Nobody knew she was here. She’d said so herself. If the story she’d told him was true, and there were a bunch of lunatics in the forest killing indiscriminately, then no one would ever suspect old Ronald of being responsible for her disappearance. Even if she’d made it all up, the fact was that she was alone, and had clearly wandered a long, long way from her family.
He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t do it. He was happy here and had no desire to go back to prison. And he loved children. He really did. But Casey was such a nice, polite thing that it seemed such a terrible waste not to enjoy what she was offering, even if she wasn’t aware of what that was yet.
No. He couldn’t waste this opportunity.
He went back into the lounge with the water and gave it to Casey. ‘The police are on their way,’ he told her, hoping she’d heard the call he’d pretended to make from the kitchen, ‘but it’s going to take them a while. We’re a long way from the nearest police station.’
‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly, drinking from the glass, which she held with both hands.
‘Would you like to lie down and have a rest while you wait for them?’ he said, only just managing to keep the growing sense of excitement out of his voice. ‘You look very sleepy, and there’s a spare bedroom where my granddaughter stays sometimes.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Eleanor,’ he lied.
She smiled, showing lovely white teeth. ‘That’s a nice name. Is it warm up there?’
He smiled back. ‘Oh yes. It’s lovely and cosy. I always keep the house warm.’
She put down the empty glass. ‘Do you really mind if I go to sleep? I don’t want to be rude but I am very tired.’
‘Of course not. Come on, I’ll show you to her room.’
He led the way up the stairs, keeping his breathing steady, and opened the door to the spare room, switching on the light.
‘It doesn’t have any pictures on the walls,’ said Casey, the first hint of concern in her voice. ‘Doesn’t Eleanor like pictures?’
‘We’re going to be getting her some soon,’ he said, looking into the stark, lifeless room that he hadn’t used in years. It smelled of damp and stale air. ‘She hasn’t been for a little while, but the sheets are clean.’ He forced another smile. ‘Go on. In you go.’
Hesitantly, she stepped inside, and went over to the bed, looking down at it. ‘Maybe I’ll come back downstairs if that’s okay,’ she said, turning back towards him.
‘No. I think it’s best you stay here for now,’ he said, and before she could answer back, he shut the door and turned the key in the lock.
Now she was his.
Forty-four
Today 16.40
THERE WAS NO sign of Amanda Rowan at her house. Bolt had already called the landline and got no answer, but when he tried her mobile, the automated message said it was switched off. He then called his contact in Highlands CID, DI Sally Miles, who told him that a liaison officer had been sent over to give her the news that Leonard Hope’s body had been found, and that Bolt was going to be paying her a visit, but she hadn’t heard back from him. The liaison officer was a DC Andy Baxter and Sally gave Bolt his number, but then when he called that one, there was no answer either.
Bolt left a message asking Baxter to call him back urgently, before pocketing his phone. ‘Christ, what is it with the people round here? Ninety per cent of the time you can’t get reception, and when you do, no one picks up their bloody phone.’
‘Well,’ said Mo. ‘Should we wait for her?’
They were standing outside the front door of Amanda’s rental cottage at the edge of a pretty little village backing onto fields about twenty miles southwest of Inverness. If she’d wanted to get away from it all, she couldn’t have picked a better place.
‘No, let’s head back up to our hotel. We can come back later.’ Bolt put a note through her door asking her to call him, then he and Mo walked back to the car. A local man walking his dog along the road stared at them as he passed. Two strange men in suits, one of whom was Asian, were always going to stand out. There was a pub that looked more like a church hall about fifty yards down the road, and Bolt thought about stopping and grabbing a drink – after all, it was the weekend, and he could do with a decent pint – but he decided against it. Maybe he’d down a couple later on, back at the hotel where they were billeted for the night.
Somewhere in the distance came the distinctive retorts of gunfire.
‘Someone’s out hunting,’ said Mo.
Bolt wasn’t really listening. Once again, he was turning over the case in his mind. ‘You know,’ he said eventually, ‘something’s not been right about the Rowan/Hanzha killings from the beginning. First off, there was no trace of Leonard Hope’s DNA at the murder scene, but there was DNA from a different, as yet unidentified, killer. Secondly, there was footage of every murder scene on Hope’s computer except for the Rowan/Hanzha one.’
‘So, what are you saying, boss?’
‘I don’t know, that’s the problem. I mean, I know there are plenty of similarities with the Hope killings as well.’
‘The fact that the killer used the same MO makes it likely it’s him.’
‘And yet it isn’t, is it? It was a different killer.’
‘But we’ve already covered this. There could have been two Disciples working together.’
‘But if Vladimir Hanzha was the man behind the kidnapping and murder of Hope – and we reckon he is, right?’
Mo nodded slowly, clearly yet to be convinced. ‘Right.’
‘Then the two-killer theory doesn’t hold up. Remember, there was never any evidence of a second killer found anywhere – not on Hope’s footage of the killings, not in any of his phone records. The only place it was ever found was at that one murder scene.’
‘So you’re saying the killer of Ivana Hanzha and George Rowan might be someone completely different, and unconnected to The Disciple?’
