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‘I thought you might be in touch today. I take it you’ve read the papers?’

‘Yes, boss. They gave me one hell of a shock.’

‘I can imagine. I would have forewarned you, but you will go swanning off on these fancy holidays.’

‘Is there going to be trouble?’

‘No, why should there be? The action we took was precisely to avoid any trouble.’

‘I don’t like it, boss. It makes me nervous.’

‘Relax, Chris, it’s over now. That side of the operation at least. There’s plenty more to do in other areas. We can start moving now there’s nobody in a position to pose a threat.’

‘What about my contacts? They’re going to be as twitchy as hell.’

‘That won’t do any harm, so long as they twitch in silence. Make sure you get that message over to them. That’s your first priority. Tell them what’s happened is a result of people twitching. Make them aware that if anyone breaks ranks we’ll deal with them. That should keep the twitching unobtrusive. You might also remind them what they stand to lose: their liberty, for example.’

‘Yes, boss, but I must say I’m still nervous.’

‘I don’t have to remind you what you have to lose, do I? They tell me your sort get a rough time of it inside. The other prisoners make sure of that. I don’t need to remind you exactly what evidence I have, do I?’

‘No, boss.’

‘I’m so glad about that. It would have been an added burden to replace you at this stage of proceedings.’

Lisa was in Helmsdale CID suite before anyone else arrived and began reading through the files. The phone rang.

‘There’s a man on the phone insisting he speaks to someone in CID,’ the community support officer told her.

‘DC Andrews speaking. Can I help you?’

He identified himself before stating, ‘I’m a private detective. I was covered by client confidentiality, but that no longer applies. I can tell you that Alan Marshall has been living at Woodbine Cottage on the Winfield Estate since his release from prison. I was asked to keep an eye on him.’

‘Thank you, but we are already aware of that.’ She smiled as she replaced the phone and looked up, startled. She’d been so engrossed she hadn’t noticed Superintendent Edwards enter.

Ruth smiled. ‘You’re still wondering what’s going on, I’ll bet?’

Lisa nodded.

‘OK, let me fill you in with a few details. You’re going to be rather surprised. Particularly when I tell you what has happened, and what’s going to happen. You know a fair amount already, but there’s more to it than that: much, much, more.’

Later, Nash received copies of the documents removed from Brown’s flat. Attached to them was a note from Charlie Russell asking Nash to ring him.

‘That was a very interesting flat,’ Charlie said when Nash reached him. ‘And there are a set of prints on the documents belonging to, of all people, Alan Marshall.’

‘Really! The thought did cross my mind, but I dismissed it.’

‘We’re still waiting for the analysis of the boiler suit, but it has been confirmed that the stains are human blood. Apart from
that, we found an array of weapons in a secret compartment at the back of a wardrobe. These included seven knives and three automatic pistols. Ballistics confirms that two of the pistols match ones used in unsolved murders here, believed to have been contracts. I’ll let you know more ASAP.’

Nash sat pondering the new information. How had Marshall known where to go? Had Brown returned and caught him? Now, they had both disappeared. So where were they?

A week later it was a question being asked by others. It was being asked by Barry and Shirley Dickinson and by Lisa Andrews, by Superintendent Dundas and DS Smailes as well as those who were paying Brown. Friend and foe alike were equally baffled. Marshall hadn’t phoned, nor had he
communicated
in any way with his allies. Nor had they been able to contact him. Lisa had tried, Barry Dickinson had tried, but Marshall’s mobile remained unanswered. They scanned the papers, listened to news bulletins expecting to hear news of his arrest. Day succeeded day with no news as their concern grew. It seemed Marshall had performed a disappearing trick worthy of Houdini himself. If Nash had asked the right question of the right person he would have known. But the thought didn’t occur to him until it was almost too late.

Marshall had been both lucky and unlucky. On his return to the station he spotted a police car parked on the forecourt. He considered catching a bus, but felt the danger of being
recognized
and trapped was too great. Nor would his cash run to the expense of a taxi, besides which that was almost as dangerous. There was no alternative but to risk walking, at least for the first part of the journey.

His luck changed once he was clear of the city. He knew the centre of York well, from when he and Anna had spent much of their leisure time there. The ancient city had hardly changed, and by using a complicated series of back street short cuts he was able to avoid contact with much of the pedestrian traffic until he reached the outer ring road. Beyond that his luck was
definitely in the ascendency as he reached a small transport café.

