The Shadow Man

by Helen Fields

  ‘I’m not cross. Don’t cry,’ Fergus said.

  Fergus pulled the handkerchief from his pocket with his right hand, shifting his left forearm to rest solidly across her breastbone. She gushed air.

  ‘Please don’t …’

  ‘Hurt you? Why would I? I’m your one true love, Angela.’

  He pressed the handkerchief to her lips. A cotton kiss in the dark. Angela’s hips bucked beneath him, and he imagined a different bed, her holding him, wanting him on top of her.

  Her neck arched. She did her best to fight, but he wanted her compliance more than she wanted her freedom. Desperation had fine-tuned him into an extraordinary beast. He could smell her toothpaste, and it was a field of wild mint. The diamonds in her eyes were more riches than he had ever imagined he would own.

  Then the bedside lamp was arcing through the air. Had it been switched on, he knew it would have left a rainbow of light in its wake. Even as he saw it coming, he recognised it was too late for avoidance. Shattering on contact with his cheekbone, the pottery base turned gravel and took root in his flesh.

  Angela fought harder as Fergus swayed, his head a wasp nest as he reeled from the injuries to his nose and cheek. The important thing was to keep the handkerchief over her mouth until she was asleep, but his hand was trembling and weak, and now he could see two Angelas, neither of them clearly. His hand needed help to maintain the pressure, so he pushed his forehead down on top of his own hand, doubling the force and allowing him to close his eyes for a moment. If he lost consciousness now, it was over. If she got out from under him, he was done. Everything he wanted, what pathetic time he had left, would be smoke.

  She battered him with one fist. He had to take back control until she complied.

  With one last monumental effort, Fergus raised his body a few inches then slammed his whole weight onto her ribcage. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and her fingertips scratched weakly at his knuckles. The bed was wet, he realised. His knee rested in a damp, warm patch. That was fine. A success, in fact. She was relaxing. Surrendering. His whole head buzzed and burned, tidal nausea swept over him. Fergus let her hand slide from his grasp as the world pixelated then faded. His body covering hers like a blanket, the handkerchief then his hand and finally his head resting on her mouth, Fergus could resist unconsciousness no longer.

  Was it possible that death was coming for him so much sooner than he’d anticipated? Fergus breathed deeply, trying to catch hold of the pain, yearning to stay in the moment with Angela, but there was a roundabout spinning mercilessly in his head, and he couldn’t get off her, couldn’t have lifted his head or moved his hand from her mouth if his life had depended on it.

  Angela’s body juddered beneath his.

  He couldn’t get off.

  Angela inhaled ragged, raw breaths through her nose as the chemical held over her mouth worked its magic.

  He couldn’t get off.

  The last breath he heard leave her body was an inhuman rattle. He longed to comfort her, to tell her he was sorry. There was so much he’d wanted to do with her, and it had all gone so dreadfully wrong. Now, he had to start over. And first he would have to find someone new.

  Chapter Two

  Night-time was her time. The day’s colours had faded, and in the grey hues she was finally equal to those around her. Connie Woolwine exited the imposing Balmoral Hotel and crossed the road towards Leith Walk. It was midnight, and still the heat bounced up off Edinburgh’s roads. The late-licence pubs were turning out. She could hear both singing and sobbing from the crowds of revellers, depending on the level of drunkenness. Carrying only her hotel key card in one pocket of her jeans and her mobile in the other, she walked past the crowds, enjoying the stretch in her legs after a long flight and the sense of liberation she knew would come from allowing herself to get lost in a foreign city.

  It was her first trip to Scotland. Six hours and counting. The buildings were so steeped in history and architectural perfection that they might have been conjured rather than built. Lights from tall buildings scattered moving images on the bustling streets. It was humanity soup, reminding her a little of Boston, Massachusetts. Taking a left into Union Street, she marvelled at how safe the city felt. Every person who lived there a 24-hour witness to the comings and goings around them. So much connectivity. Edinburgh’s city centre was a human body, each street a blood vessel, with so few areas that were exclusively business or commerce. It was a city you could live in, rather than simply exist.