‘It’s got to be a possibility, hasn’t it?’
They stood facing each other over the car. ‘I guess so,’ said Mo. ‘Are you thinking it’s some kind of copycat killing?’
Bolt shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think it is. I’m thinking that maybe – and it is still a maybe, because I’ve got nothing to back this up with – it was just meant to look like the work of The Disciple. Which means we should try and look at it in a different way. Who had the motive to kill either Ivana Hanzha or George Rowan?’
‘Someone might have killed Miss Hanzha to get at her father,’ said Mo. ‘He’s a controversial figure, and I’d say he must have plenty of enemies.’
‘I bet he has too, but it seems an awfully complicated way of doing it. Far easier just to shoot her in the street. And, anyway, they’d been estranged for years. I reckon she’s the least likely of the two targets.’
Mo shrugged. ‘We didn’t dig up anything much on George Rowan. He’s got no obvious enemies. As far as we could tell, he’s just a boring banker.’
‘But one with quite a lot of money, and quite a lot of assets.’
‘He’s worth a couple of million, I think. Maybe three, if you include the house.’
‘What about life insurance policies?’
‘We never checked. There didn’t seem much point at the time.’
Bolt nodded. ‘Exactly. Why would we, when we all thought it was the work of The Disciple? But I think it’s worth checking now, don’t you?’
‘You think there’s going to be a policy?’
Bolt thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. And I’m willing to bet that the beneficiary’s going to be Amanda Rowan.’
Forty-five
Today 21.23
TIRED, AND NOT sure what else he could do, having covered miles in the last hour on his hunt for Casey, Scope finally made his way back to the Tayleigh Road. God only knew what had happened to the poor kid. He’d doubled back on himself, gone in circles; stood listening to the sounds of the forest for severa
l minutes at a time, trying to detect her presence. And all without coming across the slightest sign of her. He was beginning to wonder now if he’d been mistaken about her body not being where he’d thought it had fallen.
But maybe it was possible that she had got away after all, which meant that Scope was going to have to try to hook up with Jess and make sure she was all right. He hoped she’d managed to find a spot with phone reception so she could call for help, but he knew how poor the coverage was round here, and he could hear no sound of sirens across the night air.
The road was dark and silent, but Scope could see the faint glow of a light ahead and he quickened his pace. If this was a house, he was going to have to raise the alarm. He didn’t want to, because it meant that he’d have to wait around to answer questions which, given that he’d killed two men tonight, meant that he’d almost certainly be arrested, and potentially charged with murder. In the end, neither killing had been self-defence. He’d shot both men when they were presenting no threat to him or anyone else. Scope was no expert in ballistics, but he guessed that from the angle of the bullet entries and the position of the bodies, it would be possible to tell that he’d stood above them to deliver the fatal shots, which wasn’t going to reflect very well on him, particularly with his past. But he had no choice but to call the police. Two young girls were out here, alone, terrified, and in mortal danger, and if he didn’t do all he could to help them, he’d never be able to forgive himself.
The light was getting closer now and he could see that it came from a cottage set back behind a high hedge. Immediately, he broke into a jog and, as he reached it, he saw that there was a car in the driveway and lights from both floors. He unscrewed the suppressor on the gun he’d taken from the man he’d just killed, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and put the gun itself out of sight in the back of his jeans. The magazine contained three bullets, and he wasn’t going to get rid of it until he was sure that Jess and Casey were both safe.
He went up to the door and rang the bell.
There was no answer, so he gave it ten seconds, then rang again.
Still no answer.
Cursing silently, he listened at the door, and heard the faint sounds of a TV coming from somewhere inside.
This time he banged hard on the door knocker, then opened up the letterbox, listening again to discern if there were any signs of a human presence inside.
But there was nothing.
Stepping back from the door, Scope took a deep breath. It was possible there was no one in there and they’d left some lights and the TV on to give the impression they were at home and deter burglars, but if so they’d gone some way over the top, which left him with a straight choice. Did he keep walking, or did he break in and use the landline they were bound to have inside to dial 999?
The windows on the cottage looked new, and the front door looked solid. Even if he wanted to get in, he might not be able to without causing all kinds of damage and taking a lot of time.
Sighing, he turned away.
As soon as Casey had stepped inside Eleanor’s bedroom, she’d felt uneasy. It smelled really funny and there was no kids’ stuff anywhere. And then when she’d asked to come back downstairs, the old man had suddenly looked a lot less friendly, and had locked her inside the room.
Running over, she banged on the door and started yelling: ‘Let me out! Let me out!’ She’d always hated being stuck in enclosed places, and now she felt really frightened. But it didn’t do any good, and finally she stopped, not knowing what to do, or why the old man was suddenly being so nasty to her. She bet he hadn’t called the police either.
Casey could hear movement on the other side of the door – someone shuffling around – and she wondered what the old man was doing. Mum had always taught her to be polite, so she thought that maybe if she asked really nicely he’d take pity on her. ‘Please can you let me out?’ she said, leaning close to the door. ‘I’ll be really good, I promise.’
