The Night Hunter (10 page)

‘Might have lain down, sheltering from the wind maybe.’

‘As you say, she might have collapsed and curled up, waiting to die, in which case someone left her there to do that. Or she might have been hillwalking and got hypothermia. It’s not unusual for people with hypothermia to undress. But this is a great dump site for a body; hillwalkers go to the prettier places. There are nearly eight hundred square miles up here with enough nooks and crannies to hide a whole army. Then this torrential rain starts and causes the landslide that trapped Lorna and has helped to expose this lassie.’

‘You say that she had no injuries?’

‘None that was obvious.’

‘So what’s that dark patch then, on her leg?’ I ask, leaning forward between the front seats to point. ‘Right there?’

‘You think she had the same cut as Lorna? I can’t make it out.’

Costello holds out another picture to O’Hare but I take it. ‘Can you see it better in this one? You can see a concavity there – that is interesting. Does it look excised? That could link them, if so.’

‘Lorna’s cut was clean. I haven’t looked at this one yet, have I?’

Costello bites her tongue, she is as desperate for an answer as I am. ‘She might be right, though; if that is an excised wound it does link them.’

O’Hare mutters one word and hands the photograph back. ‘If.’

I wake up later in the morning in the flat at Ardno. My limbs are aching from the tension of last night and the chemical soup that has been brewing in my blood. I switched off my mobile so that I would wake naturally, fed up with tiredness that is so overwhelming that even sleep is too much effort.

I do not touch the phone, can’t be bothered to check the string of messages. I don’t feel ready to face anybody. What does this mean for Soph? Is it bringing me closer to her? She might have wanted to run away but the days are passing and there is still no word and the facts remain – she was out running, it was dusk, and she disappeared off the face of the earth.

I go out for a long, slow run in the fresh summer air so I can think things through. There’s not a soul about, no tourist buses along the loch side, no seals. Even the Highland cattle, their coats the colour of old rust, are on the far side of the field standing against the drystane dyke, away from the deep mud at the lower end. They’re sheltering from a wind that is not here yet, but they are wise in reading the weather, and they know what is coming. At the moment the sky is clear, and it looks as if it is going to be a lovely day. Maybe the land will get the chance to dry out after some of the heaviest rainfall on record.

I jog along by the loch for a couple of miles and then turn back, lack of food making me feel I am running on empty. On the way back I notice that the Shogun is missing, so Charlie is not back.

After a long hot shower, a change of clothes and some toast I sit on the settee and lift my phone. The first voicemail is from DCI Colin Anderson asking me to phone him back or call in to see him at Partickhill station, today if that is convenient for me. But it is said in a way that means I should do it whether it is convenient or not. The second is from a woman who does not identify herself but simply says that, within the bounds of confidentiality of which I have already been informed, she can tell me that the body found last night is not that of Sophie McCulloch or Gillian Porter, and would I keep that news to myself for the moment. I presume she is someone from Jack’s office.

There are two calls from Rod, one asking me to phone him back; the other says it’s OK now, they’ve taken Grant to hospital and got him stitched as I hadn’t returned their call. They have now made an emergency appointment with a Dr Biggar. Rod sounds unsure about that, so I might phone him back. Might.

Then an email from a Matilda McQueen saying that she got hold of my email address and could I have a look at the attachment. I am not good with the phone screen so I open the laptop and start it up. The internet is buzzing with pictures of the last minutes of Lorna’s life as she dives through the night air, caught on the CCTV from the web cam. I close that down, thinking of her dad and his tears. I hope he never sees these pictures.

Once the email has connected I open Matilda’s attachment and a picture of a dog appears, a big dog. I look at the name. Ovcharka. I have not heard of them before. Russian guard dogs of some kind? Matilda’s question is simple: have I come into contact with a dog like this or one that looks a bit like it?

The answer is no, I don’t think I could ever have come across one of them and forgotten about it. The one in the photograph must weigh about ten stone at least. The handler is just visible at the side of the picture and the dog’s head is above the height of her waist. It’s a friendly-looking creature, half dog, half shag-pile carpet. I type the name into Google and select images. The pictures spread in front of me tell a different story. The sight of an Ovcharka in full attack mode is terrifying. With a powerful head and huge teeth, the weight of that body behind any attack would make it a formidable weapon.

I flick back and go through a few pages of breed characteristics. They all say much the same: a good guard dog in the right hands, dangerous in the wrong hands. There is a YouTube clip of the dogs in action, guarding a flock of sheep. A wolf comes too close and pays with its life. The attack of the dogs is short, powerful and deadly, not a fight so much as a mission to kill. The thought does not comfort me. I have a quick look at the websites of the two British breeders who have the kennel names Pasternak and Siberian. There’s a bit of intermingling between the two. I save the numbers of both of them in my phone, just in case.

I email Matilda back. No, I have not seen one, don’t know anyone who has one. Sorry. I close the laptop, wondering what has led Matilda to that point, doubting that she got that from one dog hair – can they tell the breed by looking at a single hair under a microscope or do they need a root bulb for DNA? Maybe dogs are different to humans in that way. And what is the investigating team thinking? If that hair didn’t come from me then it must have been on Lorna. Did it come from the dog that had brought her down? But even as I think that through it does not make sense. Lorna had been clean when she hit the bonnet of that car so the hair must have been caught in her matted hair. But it makes no difference if we can’t find the dog. I look at the TV news: a fourteen-year-old boy has admitted killing his classmate, the Rover Probe is doing exciting things on Mars. There is a YouTube clip of a flash mob at Waverley Station in Edinburgh, doing the Time Warp from the
Rocky Horror Show
. It caused some disruption and the commuter slaves were not amused. There is more about the weather; it’s going to rain again. Amber warning for floods and high winds, so the cattle are right. The Rest and Be Thankful is going to be closed for a few more hours after another minor landslide. I wondered if that is true or if there’s more investigation going on up there and they want the area clear.

