by Ian Rankin
‘Bit more planning than I gave you credit for.’
‘I read about it a while back. A man walked into a forest somewhere. He was too old to get the noose over a high branch, so he just tied it to a lower one, placed his neck in it, and leaned all the way forward…’
‘That’s what I’m going to do, is it? Sounds like I’d be better off refusing and taking a bullet. At least that way you’ll be in the frame.’
Pears shrugged. ‘My word against yours, except you won’t have any words. A body could lie out here for years without anyone finding it.’ He gestured towards the forest again. ‘Let’s not think about all that yet, though. Let’s just walk…’
Fox took a few steps forward, until he was within touching distance of the first line of trees. ‘Something nobody seemed to know
…’ He tried to sound beaten, resigned to his fate.
‘What?’
‘But you will, I suppose.’
Intrigued, Pears repeated his question.
‘The actual tree Vernal’s car collided with.’
Pears considered for a moment. ‘Probably that one,’ he answered, gesturing with the pistol. The moment it was pointed away from him, Fox made his move, grabbing Pears’s wrist and twisting it. Pears gasped, his fingers splaying involuntarily. As the gun dropped to the ground, Fox scuffed it away with his foot. But Pears was the stronger of the two – he got in a few heavy blows as Fox wrestled with him. It took Fox only a few seconds to realise he was not going to win this fight, not at close quarters. He couldn’t see the gun, so he gave Pears a shove backwards and ran for it.
Pears didn’t follow, not straight away, which gave Fox a bit of time to dart between the trees. He was a good twenty or thirty feet away, the gloom working to his advantage, when a bullet shattered some bark inches from his left shoulder. A splinter penetrated his cheek, stinging like hell. He left it where it was and kept weaving as best he could.
He didn’t know how deep the woods were. How soon would it be till he reached open ground, where he’d be an easy target? There was a half-moon in the sky above, obscured by a thin layer of shifting cloud. Enough light to see by. More than enough for Stephen Pears.
A bullet lodged in a tree: evidence waiting to be found. But would anyone find it? Though times had changed, the police could still be sloppy. He patted his pockets. If he started to discard credit cards and the like, he would be leaving a trail for Pears as much as for any investigators. Another bullet zinged past him and thumped into bark. Pears was heavyset; probably didn’t get much use of the gym at the house – did Fox have half a chance of outpacing him?
Didn’t matter: it was the bullets he had to outpace, and that wasn’t going to happen.
Outmanoeuvre him, then – but how? The road was his best chance. It would depend on an elusive passing car, but his run of luck could change for the better, couldn’t it? Another option: double back to the Maserati. Pears hadn’t locked it, but Fox couldn’t remember if he’d left the key. His phone was on the back seat. So was the little recorder he’d borrowed from Joe Naysmith. He’d thrown it there along with the battery pack, having switched it on first. Everything said in the car would, he hoped, be on it – and audible.
But only useful to him if Pears didn’t find it…
Another shot, another miss. Would a farmer maybe hear? A poacher? Sweat was running down Fox’s back. He could remove his jacket, but it was darker than his shirt and he didn’t want to give his pursuer a more inviting target. His chest was hurting. He remembered the stitch when he’d run across the Forth Road Bridge. Stitch or not, this time he had to keep moving.
The fourth shot, however, found its target. He felt the impact against his left shoulder. It went in and out again, numbing him for a moment. His legs almost buckled, but he wouldn’t let them. A burning sensation, and then pain shooting down his arm all the way to his fingertips.
He gritted his teeth. Knew he couldn’t stop, not even for a second. Warm blood, oozing and running. He gripped his left hand in his right, cradling it against his chest.
And ran.
Risked a glance behind him but could see no sign of Pears. He realised he was being stalked. Pears wasn’t panicking. He was being his usual methodical self. He was watching, listening and calculating. He was wearing his quarry down. Let Fox run in circles, then pick him off. Fox cursed his own stupidity and kept moving. Images flashed into his mind: Mitch and Jude; Imogen Vernal and Charles Mangold. Mangold getting him into this in the first place.
No, who was he kidding – he only had himself to blame.