She heard the door being unlocked on the other side and she grinned. See, being polite could really work. She stepped back as it opened, and her grin immediately disappeared.
The old man was dressed in a pair of stripy pyjama bottoms and an old vest, and there was a strange look in his eyes. It was as if he’d been taken over by something evil, and was having to do what it told him to.
‘It’s okay, wee lassie,’ he said soothingly. ‘I just thought it would be nice for us to talk.’ He shut the door behind him and locked it.
Casey took a step back, then another one. ‘Can we go downstairs, please?’ she asked, her voice shaking, because she was trapped in here now and she didn’t know what to do, and the old man was bigger and stronger-looking than she’d initially thought. And there was that look in his eyes . . .
He followed her further into the room. ‘Why don’t we sit down on the bed? I can tell you a story and help you sleep.’
He reached out a hand, but Casey darted away in the direction of the bedroom’s only window.
‘Little bitch,’ the old man hissed, and grabbed her from behind, pulling her back.
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
Casey let out a gasp of relief that was stifled straight away when the old man clamped a hand over her mouth. She struggled in his grip with all the strength she had left – but she was so tired, and she couldn’t seem to manage to get away from him.
‘Stop moving or I’ll put a knife in you,’ the old man hissed. ‘I’ll stab you and cut you up and bury you in the woods.’
Casey stopped struggling, trying to work out what to do. He didn’t have a knife – not on him, anyway – but he did have the key. If she could get hold of that, she might be able to run outside and find out who was ringing on the doorbell, and get them to rescue her.
The doorbell rang again, followed a few seconds later by a loud banging on the door knocker, and Casey could feel the old man stiffening as he tightened his grip over her mouth. It was obvious he didn’t know who it was, and was scared himself, which gave her just a little bit of hope.
They stood in the middle of the room, waiting to hear if there’d be another knock or ring, but there was none, and Casey could feel the old man relaxing his hold on her.
Suddenly she wriggled free of him and ran for the window, pulling back the curtains and hammering on the glass. She couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, but prayed whoever it was who’d been at the door was still there.
But then the old man was on her, dragging her backwards and throwing her on the bed. For a moment he stood over her, his eyes full of rage as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
‘You little bitch,’ he said quietly. ‘Now I’m going to make you very, very sorry you did that.’
Scope was standing by the car belonging to the house’s occupants, an ancient Land Rover Defender, wondering whether there was some way he could hotwire it, when he caught a glimpse of movement from one of the upstairs rooms. A curtain was jerked back and a face briefly appeared in the gap before disappearing again. It all happened so quickly Scope didn’t get a good look at it, but he had a feeling it belonged to a girl.
For a couple of seconds, he stared up at the window. But the curtains were closed now. Was it possible that the occupants were simply scared of opening the door at night, and one of them had just pulled back the curtains to check whether or not he’d gone? But he knew from experience that people in these parts tended to be pretty hospitable. Unlike a lot of places, they didn’t turn their back on those in trouble, but tended to stop and help. They were also inquisitive.
Slowly, carefully, Scope walked back to the front door, keeping to the shadows so he couldn’t be seen, and very gently lifted the letterbox and listened. The TV was still on, but there was still no movement from inside. Then he heard what sounded like a man’s grunted curse coming from somewhere upstairs, followed by something else. A girl’s cry?
Moving fast now, he climbed over the wall into the rear garden and circumnavigated the house until
he reached the back door. Unlike the front door, it wasn’t new, but it still looked pretty solid. Scope gave it a hard kick just below the handle, but it wasn’t budging. He was in a hurry now, knowing that the kick would have been heard inside. Looking round, he saw a large stone plant pot the size of a bucket with a bay tree sticking out of it, and tugged the tree free. Full of soil, the pot was heavy, and he had to clutch it in his arms as he charged forward and hefted it with all his strength into the wood, just below the handle.
The door opened with a loud bang, and Scope fell inside after it, landing on one knee in the kitchen as the pot upended its contents on the floor. He was on his feet in an instant, the gun out of his waistband and back in his hand as he raced through the cottage until he found the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time, remembering that the window where he’d seen the movement was on the right. There were three doors at the top of the stairs, but only one on the right-hand side. He grabbed the handle but the door was locked, so he took two steps back and launched a ferocious kick, sending it flying open, before racing into the room.
A white-haired guy in his late sixties was standing beside a single bed, dressed in a white wife-beater vest and a pair of pyjama bottoms. His face was red and he had an expression of guilt written all over it. The reason was simple enough. Sitting on the bed was a blonde girl of no more than ten, wearing a coat and blue jeans. The coat was hanging half off her shoulder, her hair was a mess, and she looked terrified. This, Scope knew, had to be Jess’s sister, Casey, and it was clear what had been about to happen. He thrust the gun back in his waistband, hoping Casey hadn’t seen it, then advanced on the man.
‘Listen, I can explain,’ said the guy, putting up a hand and backing away from Scope. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’
‘Yes it is,’ said Scope, letting fly with a left hook when he was within range.
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