“I did.”
She threw her arms around him, “Thank you!” and then remembered that William was still standing in the rain. “Forgive me. William, this is Douglas . . .” Was she supposed to use Mackenzie or Sinclair?
“Sinclair,” Doug said. “Douglas Sinclair. Do come in.”
William stepped inside, closed the umbrella, then dropped it into a stand just beside the door. “William McDonnell.” He shook Doug’s hand. “How do ye do?”
“Grand, thank you. Come, come.”
Doug led them to a small office, where a fine oak desk held a computer and a printer. He brought two kitchen chairs so each of them would have a seat. William gave her a how-the-hell-does-a-janitor-afford-this look.
She replied with a scowl. She’d explain later. Right now, seeing the footage was all she could think about.
“Have a seat.” Doug dropped onto a rolling office chair. He clicked the mouse. A window opened. A black and white video started to play.
Maggie’s hand flew to her mouth as Ann walked across the scene wearing a jacket she’d never seen before.
“Where is this?” she asked through her fingers.
Doug pointed at the corner of a building. “That’s the station, just past the doors.”
Ann was the only woman in the scene. She had her tote bag over her shoulder and her suitcase rolling behind her.
“Can you pause it?”
Doug clicked the mouse.
He’d been right; the men around Ann had tool bags slung over their shoulders.
William piped up. “That is nae the outfit she was wearing when I last saw her. She must have changed on the ferry.” His face was red, his jaw set. He leaned forward with a stiff neck, his eyes squinting and locked on the video.
Mhm, but you don’t love her, right?
Doug hit the play button again, and the footage suddenly switched to a view of the platform, where Ann waited to board. A man who looked to be in his fifties helped lift her suitcase onto the train.
She returned his smile and said something. Probably, “Thank you.”
Then, the train gobbled her up.
That was all.
“Play it again,” William said.
They did, four times, and saw nothing new.
“Damn it.” Maggie fell forward over her arms, which rested on Doug’s desk. A hand squeezed her shoulder. When she sat up, she saw that it belonged to William.
He stood, then shoved his hands into his pockets. “At least we know she made the train.”
“That means you can limit your search to the stops east of Oban,” Doug added.
Ice in Maggie’s chest worked its way outward to stiffen her limbs. “Basically the width of Scotland.” She blew into her hands. “There is nothing on this video to suggest foul play, so why did Police Scotland involve the Transport Police? They must have footage from another station. Where is the next stop?”
“Connel Ferry,” William replied, “but it’s just a shelter and a phone beside the tracks. I doubt there’s any CCTV.”
“Mind if I use your computer to check?” she asked Doug. “My phone coverage is very spotty.”
“By all means, go ahead,” he replied. “You’re cold. I’ll make us a cuppa.”
When he went to the kitchen, William sat again, then bounced his leg. His eyes were cold, his expression angry.
Maggie slid into the rolling chair to search for a listing of stops between Oban and Glasgow. She clicked on “Connel Ferry Railway Station.” It had no CCTV, same as Taynuilt, Loch Awe, Dalmally, and the rest of the tiny stations on the West Highland Line.
Doug returned with a tea tray, which he set on a corner of the desk. “I was thinking while making the tea. Dumbarton is probably the closest station with CCTV.”
Ann searched for “Dumbarton Railway Station” and was just about to click on the Scotrail link when she noticed something interesting in Google’s search results. “Look.” She clicked a link halfway down the page. “The station has a Facebook page. Sometimes, people tag themselves in photos that identify their location. If someone uploaded photos from Dumbarton on Sunday, we could get lucky and see Ann in the background.”
“It’s worth a shot.” Doug handed out the mugs.
“Here, let me show you,” she said to William. “See these photos at the top of the page? They are the most recent, taken yesterday, and some of the people in the photos have identified themselves. It’s called tagging.” She scrolled down the page. “Here are Monday’s pictures.” She scrolled again. “And here are Sunday’s.” She looked at the dates and times. “If Ann made the 12:11 train, what time would she arrive at Dumbarton?”
“About three or so?” Doug asked William.