Paul and Alan Carter…
Scholes and Haldane and Michaelson…
Evelyn Mills and Fiona McFadzean…
Players in the drama of his life and death.
Alice Watts morphing into Alison Watson.
Hawkeye hiding behind the eyes of Stephen Pears.
DCI Jackson, caretaker of state secrets.
Chris Fox.
And back to Mitch and Jude again.
They swirled around him as he headed up a noticeable incline. Moss and leaves mulched beneath him. Every breath he drew into his tired lungs tasted of loam.
‘Fox!’
The yelp from Pears told Fox that the man was maybe thirty or forty yards away. It also hinted at irritation, and this gave him a glimmer of hope. He tried to smile but couldn’t. He licked his lips instead, his saliva as sticky as wallpaper paste.
And he ran.
‘Fox!’
Keep shouting, pal: means I know where you are.
Every movement he made sent another jolt of pain through his shoulder. Blood was dripping on to his trousers and shoes. Thinking about it made him nauseous. He swallowed hard, tasting iron and bile. Emerging into a small clearing, he paused for only a moment to stare at the noose hanging from a tree branch, almost exactly in line with his eyes, one end wrapped around the trunk and knotted fast.
Move, Malcolm.
A steeper bank, a single line of trees and then a gap. He knew it had to be the road. He was forced to claw at the ground with his right hand as he climbed. When he stood up again, he was inches from the tarmac. He looked to left and right. The boot of the Maserati was just visible, the rest of the vehicle hidden around the curve of the road. Fox headed in the other direction. He was out in the open now. Couldn’t hear any traffic or spot headlights in the distance. His eyes stung and he wiped the perspiration from them. He could always dive into the woods on the opposite side of the road. Safer there, but more isolated, too.
Wait…
The sky was brightening. He could make out the treeline, silhouetted against the night. And now he could hear the faint roar of an engine. He remembered the local boy racers, their names scored into the memorial cairn. Would they stop for him? Were their brakes equal to their reaction time? It would be so bloody typical: escape a gunman just to be mown down by a spotty teen in a super-tuned Cosworth.
The roar was definitely getting louder. He was on a nice straight stretch. He started to remove his jacket – the lighter shirt might now be an advantage.
‘Fox!’
Fox turned. Pears looked mightily pissed off. The pistol hung at his side as he emerged from the trees. Seemed to Fox that he had tripped and fallen. A definite limp, clothes and face smeared with dirt.
He took a few deep breaths, straightened up, and started to raise the gun. Fox was barely thirty feet away. But the car was approaching. Fox was waving with his working arm. Pears was aiming at him as the car came into view, headlights flashing from full beam to dipped and back again, horn blaring. A small car with a big engine. Fox was trying to shield his eyes. A half-glance back told him Pears was doing the same. The car skidded to a stop, ending up side-on to the direction of travel. The passenger-side door flew open.
‘You trying to get yourself killed, pal?’
Just a kid, maybe not sixteen yet. Bass booming from inside the car. The driver leaving the engine idling as he too emerged, another car arriving beh
ind him. More kids getting out. More thumping music.
Fox was staring at Pears. The gun was no longer visible, hidden behind him. He was making to retreat, backing away.
‘Is that blood?’ someone was asking Fox. ‘You crashed your motor or something?’
Pears was no longer visible. Fox asked the passenger if he could borrow his phone.
‘Aye, sure.’
But Fox’s hand was shaking too hard, his fingers slippery with blood. So he recited the number instead, the teenager punching it in and holding the phone towards his ear as he started to talk to Tony Kaye.
The Mondeo turned up a couple of minutes after the Armed Response Unit. Fox had given the four officers the lowdown: type of weapon; rounds already fired; direction taken by assailant. The teenagers had stuck around, slightly nervous that there might be some hidden agenda, despite Fox’s assurances. They leaned against their cars, smoking cigarettes and staring at the weaponry. When one tried to take a photo, a wagged finger was enough to deter him.
Tony Kaye was first out of the Mondeo, followed by Joe Naysmith. The last of the armed officers was disappearing into the woods as they walked towards Fox.
