by Ed James
‘Jesus.’
‘And they didn’t talk about it until they were in Newcastle a year later on a boys’ weekend. Down in the quayside, and they see this boy take off his wedding ring and hit on this woman in a bar. She was married with kids. An unhappy marriage, but that’s no excuse. The guy struck gold and they followed them and repeated the trick. Lamont cut off his eyelids, then forced him to watch as Sanderson raped her, and he plunged the knife through the guy’s heart as Sanderson… finished. Then Lamont got to murder the woman. And they kept on at it. Inverness and Carlisle, getting closer together in time.’
‘What about the Ferry?’
‘The male victim was Lamont’s stepfather. Alec Mitchell. And his new girlfriend, Susan Adamson. She was much younger than him. Lamont broke their code, and killed him before Sanderson was finished with her. It threw him, and he noticed the condom had burst. They argued, and Lamont ran off. As far as he knows, Sanderson tried to clean the crime scene as best he could, but he left DNA inside her, didn’t he? And that knife your dad found? It was never lost. We had it, and I got the prints fast-tracked, my eyes only. And they matched John’s. He was on the system for a fight at the football in Dundee. Never charged with it, but his prints are there.’
‘I don’t get why?’
‘John was married to Irene, my kid sister.’ He shuddered. ‘I’m very protective of Reenie. I couldn’t tell her that John… That he… He’d killed ten people. It would’ve destroyed her.’
‘So you framed Sanderson?’
‘No, he was equally culpable. And the conviction would’ve been solid if he hadn’t… If he hadn’t died.’
‘You had him killed?’
‘Hardly. I’m not that powerful. He was unlucky. We were lucky. Some arsehole from the Hilltown was in the cell with him, got into a fight and ended up strangling him. But don’t feel bad for Sanderson. That sick fuck had been raping women at conferences for years. It’s all in the case files, the glue that would hold the conviction together. But…’
‘But what?’
‘This is all my fault.’ Syd slumped back in the chair. ‘I spoke to John, and we agreed to just blame Sanderson, and he accepted he needed to stop. The deal was he sold up and moved to Canada. And he did, in November 1995. He got into property development over there, bought up loads of land and built like there was no tomorrow. Then it all boomed. He stopped killing.’
‘But he’s started up again.’ Vicky grabbed him by the lapels. ‘Lamont has killed again. You could’ve stopped him!’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’
‘And all it took was ruining my dad’s career.’
‘Your dad was a powder keg. Only a matter of time before he exploded.’
Vicky ended the recording and checked it was saved and synchronised to the cloud, then hit dial. ‘Karen, can you get me a location on John Lamont?’
‘Is that before or after the plates on that car?’
‘Have you got anything on the car?’
‘No!’
‘Right, well, call me when you do. Get Considine to help.’ Vicky killed the call but kept her distance from them. ‘Do you have any idea where he’s gone?’
‘You don’t understand what’s going on in his head. All these stressors and triggers here. Building that golf course was obviously too much for him.’ He slumped back on the sofa. ‘And John’s mother died and he moved back here. Left his old life behind and trying to build a new one, but…’
‘What happened with Irene?’
‘Irene met Buddy at their country club, and she divorced John.’
VICKY POWERED ALONG THE ROAD. In the distance, the Carnoustie Hotel was almost lost in a sea of temporary stands. The long, empty expanse of the eighteenth baked in the sun. She caught up with the last of three buses full of arsehole golfers riding convoy along Carnoustie’s promenade, and she just couldn’t even get past one, let alone all three.
Shit, shit, shit.
The coaches powered past the Carnoustie Hotel, a big part of the whole Open machinery, but at least the security had slackened off, so Vicky pulled off into the car park, half-full of cars.
And holy shit, there was Syd’s Volvo.
So Lamont was here.
She reached over for her phone and tried to dial Considine as she drove. ‘Stephen, have you—’
‘I’m at Lamont’s house now, Sarge. Nobody here.’