  A catcall interrupted her thoughts, and she turned her head towards the man who’d issued the unwelcome quasi-compliment. Other men surrounded her as she made eye contact with the one who’d expressed an interest. A cloud of alcohol fumes assaulted her nose, and she breathed in beer and cheap liquor freshly deposited into the stomachs of the twenty-somethings who were obviously suffering a high level of drunken delusions.

  ‘You on your own then, love?’ the catcaller asked.

  The accent was English rather than Scots. She’d spent enough time in London to recognise the East End vowel sounds.

  ‘I’m meeting someone. Excuse me,’ she replied, keeping it light but icy as she tried to take a step forward.

  ‘You’re American. Should’ve known with an arse like that. Don’t see many that tight where we’re from.’

  He moved clumsily forward and Connie sidestepped him, pushing her shoulder between two of his mates to exit the group.

  ‘Don’t be a bitch. We were just having a laugh,’ one of his companions added.

  She allowed herself a private eye-roll and kept walking.

  ‘Stupid cow. Can’t take a joke,’ he insisted when she didn’t retaliate.

  Keeping her gaze forward, she neither rushed nor slowed down.

  ‘Think you’re better than us, do—’

  His hand was on her right buttock for no more than a second before she’d grabbed it by the wrist, wheeled around, and dug her thumbnail hard and deep into the half-moon lunula at the base of his index fingernail. Connie released him as his scream hit the air, and he leapt backwards, clutching his hand.

  ‘She bloody tasered me or something. Shit.’ He clutched his hand to his stomach, eyes watering.

  Connie turned and stood her ground.

  ‘The pain’s already gone,’ she said. ‘It only lasts while the pressure’s on. You assaulted me and I’m entitled to defend myself. I’m going to walk up the road now, and none of you should follow me. I have a tendency to overreact when someone touches me. Next time, the injury won’t be so transient.’

  There was a group shuffling and some muffled swearing, but no one seemed keen to take her on. Connie nodded, turned and continued towards Gayfield Street. She was expected in the gardens at Gayfield Square imminently, and she didn’t want to keep the man waiting.

  She left at a regular pace. Running would have been a mistake. Showing any level of fear always was. Predatory men were no different than mountain lions – that was how it had been explained to her in the self-defence classes she’d attended religiously in her early twenties. A mountain lion could be fooled into thinking you weren’t lunch if you stood your ground, made yourself look big and stared it down. Turn away, run, show weakness, and you were a walking entrée. Ordinary testosterone-fuelled men were rarely intimidating to her now, though. Drunk idiots threw punches. Icy-cold restraint was much harder to fight.

  Connie turned a corner and realised that the word ‘gardens’ after the name Gayfield was something of an overstatement. The grass had withered in the exceptional heat. A couple of forlorn benches were available as seating, and there were trees around the edge of the flora that had been preserved in the midst of the rectangle of buildings, but that was it. Cars were parked all around the edge, and there wasn’t a square yard that escaped being overlooked by some building or other. It wasn’t somewhere she could feel relaxed as she read a book on a blanket, or picnicked with a friend. It was a walk-through more than a venue to stop and smell the roses.
>
  ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ a man asked.

  He stood a short distance behind her, taller than her by a head at well over six feet.

  ‘Did you know it was me, or do you randomly walk up to women at night and say that, because it’s likely to get you in trouble?’

  ‘God, yes, stupid of me. I should’ve simply introduced myself. I just assumed …’

  ‘That’s okay.’ She held out a hand for him to shake. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Baarda, right?’

  He was in his late forties, tall with curly brown hair, broad shoulders, and a physique that shouted former sportsman who’d recently begun to lose the will to exercise.

  ‘Right.’ He shook her hand enthusiastically. ‘And you’re Dr Woolwine.’

  ‘Connie,’ she said. ‘Let’s walk.’ Dropping his hand, she led the way off the grass and into the road, looking up at the surrounding buildings as they went. ‘Not much in the way of obvious CCTV, in spite of all the buildings. Do the police have anything at all?’