“Sounds aboot right, mate.”
Maggie checked the photographs. “Here’s one from a little after three.” Two young women in pink shirts and silver tiaras aimed a giant rubber penis at another’s backside under a “Way In” sign.
“Appalling,” Doug said.
“They look pretty drunk.” Maggie clicked the photograph to enlarge it.
“They usually are at hen parties,” William replied. “They call them bachelorette parties in the States, I think.”
Maggie moved the cursor over a face in the photograph, and the name Angeline Burnie popped up. She clicked the name, but the girl’s privacy settings were set to Private, so she could only view Angeline’s profile picture. She returned to the party photograph and clicked on another name, Fiona McAlister. Luckily, Fiona’s settings were set to Public. “Jackpot!”
William and Doug leaned in closer.
Maggie clicked on one of Fiona’s photo albums. “We’re in luck. She’s an over-sharer. Uploaded pictures from the whole trip. Ann must have shared at least part of it with them.” She scrolled through the photos. If matters were less grim, Maggie would laugh at some of them. There were pictures of bridesmaids giving blowjobs to the rubber penis, pictures of a drunken woman in a bridal veil with fake eyelashes stuck to her cheeks, and about thirty shots of women rubbing oil on a male stripper. Those were taken in Glasgow, according to the location tags.
Maggie clicked through the photographs, traveling the hen party’s timeline in reverse until she reached images captured inside a train car. “Here we go. This one was taken at Ardlui around two o’clock.” A laughing girl lifted her top and squeezed her bare breast over a martini glass. Behind her, the train car was empty except for a disapproving, old woman holding a terrier on her lap. “Nothing here.” Maggie clicked another. “Dalmally, around one o’clock.” Two girls touched cheeks, their lips pouting. Behind them, in the last row, a woman glowered above the rim of her glasses. “Nothing.”
Hope began to dwindle. And then, in a photo labeled “They’re gonna rename Taynuilt Par-Taynuilt after this,” Maggie saw Ann sitting behind a giant vodka bottle.
“Jesus,” William whispered.
Ann sat with her head resting against the train window, either sleeping or, more likely, silently judging the girls.
“Where was that last photo taken?” Douglas asked.
Maggie clicked back. “The one with the martini glass? Dalmally.”
“We need a train schedule.” Doug set down his tea. He went to a filing cabinet, while Maggie studied the photograph. “I have one in here somewhere.”
The workmen who boarded the train at Oban were not in the photograph. Ann shared the car with only the partiers and a man with black hair about three seats back.
“Here it is.” Doug rattled a paper out of a folder. “Dalmally, Dalmally.” He scanned the timetable. “Right. Heading east, there are two stops between Taynuilt and Dalmally.” He handed the timetable to William.
“Aye,” William said, “at Falls of Cruachan and Loch Awe. We don’t know if this photograph was taken before or after Taynuilt.”
Maggie checked the time on the photograph. “It was uploaded at 12:32.”
“That’s before Taynuilt, then, unless the train was running late.”
“Is there any way to zoom in on this guy?” Maggie pointed to the black-haired man.
“Save the picture to my desktop, and we’ll try it.”
She did.
Doug opened it in Paint Shop Pro.
“Look at him,” she said. His face was ghostly, his pallor made more severe by his hairstyle and low-set eyebrows. “What is that on his face?
“A bandage of some sort. He must be unwell,” Doug replied. “He’s very pale.”
Maggie squinted. The man’s eyes hid in shadowy hollows, but it was clear by the angle of his sharp chin that he focused on Ann. “What man watches a woman sleep when there are bare boobs over martini glasses?” She flipped back through the pictures “Look, the woman wearing glasses is glaring at them.” She flipped more. “And here, the lady with the terrier looks ready to march up and give them a scolding.” She clicked back to Ann’s photo. “Yet, here’s our black-haired fellow looking at Ann. There’s something not right about that.” She tapped the screen. “He’s our guy.”
“Where do ye think this is, William?” Doug asked. “We need to know whether this photograph was taken before Taynuilt, or after it.”