Just perfect. ‘Okay, get over to his hotel, would you?’
‘Will do. Oh, I called Control and they said they’re struggling to get units over there. Something to do with an incident in Barry?’
‘It’s the same one! Get them to redirect those cars. Tell them the order comes from DI Forrester. And if that doesn’t work, tell them it comes from DCI Raven.’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Thanks.’ Vicky killed the call.
She found it hard to believe Lamont was a serial killer. He’d managed to turn off the blood lust like a tap and stop for, what, twenty-four years? No telling what had happened in Canada, though. But now something had changed and he’d snapped back to his old ways.
And Syd Ramsay… Helping Lamont cover it over. Just to protect his kid sister?
Inside the hotel, the natural light from the giant windows overlooking the course cast the plush furniture into stark relief. Gentle electronic jazz played over the speakers, barely louder than the bubbling fish tank. Smelled like someone was barbecuing steaks.
And no sign of Lamont.
Vicky walked over to the reception desk and kept her voice low. She unfolded her warrant card and slid it across. ‘Need to speak to two of your guests. Irene and Buddy Schneider.’
She tapped the keyboard. ‘Sorry, but we don’t—’
‘Might be under Donald Schneider.’
‘Okay.’ More keyboard abuse. ‘Got them.’
‘Are they still here?’
‘I think so. Hard to tell.’
‘Has anyone asked to speak to them?’
The receptionist stood there, smiling. ‘Sorry, I’ve just started my shift.’
‘Can you speak to whoever was here before you?’
She nibbled her lip. ‘Give me a second.’ She picked up a phone and put it to her ear. ‘Hey, Rach? Yeah.’ She turned away and Vicky couldn’t hear the rest of it.
The front door slid open and Abby from Abbey Catering pushed a trolley inside, singing to herself. A guard appeared from a side door and raced over to her.
And the receptionist was back, cracking the handset down on the cradle. ‘So, I just spoke to Rachel? She was on. He asked to go up to their room, but they didn’t let him.’
‘When was this?’
‘Ten minutes ago?’
So Lamont was close. And the Volvo was still there. He was here to murder his ex-wife and her new husband.
She smiled at the receptionist. ‘Can I see your CCTV?’
‘I can’t just—’
‘Listen to me. I can’t tell you why, but it’s incredibly important that you do it. That man… We need to speak to him. Urgently.’
‘O-okay.’ She swivelled her screen around and showed it to Vicky. ‘This is ten minutes ago.’
And there he was in black and white. John Lamont, arriving at the hotel, eyes glazed over with the look of a man about to murder. The man who’d attacked Vicky and stabbed Forrester.
Another car pulled up behind and a man got out. In a flash, he was on Lamont, pressing a knife into his back and forcing him back into the Volvo.
Francis Sanderson.
39
Vicky walked across the hotel car park and she gripped her phone tighter.
Shit, she had it the wrong way round. Francis was the aggressor here, pressing the knife into Lamont’s back.
Why?
Did he attack her at Syd’s? Stick the knife in Forrester’s leg?
Why?
Taking revenge against Lamont, his father’s partner in crime? The one who’d got away with it. The one whose
trail Syd Ramsay had covered over. Who’d lived a lucrative life in Canada.
The call was answered with a yawn. ‘Jenny Morgan.’ Ice queen voice.
‘Jenny, it’s Vicky. Are you at your desk?’
‘Eh, no? You asked me to get to Barry?’
‘Shit. Sorry. Look—’
‘What do you need?’
‘Get me a trace on that number I just texted you.’
A sigh. ‘I’ve pulled in. Running it now. Give me a minute.’ She was quiet, just the swooshing of passing cars. ‘That phone’s off.’
But why were they here? And where had he gone?
Vicky got in the car and started the engine. ‘Can you get his last location?’
‘Okay, got it. Can you deal with a GPS code?’
‘Text it.’
‘Done.’
‘Thanks, Jenny. And can you check on Sanderson.’
‘Francis Sanderson?’