  ‘Little if any that will help. Sunset was eight thirty-eight on 20 August. Elspeth Dunwoody disappeared at around nine thirty p.m. She was seen entering the gardens at five past nine from another road, and her car was caught on cameras two roads away at nine twenty-four p.m. After that, nothing. Most of the CCTV is focused on doorways and the pavement areas. There’s a distant shot of her climbing into her car, but nothing close up.’

  ‘You’ve seen the footage?’ Connie asked, standing centrally on one particular parking spot and taking photos of the 360-degree view around it on her mobile.

  ‘Not yet. I only arrived from London this afternoon. I checked in with the Major Investigation Team, looked through the file, then checked in at my hotel and came here. Apologies, I should have made it a priority to view the CCTV. Careless of me.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise to me; I’m just the hired help. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here at this stage. It’s not my usual kind of case. Here, stand with me. I want to know which of these flats are residential and which are business.’

  ‘Um, should we not perhaps wait until a more social hour for that sort of—’

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Now, look around and give me a percentage idea of the curtain-twitching response we get.’

  ‘Sorry, what exactly are you about to—’

  Her scream was an arrow through the midnight air, piercing the fiercest double glazing and the thickest of curtains.

  ‘One, two, three, four … There we go,’ Connie muttered as the first onlooker peered out, followed by the flicking on of lights and the opening of windows.

  ‘Someone will phone the police,’ Baarda said quietly.

  ‘Good. I’d like to know precisely how long before there’s a reaction to an incident around here.’

  A door opened and a man walked out sporting a plaid dressing gown. Connie couldn’t suppress the smile.

  ‘Do you need assistance? Is that man bothering you?’

  ‘Thanks for checking on me. And he’s a police officer, so we’re good.’

  ‘Well, then you’ve woken up the entire square for no reason. Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself.’

  He exuded the attitude that only the truly monied managed to develop and a loudness of voice that was designed to indicate superiority. Connie ran a distracted hand through her hair and shoved her hands in her pockets as she stepped closer to the male.

  ‘Were you at home between nine and nine thirty p.m. on August 20th?’ Connie asked, ignoring the request for an explanation as if she simply hadn’t heard.

  ‘I suppose I must have been. I rarely go out in the evenings, but I don’t see the relevance of the question.’

  ‘Did you hear any screams that evening? Anything that made you look out of the window or feel concerned. Perhaps your neighbours mentioned a disturbance to you the next day.’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s a quiet square most of the time, but certainly when most of the traffic has left the city at the end of the day.’ He pulled his dressing gown cord sharply and smoothed his hair. ‘I should go in.’ He looked up at the neighbouring windows, many of whose frames were now filled by curious faces.

  ‘Of course,’ Connie said. ‘Appreciate the help.’

  Baarda stared at her as the man walked, head held high, back into his home. Connie smiled as he disappeared. She couldn’t get her head round dressing gowns.

  ‘Do you have one of those?’ she asked Baarda, a slight lift at one corner of her mouth.

  ‘I, er, suppose I do. Could I just ask …’

  ‘You can,’ she said. ‘But please feel free to stop asking if you can ask something before you actually ask it. Kind of a waste of time. It’s not as if I’m ever going to say no.’

  Baarda’s phone rang.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘No need to send units. We’re in that exact location. No incident here. Righty-ho.’

  ‘Righty-ho?’ Connie laughed. ‘Holy crap, it’s like I joined the cast of Downton Abbey. Where did you go to school, Eton?’

  Baarda’s darkening cheeks were visible even in the poorly lit square.

  ‘You did! Wow, I thought Eton was reserved for royalty.’

  ‘Popular myth,’ Baarda murmured. ‘You do know we’re still being watched. We should probably relocate somewhere more discreet.’