It was one much frequented by lorry drivers. There was risk involved in going inside, but he was hungry, and had just made up his mind to brave the danger when he was approached by the driver of an HGV that had just pulled into the parking area. ‘Excuse,’ the driver’s English was heavily accented, ‘you are of local area perhaps?’

Marshall looked past the man at the lettering on the
curtain-sided
truck. ‘Certainly nearer than Warsaw,’ he suggested, then saw the man’s puzzled frown. ‘Yes, I’m a local,’ he added.

‘I am trying,’ the man held up a clipboard for Marshall to read, ‘to reach a place called Helmisdale. Do you know of such?’

Marshall stared at the sheet in disbelief. ‘Helmsdale,’ he corrected automatically. ‘Yes, I know Helmsdale very well. In fact, that’s where I’m going. If you give me a ride there, I’ll show you the best way; take you right where you need to be.’

The driver smiled. ‘Then today is my fortunate day.’

‘You and me both,’ Marshall agreed.

After the driver dropped him off at the junction of the Helmsdale to Kirk Bolton road, Marshall tried the Dickinsons’ phone, but with no success. From there, he would have to walk. He glanced at his watch. The time he’d gained by getting the lift meant he should reach his destination before dark, even with the short hours of daylight at that time of year. He wondered briefly if the police would have maintained a presence at Woodbine Cottage; then remembered something Lisa Andrews had told him, about how short-staffed they were due to the flu epidemic.

It was curious, he reflected, that he’d started thinking of her as Lisa, rather than DC Andrews. She was a very pretty girl, and if circumstances had been different…. That in itself was strange, because Marshall hadn’t thought of a woman in that way for a long, long time. She knew the worst about him, but that hadn’t seemed to deter her. Was that because she found him attractive? Marshall took himself to task. No way would a girl like Lisa be interested in someone like him. She was merely being kind-hearted.

Almost before he realized it, Marshall reached the lane leading to the cottage. If things had been normal, he would have headed straight down the lane. Instead, he pushed his way through a gap in the hedge, skirted the field, where the ruts caused by the tractor contained puddles that were beginning to ice over. It was going to be a bitterly cold night, no weather to be out in the open. His breath was already forming a slight mist in front of him as he walked. He reached the edge of the field where it bordered a strip of woodland. The wood stretched all the way to the cottage and beyond. To anyone less familiar with the area, the dense entanglement of briar and bracken would have presented a formidable obstacle, but Marshall knew them well; knew where to find the narrow deer paths; knew which routes to follow that would enable him to reach the cottage without being seen. Moreover, he knew the vantage points from which he’d be able to spot anyone waiting in or around the cottage.

Brown was annoyed. More than that, he was cold and
uncomfortable
. He hated the countryside. He was used to cities, with all their hustle and bustle of activity. Out here in the wilds, the silence was eerie. Worse still, just as he was becoming
accustomed
to the silence, some creature or other would let loose an unnerving screech or yelp. For a cold-blooded killer, Brown was close to fear, something he was more used to inspiring in his victims. Despite that, he’d a job to do. His orders were to dispose of Alan Marshall. He felt certain sooner or later Marshall would return here, and when he did, Brown would be waiting. His certainty was based on one stark fact. With police forces throughout the land searching for him, the fugitive had nowhere else to go. Brown sneered at the thought that the police hadn’t the sense to work that out. He had, and when he completed his work he would be well paid for it. The sum he’d demanded was a huge one, but he knew his employer was extremely wealthy. Men like Harry wouldn’t flinch at the price. That was how they got where they were.

Brown examined his surroundings and wondered how
Marshall could stand living here, could stand the silence and the solitude. The place was little more than a hovel by Brown’s standards. No TV, none of what he would class as luxuries. Very few necessities even. No modern conveniences; how on earth did Marshall manage? And how did he amuse himself, out here alone on those long winter evenings? Sure, there were books; plenty of them, although the titles of most of them were
incomprehensible
to Brown. And there was a good quality hi-fi, but when Brown turned his attention to the CD collection, he found they were of music he’d never heard of. Almost all of them seemed to be classical.

It was as he was examining the discs that Brown felt a faint draught. He turned and glanced towards the front door, his hand reaching automatically for his knife. He slid the weapon, with its wickedly long, wickedly sharp blade, out of its sheath. The front door was closed. The draught hadn’t come from there. He looked to his right, from where he could see through into the kitchen. That room too was deserted, but he thought the kitchen door might be slightly ajar.