‘Please.’ Vicky ended the call just as her phone buzzed. A new text message. She tapped the link and the maps app opened up. Lamont’s last-known location was just down the road.
Vicky strapped in and set off, racing along Links Parade, a row of posh houses overlooking the golf course, big Victorian things in that brown Angus stone, some now hotels and guesthouses, some just second homes.
Her phone chimed — she’d arrived.
She killed the engine and got out into the heat.
No sign of John Lamont or Francis Sanderson.
Vicky swivelled round. Hers was the only car in the car park, closed off for the Open. The golf course was wide open to the south and the west, and completely empty. The road continued on, so maybe they’d gone that way?
To the north, a short street had a weird triangular modern house halfway up, leading up to Golf Street Halt, as her mother would call it. One of Carnoustie’s three train stations, though barely used.
She checked her phone. Another text from Jenny:
“Last location for Sanderson’s phone is at the train station, by the looks of things.”
Bingo.
Vicky set off up the street. Had to be here, they just had to be. She stopped at the end, the train line blocking the path ahead. Platforms on both sides, a metal bridge to the left. Long gardens sat on the right.
But two figures were up on the railway bridge, silhouetted in the bright day, one leading the other over to the middle, pressing a knife into his back. She couldn’t see which way round it was.
Vicky stepped closer and a car pulled up over the other side. Karen got out, waving recognition at Vicky. They had him trapped, at least.
And she knew she had to do this. She had to get up there. So she started up the stairs, gripping her baton tight and loading it firmly onto her shoulder. She wouldn’t be surprised this time.
But footsteps came from behind her.
Dad stood there, eyebrows and hands raised.
‘What are you doing here?’
He held up his phone. ‘I tracked your location to Syd’s place. Then followed you here. What’s going on?’
‘Dad, I need you to stay there.’
‘Vicky, you know I’m not going to do that. You need to tell me what’s going on here.’
She didn’t have a choice. After all that’d happened, he deserved the truth. ‘It wasn’t Syd working with Sanderson, Dad. It was John Lamont.’
‘Christ.’ Dad looked up the stairs. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I think Francis Sanderson has him.’
‘His son?’ Dad shut his eyes. ‘I’m going to crack his skull op—’
‘No, you’re going to stay here. You’re not a cop any more. Not even a consultant.’
‘So you’re just going up there on your own?’
‘I’ve got back up heading over. And Karen Woods is over the other side. Wait here for them and brief them.’
‘And yet you’re going up there alone. Chip off the old block.’ He wrapped his arms across his chest. ‘Fine. Go on. Do your bit.’
She thanked him with a smile and set on up the stairs, wondering whether this was the right move. Knowing it wasn’t, but not exactly having any choice. The last few steps now, so she crept and stopped at the corner.
‘Don’t you see?’ Sanderson was standing in the middle of the bridge over the rails, at the peak, the vivid blue behind him bleaching all the colour. He had a knife in his hand, different from the one he’d stabbed Forrester with and cut Syd’s eyelids off with, the one left buried in Syd’s chest.
This looked like a Stanley blade, perfect for cutting football hooligans or packaging.
‘Please.’ Lamont’s voice was a thin gurgle. ‘Please, stop this.’
‘Aren’t you listening to me?’ Sanderson spotted Vicky. He gripped Lamont tighter and pressed the knife against his throat. ‘Stay right there.’
Vicky tightened her grip. ‘Francis, you don’t want to do this. Please!’
‘Of course I do. This sick bastard ruined my life. Killed ten people. And now another four. It’s clear what I’ve been put on this earth to do. I need to rid the planet of him.’
‘That… That wasn’t me.’
‘So who was it, then?’
Lamont shook his head. ‘Craigen got what he deserved. They all did.’
Francis pressed the knife against Lamont’s eyes. ‘This isn’t the kind of blade for it, but I should just repeat what you did to them, shouldn’t I? How would you like that? What do you say, John, an eye for an eye? That’s almost biblical isn’t it?’
