Final Cut (29 page)

‘I shouldn’t have let you go in there.’

Rhona shook her head in irritation. ‘You didn’t
let
me. I chose to. I think we can be sure now of one thing. Kalinin didn’t abduct Claire, so who did?’

48

Chrissy stared across the back garden at the dark outline of the distant woods. She had seen something, she was sure of it. She pulled on a coat and boots and went outside. The winter light had faded fast, dropping its blanket of darkness. As the sky had cleared and the temperature plummeted, the moon and stars had arrived, their reflection on the snow making it seem almost as bright as day.

The farmer had come by an hour earlier, declared it impossible to get her car as far as the main road before tomorrow and asked whether she wanted to spend the night with them at the farm. Chrissy had turned down his offer, wanting to be at the cottage should Rhona get through on the landline or even come back to check on her. Mr Jenkins wasn’t too happy about leaving her on her own, but she declared that she was used to being alone and it wasn’t a problem. Mollified but not entirely convinced, the farmer promised to be back at first light.

After he’d left, she had built up the fire and raided the fridge. In between times she’d checked her mobile and the hall phone then turned on the television and watched the news of the effects of the blizzard, relieved that the forecast was for severe frost but no further snow.

Chrissy pulled up the hood on the jacket, her breath condensing like a white balloon as she trudged towards the trees. Moonlight gave an eerie translucence to the snow and gave the approaching trees a spectral quality she found slightly unnerving.

If there was someone here, there will be footprints
. She spoke out loud, in defiance of her uneasiness. She walked the boundary of the trees, looking for some indication that the movement she’d seen from the kitchen window had been a human being and not just a deer. She found the snow undisturbed apart from clusters of tiny bird-like claw prints.

Satisfied for the moment, Chrissy turned and faced the cottage. From where she stood it looked like a picture postcard, surrounded by snow, outlined against a dark sky filled with stars, smoke drifting lazily upwards in the still night air. She shivered, feeling the intense cold bite at her nose and cheeks. This was silly. There was no one daft enough to be out here except her. Even the farmer had given up for the night and gone home to his supper.

Chrissy headed back to the cottage, vowing to close the curtains, lock the doors and ignore any further daft notions that someone might be observing her. The smell of the warming casserole met her inside, reminding her how hungry she was. She dished up a plate and carried it through to the sitting room.

The cottage settled into silence, punctured only by the crackling of the fire. Exhausted by her constant toing and froing, Chrissy disposed of her plate and lay down on the sofa, her mobile set to loud near by.

The baby’s concerted kicking woke her. Chrissy rolled on to her side and cradled her belly, feeling a tiny heel stretch the skin.

‘Hey. How about sleeping when I sleep?’

She was rewarded by a larger movement, as though in response to her request, and pulled the heavy grey blanket to her chin, conscious of a drop in temperature. The fire needed more wood, but for the moment she couldn’t bear the idea of leaving her warm cocoon. Eventually she stretched out an arm and checked her mobile in case it had rung when she was asleep. There was nothing to indicate a missed call or text message.

Chrissy flung back the blanket and heaved herself up. Sleep had made her heavy and sluggish, the baby pressing low in her abdomen. She grunted as she dropped to her knees in front of the fire, grateful she had made the effort to bring in a good supply of logs.

As she reached for one she heard the distinct sound of a foot crunching on snow. She froze, her hand on the log. A second footstep followed the first. She let go of the log, eased herself on to her feet and extracted a poker from the fireside set.

She may have been wrong before, but she wasn’t now. There was definitely someone or something moving about outside the cottage. The most likely explanation was a deer, as McNab had mentioned one grazing in the back garden. Chrissy held her breath, conscious of the baby jerking and kicking as though it shared her dismay.

There was no light in the room apart from the glowing remains of the fire. To anyone wandering about outside, the cottage would be in darkness, little to no smoke coming from the chimney, either deserted or its occupants asleep.

Chrissy’s heart hammered in her chest. All the doors were locked. She had checked them before she lay down. No one could get into the cottage.