‘Does it hurt?’ Naysmith asked, nodding towards the wound.
‘Like blazes,’ Fox informed him.
‘Called an ambulance yet?’
Fox shook his head.
‘You’ve lost a bit of blood.’
‘It’s a graze,’ Kaye stated, giving Fox’s shoulder a cursory glance. ‘Think we should see what they’re up to?’ He gestured towards the woods.
After a moment’s hesitation, Fox nodded his agreement. ‘You lot stay here,’ he ordered the teenagers. ‘And no phones or texting – got that?’
It was quiet in the woods: no voices, no gunfire. Just the crackling of twigs underfoot.
‘You got here quick,’ Fox said.
‘Maniac at the wheel,’ Naysmith responded.
‘What did he have in mind for you?’ Kaye asked, pushing his way past the encroaching branches.
‘Suicide by hanging.’
Kaye shook his head. ‘I thought this guy was supposed to be a pro.’
‘He’s got away with it in the past.’
‘Overconfidence?’ Naysmith guessed. Then: ‘What if we get to him before the ARU?’
‘There’s three of us,’ Kaye growled. ‘Mood I’m in, shooter or no shooter he’s getting a doing.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’ Naysmith asked, noticing that Fox was faltering.
‘Just a bit dizzy.’ Naysmith steadied him. ‘I’ll be fine, Joe, honest.’ Fox wiped sweat from his face with his unbloodied sleeve.
When Kaye looked to Fox for guidance on the direction they should be taking, Fox started to shrug with his one good shoulder, but then stopped as a yell rang out. Sounded like the ARU giving due warning.
‘Maybe that way,’ he suggested.
The three men pushed on at a brisker pace. More voices ahead of them, but appearing to be in movement. It felt to Fox as though he were retracing his steps almost exactly. Part of his brain was telling him to stop, but he kept going, the sweat pouring from him.
They all heard the car engine when it kicked into life. A low growl turning into a roar.
‘Maserati?’ Naysmith guessed.
Sure enough, the Armed Response Unit stood with pistols trained on the car’s windscreen. Not that this was enough to dissuade the figure in the driving seat. The Maserati skidded backwards on to the road, spun, and started to speed away, its headlights switched off.
‘Back to the patrol car!’ one of the ARU men barked to his colleagues. ‘Ronnie, call it in!’
‘What do you reckon?’ Kaye was asking Fox. ‘Mondeo might be up to the job.’
‘Malcolm needs patching up,’ Naysmith warned.
Kaye ignored him, awaiting Fox’s decision. Then came the sound of squealing tyres, followed by the thump of impact.
43
The Victoria Hospital again.
Fox didn’t doubt that the reporter Brian Jamieson would be on the prowl somewhere in the vicinity. Fox’s wound had been cleaned and stitched. Painkillers were swooshing around inside him, and he had a prescription for more in his pocket. His shoulder was strapped and there was a dull ache if he tried moving his left hand. His jacket and shirt had been bagged as evidence. Forensics would head to the scene once it was light, seeking out bullet casings and the pistol and the noose.
No weapon had been found in the car. Pears must have tossed it. Fox was standing in the injured man’s room right now. His was the only bed in there. One of the medics had listed his injuries: a couple of broken ribs, two damaged knees and facial bruising.
‘Why you should wear a seat belt,’ the medic had stated.
A wire cage beneath the bedclothes was keeping pressure off the patient’s legs. He had opened his eyes when Fox stepped into the room. There was a police officer on duty outside. He had noted Fox’s name and taken a good look at his warrant card. Fox didn’t blame him: the borrowed hooded top and baggy jogging bottoms were hardly standard issue for a cop.
‘I think he’s asleep,’ the officer had said.
But Stephen Pears was awake for Fox.
‘We’ll find the gun,’ Fox told him.
‘And what will that prove? That I was so scared of you, I felt the need of it?’
‘Scared of me, were you?’
‘You and your outlandish theories.’ Pears tried to clear his throat, his mouth parched. He looked at the water jug next to his bed, but Fox wasn’t about to oblige.
‘You don’t seriously think that’s going to work?’ he asked instead.