Vicky stepped up one. ‘Just let him go and it’ll all be fine.’
‘Fine?’ Francis aimed his glare at her. ‘How can it be fine? How can anything be fine again, Victoria? Fourteen people are dead!’
Vicky stepped closer to him. Still a long way to go. Four steps up to the junction, then half of the middle section. But she was getting there. ‘Francis, why don’t you—?’
‘All those years, I wanted to believe my father was innocent, that he was framed by this vermin here. By Syd Ramsay. But Alan helped me.’
Oh God, what had he done now? Speaking to Francis behind her back. No wonder he knew what was going on.
‘Alan helped me figure out it was Syd Ramsay who helped this loathsome animal, and covered up all those deaths.’
Halfway across now. ‘Francis, please, just let him go.’
‘You police let him go, Victoria. My father had his faults, but this man played God, he took lives away and that is not the domain of man. My father raped all those women, but this animal here, he murdered them. He punished them for their sins. Who has the right?’
Another step up to the junction.
But Lamont was pleading. ‘Don’t you see, Francis? Me and your father, we were doing God’s will. All of those sinners! And Craigen and his whore were cavorting around like it was all fine. At my party! Acting like it was just fine!’
‘And God has let me down, John. I know what you did back in the eighties and nineties with my father. But God has chosen me to set that right again John, I am an instrument of his will.’
‘You don’t know anything!’
‘But you stopped, John.’ Vicky took another step. ‘Moved to Canada.’ And another. The baton was on her shoulder with her elbow up and the butt of it facing Francis. Her left hand outstretched, trying to calm him and gain his attention. But neither was working. ‘You can stop again.’
‘No, he can’t! Don’t you see? It didn’t work. He always felt the urges. He thinks he’s doing God’s work.’
Another step. Not close enough to consider attacking, but getting there. ‘He stopped, Francis.’ And another. ‘He kept them in check for years.’ She stopped. She could hear the lines ringing. A train was coming. She couldn’t tell from which direction. The track bent here, so you could only see it when it was upon you. She took another step. ‘Francis, why don’t you let him go?’
‘Because I can’t. I know my purpose. He’s killed four people since Saturday. You’ll just let him
go again.’ He stared at Lamont. ‘You know what he was doing at the hotel? You were going to kill your ex-wife, weren’t you?’
‘My wife… BUDDY.’
She took a shorter step now, timing it with Sanderson’s glance.
‘I had to leave Canada, after what they did to me. I came back here to Carnoustie, and my golf resort… All that stress, and for what? So Craigen and his whore can drink my champagne in a goddamn lighthouse?’
‘That’s not your call to make!’ Francis pressed the blade against Lamont’s cheek. ‘Nobody has that right!’
A short, shuffling step. ‘You don’t have to do this, Francis. Let him go. We’ll prosecute him.’
‘After what he did, my father deserved what he got. Dying in jail like that. I know that was God’s will. But how is it right that this sinner gets away, scot free? That Syd Ramsay helped him, but not my father?’
‘Because he—’
‘Because the Almighty has plans for you, and for Syd Ramsay.’
‘I killed him. Syd. He’s dead.’
‘Francis, you need to let him go. Tell us everything and we will convict him.’
‘You think I’ve got any faith in the criminal justice system? I have my faith in a much higher court. You don’t know what my father told me.’ Sanderson tugged at Lamont’s hair and pulled a good clump out. ‘About how John Lamont was the other half of Atreus. How he killed them.’
‘Let’s just get this all on the record and we’ll sort it all out.’
‘No. He told the police. Told your father and Syd Ramsay. And nobody believed him, nobody did anything. They just let John give a statement to the police, framing my father.’
Vicky wanted to step forward again, but he was keeping his focus locked on her. ‘You don’t want to kill him.’
‘It is His will.’ Sanderson let the knife go from Lamont’s throat and pulled him up taller. ‘Making him pay for his sins, making him pay for my father’s sins… It’s the only thing that makes any sense. My divine purpose.’