But someone had got in, a small voice reminded her. And that someone had taken Claire and Emma away. Chrissy ran the layout of the cottage through her head. Was there somewhere she could hide? She discounted the idea almost immediately. Once inside it would be obvious to an intruder that the cottage had an occupant and it would only be a matter of time before they found her.

Chrissy made for the back door as quietly as she could. The heavy jacket she’d worn earlier was hanging up near by. Still clutching the poker, she pulled on the coat and slipped her feet into the boots. As she did so she heard a movement outside. She stood rigid with fear as someone launched their full weight against the kitchen door, shaking it in its frame. The next attempt came seconds later. Under such a determined onslaught it was only a matter of time before the door gave way.

She reached for the bolt and eased it open just as the intruder returned for their third try. Bolt drawn, the door flew open easily.

As the figure stumbled past, Chrissy brought the poker down as hard as she could. There was a crack as iron met bone. The man staggered and dropped. She raised the poker again.

‘No!’ A voice called out in pain.

Chrissy flicked on the light switch.

MacNiven was on his knees, his head in his hands. Blood from the reopened head wound had splattered the surrounding tiles. He looked up at Chrissy, his eyes cloudy. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘You thought wrong.’

Chrissy let her poker hand fall by her side as MacNiven slid unconscious to the floor.

She began to search him, finding nothing that could serve as a weapon. His body was deeply chilled, his lips blue. She suspected he was on the verge of hypothermia. Had she been able to, she would have phoned for an ambulance. Instead she found a length of plastic washing line and used it to bind his hands and feet together, before washing the wound and reapplying a dressing. Then she covered him with a blanket and sat down to await his return to consciousness.

The guy was fit and resourceful, as evidenced by the snow hole, but the plummeting temperature had forced even him inside. MacNiven, if that was his name, hadn’t come to attack her, he had come for shelter. Chrissy studied his unshaven face and grimy skin. He was living rough, that much was obvious.

His translucent lids rippled as his eyes moved behind them. Chrissy watched as his limbs twitched and his breathing became more rapid. He was dreaming, or more likely having a nightmare, imagining he was running from something.

Then he screamed. The blood-curdling sound of it made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. His eyes flew open and he was looking, not at her, but at something that terrified and sickened him. He shook his head wildly, then tried desperately to take his bound hand to his face.

‘Fucking guts. Wipe off the fucking guts!’

Chrissy grabbed a towel and knelt beside him, wiping his face as though there was something on it. Gradually terror eased from his face and tears ran down his cheeks. His hands began to jerk in their bindings.

She grabbed his head and cradled it against her. ‘It’s OK, Alan. It’s OK.’

He looked up at her, glassy eyed. ‘I’m not Alan, I’m Fergus. Fergus Morrison.’

Morrison glanced down at Chrissy’s swollen belly. ‘Nae chance of a fag, eh?’ He’d discarded the Queen’s English, ever since he’d revealed his true identity.

‘There’s red wine?’ she offered.

‘Aye, go on, then.’

Chrissy poured him a tumbler. It took both hands to raise it to his lips.

‘Afghanistan,’ he said in reply to her unasked question. ‘Ma mate and me were in this compound. A mortar came. Blew him up.’ He wiped his face. ‘Ah can still taste his guts.’

They were in the sitting room, the fire rebuilt. His face had lost its ashen colour, but the shaking was barely under control.

‘We knew by a blood test the body in the skip wasn’t you.’

‘The dog tag?’

Chrissy nodded.

‘I needed to buy time tae get away. Those fucking hands. They snapped his neck. Just like that. He was talking, begging. I couldnae understand, but he was shit scared. The big guy threw him in the skip.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘A tall guy in a fancy overcoat. He was the one that gave the orders. When they left ah took ma chance. He was deid anyway. Ah gave him ma tag and set the skip alight, then headed south. I’ve been hanging round the cottage for a while. There’s tins of food in the shed. I’ve been living on them.’