Brown felt that familiar sensation that gripped him before he went into action; the clawing of nervous tension in his stomach. He moved slowly, cautiously towards the kitchen, slid almost sideways through the door, the knife held out in front of him, ready to strike. The room was empty. He frowned, certain he’d closed the door. So, how had it come open? He crossed the floor in three lithe strides and slammed the door shut. He reached forward and tugged at the handle. The door came open. He repeated the manoeuvre a second and third time. Obviously the catch wasn’t engaging properly. Like everything else in this tumbledown ruin, he thought. He closed it and slid the bolt across. Now, no stray gust of wind could cause it to open accidentally. Had Brown known more of the countryside, or possessed a little fieldcraft, he would have realized that on a still, frost-laden afternoon, the door would not have opened of its own volition.

He returned to the sitting room and sank into the solitary armchair. This place was really getting on his nerves. Before
long he’d get in his car and drive back home, he’d been away too long. Sod Marshall, sod Harry. The job could wait another day. He’d give it until dusk. After that, bollocks to it. He’d been sitting there for a few minutes before he heard a noise. It was very faint, a sort of scratching sound. What the hell was it? And where the hell was it coming from? Within the cottage, that was certain. Not the kitchen, he could tell by the direction. He listened again. It must be coming from the bedroom; that, or the bathroom.

Brown got to his feet, slipped the knife from its sheath again, and started towards the door. He flung it open and entered the bedroom. Empty. He inched his way to the bathroom. Flung that door wide and stepped quickly through, too quickly for anyone lying in wait. Empty again. He turned back into the bedroom. As he did so, he heard the sound again. He stopped. It was close now. But where?

Suddenly, the sound changed, became a creak. At the same time, he saw a vague shadow moving to his left. Brown struck out with his knife. It jarred against something hard, with a teeth-grating screech. The knife had hit the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. He stared at his own reflection. This bloody dump of a house! Doors opening all on their own; things grating and screeching. In the mirror, Brown saw the shadow of something move behind him. He turned and struck out. The knife plunged into something soft. Brown drove it home with all his strength, pulling it upward at the same time in a
flesh-tearing
wrench. At the same moment he felt something strike him hard on his temple.

Marshall stood in front of the open wardrobe looking at the prone figure on the floor. He kicked the knife away, before glancing ruefully at the ruined pillow in his hand. Feathers from it were drifting down towards the unconscious man in a tiny blizzard. He tossed the pillow on to the bed, causing another snowstorm; then untied the string he’d attached to the doorknob. The device had worked a treat, distracting Brown and giving Marshall time to get into position to strike. As had the trick of opening the kitchen door, then scooting round to the
front, where he’d waited until he heard the sound of the kitchen door slamming.

He reached down and started winding the string round the killer’s wrists. To ensure he didn’t try and free himself, Marshall twined the loose end round the man’s neck. If he struggled too hard, all he’d do was strangle himself. Now, what to do with him? The sensible thing would be to hand him over to the police. But that would only achieve half a result. It wouldn’t give Marshall what he wanted: the name of the man who’d employed Brown. The man who’d paid to have Anna killed. Or the motive for her murder. Only Brown could give him those answers, or some of them at least.

He reached into the wardrobe and removed a leather belt from a pair of jeans. He strapped it tightly round Brown’s ankles, grabbed the man’s shirt collar and dragged him
unceremoniously
out of the bedroom into the lounge. He barely noticed the twinge of pain in his arm. He certainly noticed Brown’s head hitting the doorframe, but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it.

He dumped the killer, who showed no sign of coming to, in the middle of the floor, wondering briefly if he’d overdone it: hit him too hard. He gave a mental shrug; what the hell, if he was dead, so what. He left the comatose figure and began rummaging through the cupboards, removing every item he would need. Every so often he glanced through into the lounge. His prisoner was still showing no sign of life. Marshall turned his attention to the freezer. He took out only those items he could cook simply.

He knew he couldn’t stay here. At any point the police might come along and arrest him. Marshall wasn’t going to allow that to happen. Certainly not until he’d spent some time alone with his prisoner. Time during which, Marshall felt sure, he’d be able to persuade Brown to tell him everything he knew.

During his time in prison Marshall had made few
acquaintances
. Given his fearsome reputation, most prisoners had steered well clear of him. Only his neighbour, however, had become as close as you could get to a friend in such a place. And
from him, Marshall had learned one or two tricks. Tricks he’d never thought he’d need to employ. One of them had been how to dislocate a man’s shoulder. Another was supposedly
guaranteed
to make even the toughest man talk. And Marshall felt sure his prisoner wasn’t that tough.