William pointed at the scenery outside the train window. “It has to be before. Those look like the round hills just before Ben Cruachan. Unless Ann moved to a different car, she disappeared at Taynuilt.”
“What’s there?” Maggie asked.
Doug and William exchanged glances.
“What?” Maggie demanded. “Tell me!”
Doug smoothed an eyebrow. “It’s terribly remote.”
“Well.” Maggie stood. “We have to start somewhere. Let’s go.”
Chapter 31
Is it Tuesday? No, Wednesday. It’s Wednesday.
The days fell away like petals from a dying rose, leaving Ann with several unwavering truths. First, stabbing Nigel with the screwdriver was no longer an option, since he moved his duffel bag to the kitchen. The second truth—an absolute, stinking certainty—was that her kidnapper was bat shit crazy.
If there was any good news at all, it was that he made no further attempt to rape her. He preferred instead to lie behind her on the bed petting her like a pampered Shih Tzu. She hated those vile times, which always ended with him spewing rambling plans that included, apparently, a trip to Northern Ireland, where a “shell” awaited the lunatic.
She didn’t doubt for a minute he could afford the trip. He seemed to have plentiful cash. His clothes were name brand and his shoes handmade. When not muttering in Latin or hurling colloquial insults at some innocuous item that offended him, he used the refined speech of an educated lord. He walked confidently, chin jutting out, like a man trailing an invisible cape. All evidence suggested he didn’t just come from money, but old money.
He was starting to look and sound quite ill, often cursing his frailty and proclaiming he was “running out of time.”
An hour ago, after a feast of salmon salad, he taped Ann’s ankles together, then sat her on the chair and tied her hands behind the chair back. As an added precaution, he wound tape around her middle. It restricted movement like a barrel hoop.
After this, he collapsed on the bed.
A too-bright bulb in the nightstand lamp blanched his already pallid face. Is he out? It was hard to tell, since his eyes remained open, even during sleep.
She twisted her wrists, more of a habit now than an actual attempt to break her bonds. There would be no escaping the madman. That was the third truth burgeoning in the dismal room, and the chief certainty of all.
This time, I’m not letting you go. He said it twenty times a day. What did he mean by this time? When was the last time? At a book signing? Did she offend him somehow? Who could recall one man out of hundreds?
She had a thing for names, though, and his was easily remembered. She had never heard of Nigel Lynch before joining the online forum. His motive must have something to do with the torc, but he never mentioned the relic. He made her leave her bags on the train. A thief would have searched them first.
She r
esumed her study of him.
The black stubble on his chin could almost be called a beard. He had fine hands, thick hair, and a mouth perpetually frozen mid-smirk. His pupils were pinpricks in arctic waters.
Watching him carefully, she pushed with her bare feet, inching her seat toward the nightstand. She leaned the chair back on its rear legs. Wincing at the pain in her shoulders, she felt along the drawer until she found its brass handle. Carefully, she lowered the chair to all four legs. The drawer traveled with her, sliding open to create a gap just wide enough for her hands. Biting back a yowl, she touched a thick book—the Bible?—a thin notepad, and a ballpoint pen.
The pad skated away, but she managed to grab the pen. She lifted it out of the drawer, mindful of her grip. If she could somehow slide it down her panties, she could use it later as a weapon.
Nigel’s pupils erased the blue in his eyes.
A spike of adrenaline fired the pen from Ann’s grip. It rolled under the nightstand.
Did Nigel see it?
She closed her eyes and shivered, expecting a blow.
He sat up and slapped her in a single, coordinated movement. “What are you doing?”
She heard the drawer slam shut and the lamp rock.
“Where’s the pen?”
Ann’s ears rang from the slap. Her eyes watered. “How should I know? I can’t see behind me.”
Nigel staggered to the wall switch, then held his palm over it while the lights flickered. He tossed back his head, looking—and sounding—like a man reaching orgasm.
After discharging a protracted groan, he dropped his hand. Three strides later, he was sitting on the bed again, wiping his sooty palm on the bedspread.
She smelled burning flesh.
“What sort of animal are you?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll tell you if you really want to know.”
The Scent of Forever Page 17