  ‘Probably,’ Connie said in her best British accent, standing her ground and staring back at the onlookers. ‘Elspeth wasn’t disappeared from here, though. She went willingly. This is a high-end residential area with people who respond to noise, so it’s unusual. Scream in New York and people just turn up their TVs. Here, the residents actively object. There were what, twenty, maybe even thirty eyes on us? At nine thirty in the evening, someone would have taken a look, and Elspeth would have screamed a lot louder and longer than me if she were being abducted.’

  ‘And yet she’s gone,’ Baarda said.

  Connie folded her arms and leaned against a lamppost, face turned towards the stars.

  ‘People disappear every day. They can’t cope with the stress of their job or discover they’ve got a terrible illness. They suddenly see their face in the mirror and decide they hate themselves. I could give you a thousand reasons. I may not be able to tell you yet why Elspeth’s gone, but I can tell you that no one forced her into a car here against her will.’

  ‘Because she didn’t scream?’ Baarda asked. ‘They might have been holding a knife to her throat or a gun to her back. Silence isn’t necessarily indicative of acquiescence.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Connie said, pointing at him. ‘But modern media’s done us a few favours that have changed our behaviour. Women in particular understand that once you climb into a car with an assailant, you’ve given away the power. You’ll most likely be raped, probably killed after that. Most women would risk a bullet or a knife wound rather than get into a car, well aware that the journey would likely be their last.’

  ‘And if her abductor had threatened her children? Not difficult to do – say their names, ages, the home address, perhaps their school. What mother wouldn’t comply to protect her offspring?’

  ‘Offspring?’

  ‘Children,’ Baarda said.

  ‘I know what it means,’ she said. ‘It’s just kind of clinical. But I agree, that’s a much more effective way to manipulate a woman. Her abductor would have to have been stalking her for some time. If it were me, I’d have tried to leave a trail. Dropped my bag, slipped off my watch or a ring, tripped and left blood droplets on the ground. Anything to say I was here and now I’m gone. I’m in danger. I take it the area’s been forensically searched?’

  ‘Apparently so. Nothing found,’ Baarda said. ‘So what’s your competing theory?’

  ‘That you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Why threaten a woman and make her skittish when you can present yourself in a perfectly believable way? Fake IDs are easy to get hold of – pretend to be a police officer. Tell her that she’s
needed at the scene of an accident, for example. Get her out of the city into a dead-end road. From there, it’s pretty simple.’

  ‘Her car hasn’t been found,’ Baarda noted.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Tell me something, what are we doing here?’

  Baarda gave a fleeting smile and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Police work,’ he said.

  ‘I’m a forensic psychologist. I help work up profiles on serial killers. Yet here I am, paid for at the taxpayers’ expense. You’ve even been drafted up here out of London.’

  ‘Edinburgh’s MIT are flooded. They have officers out of the jurisdiction working with Interpol and others missing owing to ill health. They needed cover,’ Baarda said. ‘No mystery there.’

  ‘Except this isn’t a murder case. It’s a disappearance with no sign of foul play or a struggle. Come on, you know more than you’re telling. Share.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You shrugged. A shrug is an affectation. It’s rarely involuntary, like widening your eyes when you’re shocked. You were trying to appear casual and deflect. It’s a dead giveaway.’

  Baarda sighed. ‘I was given the heads-up that she’s someone’s daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Businessman, celebrity or politician?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Only if you want an accurate profile of her abductor. If she disappeared for political reasons, it’ll be a different personality type to someone who’ll kidnap for financial reasons. If it’s someone prominent in lawmaking or enforcement, it could be a revenge scenario. I could list endlessly, but it’d be faster to summarise with yes, it matters.’

  ‘Head of a global tech company, widely known for his philanthropy, more political contacts than I could name … and I take your point.’

  ‘But somehow that’s been kept quiet so far. Not even a hint of a media leak.’

  ‘My guess is that everyone involved believes this is an extortion attempt and that a leak could mean a sudden and tragic end to Elspeth’s life. I was as surprised as you that I was paired up with a profiler. As far as this being at the taxpayers’ expense goes, I’m sure contributions will be made that far outweigh the actual cost to the country, but this way we have the entire police facilities and intelligence at our disposal.’