‘How did you hurt your head?’

‘That happened before the skip. Wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘When Rhona asked you about the woman and her daughter who lived here . . .’

‘Ah panicked when you mentioned the polis.’

‘You did see something?’

He nodded. ‘There was a car parked a bit down the lane. Ah memorised some of the number plate. We were taught to take a note of all vehicles. That wis supposed tae keep us alive. Fuckin lot of good it did Gary.’ He took another mouthful of wine, both hands gripping the glass. ‘When ah came back later, the place was in darkness, the car gone.’

‘Did you go in?’

He shook his head. ‘Ah took a couple tins and left. If ah’d known it wis goan tae snow like that ah’d have stayed put.’

49

He looked through the spyhole. The child was asleep, curled in a fetal position in the corner. He had designed the hiding place well. The floor was covered with a plastic mattress, the temperature kept even and comfortably warm. There were suitable books, a supply of water and some food, fresh fruit and a bar of chocolate. The girl had eaten nothing, but she would eventually. By the time he returned she would be very pleased to see him. She would let him do anything he wanted to her without making a fuss.

He didn’t like fuss. He didn’t like mess.

There would be a mess when he came back but a hose-down with warm water would fix that. The girl was his Christmas present to himself and good presents were worth waiting to unwrap. He went back to his laptop and double-checked his booking. The flight would land him at Marco Polo airport in time to deliver his bags to La Residenzia and have lunch at the Corte Sconta. Two days to savour church windows, then home.

From his own window, he looked out on a brilliant moon. The bare arms of the trees at the foot of the garden seemed to stretch upwards like dancers towards the stars.

Another little star for his garden, but not yet, not before he made her dance.

50

‘Chrissy?’ Rhona could hardly speak, she was so relieved. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m in labour.’

‘You’re not!’

‘Of course not. I bet on the ninth of January. I intend to win my bet.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Still at the cottage but no longer alone. Remember the snow-hole guy? Well, he came back. Turns out he’s Private Fergus Morrison. He witnessed the skip murder and I think I’ve persuaded him to turn himself in.’

‘She’s located the missing soldier,’ Rhona told McNab.

Chrissy wasn’t finished. ‘He’s been hanging about the cottage, sleeping in the shed, working his way through Claire’s store of tins and,’ she paused for effect, ‘he saw a car the night Claire disappeared.’

McNab was watching Rhona’s excited face, trying to make out what was being said on the other end of the phone.

‘He remembered part of the registration number.’

Rhona rifled in her bag for a pen.

‘Go ahead.’ She wrote it down. ‘You’re a star.’

‘Too right I am.’

When Chrissy rang off, Rhona related the news to McNab. ‘It’s a part number, but it might be enough.’

He called the station and asked for an ID on what they had.

‘If it was that sanctimonious wee git . . .’ he hissed under his breath.

‘We’ll pick him up and get a warrant to search the place. All legal and above board,’ she said.

‘Maybe we’re too late. Maybe that’s why he was so bloody confident.’

‘Maybe he had nothing to be guilty about?’

McNab was making for the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘If the car turns out to be his, we’re already on our way.’

Twenty minutes later they had a possible ID on the owner of the car.

‘It’s not an exact match with the registration number you gave me, but it’s close.’

‘Name?’

‘Swanson.’

When the officer tried to give them the address, McNab cut him off. ‘I know where the bastard lives.’

He stuck the light on the roof, turned on the siren and drove like hell.

Swanson’s house was in darkness. On the way there McNab had appeared oblivious to Rhona’s remonstrations that they should at least inform Slater what they were about to do.

‘Maybe he’s gone to bed?’

‘It’s not that late.’

There was no car parked outside.

‘He’s not here,’ said Rhona.

McNab pounded on the door anyway. They could hear the sound echo in the hallway. No lights came on and there was no sign of anyone stirring inside.

‘If he was here he would have answered by now,’ said Rhona. ‘Maybe he was spooked by our visit and ran?’