‘You’d just accused me of murder,’ Pears went on. ‘You’d told me to drive to the spot where Francis Vernal died. I panicked, thinking you had a similar fate in mind for me.’ He was staring hard at Fox.
‘And that’s all you’ve got to play with?’
‘It’s all you’re going to get from me.’
Fox watched as Pears slowly turned his head away from him. There was just the tiniest gasp of pain as he did so. Fox bided his time, knowing another visitor would be arriving soon. On cue, the door behind him flew open. Alison Pears ignored Fox and strode towards the bed.
‘Stephen!’ She leaned over her husband, planting a hard kiss on his cheek. ‘What in God’s name happened?’
‘Can you believe they left me here alone with that madman?’ Pears replied. She straightened up and turned towards Fox.
‘Your husband had plans to kill me,’ Fox informed her. ‘Same as Francis Vernal and Alan Carter. When a noose wouldn’t do the job, he tried using a gun instead.’
‘Get out,’ she commanded.
Fox shook his head slowly. Alison Pears’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s an order, Inspector.’
Fox held her stare. ‘I’m wondering how long you’ve known. You do know, don’t you?’
‘Know what?’
‘That you married Hawkeye. Did you work it out before the wedding or after? I’m not entirely sure the pair of you have ever talked about it. Ancient history, after all – you were both other people. No need to dredge up the past. Happy, healthy, wealthy and going places…’
‘I’m telling you to leave.’ Her voice was almost a snarl, both rows of teeth bared.
‘So you can start to get your stories straight?’ Fox surmised. ‘Can’t have this huge, talented edifice crumble – is that your thinking?’
‘I told you he’s insane,’ Stephen Pears complained. ‘The man’s completely obsessed.’
‘Yes, I’d say so,’ his wife agreed, her voice dropping a little. ‘Obsessed and paranoid – seeing conspiracies everywhere.’
‘Everywhere,’ her husband echoed.
Silence descended on the room. Fox stood his ground, then nodded slowly.
‘You’re going to fight this?’ he asked.
‘Whatever it takes,’ Alison Pears replied.
Fox nodded again and reached into his pocket, removing t
he little digital recorder and pressing the ‘play’ button. The speaker was tiny, but with the volume all the way up, the conversation was clear enough.
So you’re going to tell me why you killed Francis Vernal?
You have to go back further. You have to understand how things were…
Fox fast-forwarded a little and hit ‘play’ again.
Okay, so I took the money…
It was Alice Watts you were interested in.
His eyes fixed on those of Alison Pears, he moved the recording forward a little further.
Alan Carter had nothing on you?
It was Alison’s name he had.
And forward again.
Nasty little man – not the sort that can be reasoned with.
Fox switched the machine off and held it between thumb and forefinger. Alison Pears seemed frozen for a moment, then inhaled and exhaled before turning towards the bed.
‘You’re a fool, Stephen, and it’s beginning to look like you always were.’
Pears had squeezed shut his eyes, as if every word was a fresh affliction. She loomed over him, hands gripping the metal side-rail as she started to get her breathing back under control. Blood had risen to her cheeks, and she rubbed her fingers down them, as if to erase the colouring. She ran her tongue across her lips and faced Fox again.
‘I knew nothing about any of this,’ she declared. ‘It’s all come as a complete and utter shock.’ She straightened her jacket and brushed a few stray strands of hair back into place. Fox was reminded of the transformation that had taken place in her study, when she’d answered her telephone.
‘The pair of you are well matched,’ he commented. ‘Hard to know which one is the colder, actually.’ He gave a twitch of the mouth, maintaining eye contact with Alison Pears. ‘Fine, then – you’ll tell your story and I’ll tell mine. Whichever way it works out, you’ve ended up married to a killer, and I doubt that’ll sit too well with the position of Chief Constable. I’m guessing it might even be a matter for the Complaints…’ The recorder was back in his pocket. He used his good hand to open the door. The officer on duty was trying not to look too interested in the commotion he’d just heard. As Fox stepped into the corridor, he turned his head towards Stephen Pears. But Pears’s eyes were still closed, so Fox let the door swing shut, leaving him to his fate.