Two minutes later Rod phones with yet another non-update and asks if I know Dr Biggar. Grant has cut his knee open to ‘let the pain out’. I don’t comment about that and tell him another body has been found instead. They’ve already heard; a neighbour told my mother, who drank a bottle of gin and went to her bed. He then tells me that the Lorna incident has sparked renewed interest in Sophie, more photographs are now coming in from mobiles and all sorts. Everybody who knew Sophie is trying to help, he is almost pleading. I say I’m going to drive down to speak to a DCI today.

‘That’s great, Elvie, you can move this thing on.’

‘So can you put all the pictures we have of Sophie on a disk, all of the ones that people have put on the website, no matter who they’re from? Then can you email the file to me? Maybe there’s a connection that we’re missing.’

‘Yes, of course, Elvie.’ He is his usual helpful, unflappable self. He tells me his cholesterol level is getting better, he asks how I am doing.

I say I am fine.

He tells me to keep smiling even though he knows I rarely smile.

While it is in my mind I also text Belinda to make sure she forwards me the photographs she has of Sophie, all of them. I want to show Jack O’Hare, Grandpa Cop and Costello that I am making an effort and I want to bring something to the table. Costello appears to be a sheep and easy to handle, but if DCI Anderson has the respect of ‘Jack’, then I presume that Anderson is sharp. He might be too sharp; I need to prove to them that I am on board. Just in a different boat.

Once I have picked up the Polo I drive to Partickhill and park, watching the exchange in front of me; one life for another. A blond man stands with two children, one a dark-haired girl in her early teens and the other a blond boy. There is not much of a gap in years but they’re a world apart in maturity. The girl hurries to the other car before she gets cold while the boy stays close to his dad. The door of the car behind opens and the dad bends to have a few friendly words with the red-haired woman in the driver’s seat. They seem hesitant to say goodbye as if there is a lot more to be said. Dad slaps his hands on the roof, steps back and signals that there is a break in the traffic so the redhead can pull out. He waves at them as they go, rubbing the finger where a wedding ring has been until recently. I see the boy in the front seat of the car now devoting all his attention to the small brown dog trying to climb out the gap at the top of the window. This is a marriage that has gone wrong, yet nobody knows why.

Billy’s Vectra pulls into the gap. He does not move so I stay in place; Billy wants to play this his way.

The dad then jogs across the street in front of me, his beige raincoat flapping over his arm. He is wearing a suit but does not wear it well, in fact he looks like shit, like a man who is disappointed to find a few more grey hairs among the blond every morning, a few more wrinkles. I am trying to read his body language as he approaches the blonde female who is carrying two cardboard cups. Her hair is neater, she has on a short nylon coat, but as she turns I see it is Costello the sheep. Her smile is cursory but she hands him his drink and when she starts talking, it is a constant stream. He pays attention to what she says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her. This is merely a transfer of information on a street corner. I notice she is wearing flat black boots, her black trousers are functional and sensible. Despite his scruffiness, the man still looks more polished than her. He still feels the need to make an impression; she doesn’t care.

I look over at Billy’s Vectra, thinking that this is getting farcical. If he wants us to talk to them then why does he not get out and say what he has to say? I drop my window to listen just as he gets out of his car and walks past mine to approach them. I begin to wonder how important they are to us. To have known they would be here suggests that Billy knows their routine. As he walks closer I get a better idea of Costello; she is smaller than me, thinner, a less substantial human being altogether. In unison they turn to look at Billy; I can see them both full on. He is pleasant faced but tired. She looks tough, hard lines on her face as if her recent lack of sleep has not been recouped.

She catches sight of Billy wandering up looking like a jakey on the scrounge for extra change. Her recognition is instant, and wary. Billy continues his slow swagger and Costello sips from her cup. They stand together in silence as they watch Billy’s approach.

I open my window further to hear the exchange.

‘It’s DI Colin Anderson, isn’t it?’

‘DCI,’ he says, not friendly. ‘So what brings you back from the dead?’

‘You. You not doing your job properly.’ He is taking lessons from me on the subtle art of making friends, then. ‘Uneasy is the head that wears the crown and all that crap.’ Billy stands beside them and smiles. They look at him like they have been kissed by a leper.

‘Billy the fox Hopkirk,’ says Costello, her voice showing some disbelief. Then she adds, with more wonderment, ‘Sober!’

‘Just for a minute there, I thought the years might have softened you, sweet cheeks. Anyway,’ he rubs his hands together, addressing Anderson, ‘glad you could both make it, there’s someone I want you to meet. Costello has already had that displeasure.’

I get out the car and walk over to join them. Costello tries a weak smile but it fails.

Anderson keeps his eyes on Billy while sipping his coffee. ‘Ex-DCI Hopkirk, what are you doing here?’

‘I am a concerned citizen. I come with evidence.’ Billy has put his hand on his chest and suddenly sounds like an asthmatic Spartacus. ‘I bring you the witness who has found two of the bodies.’ He points at me, and a look passes between the two cops.

‘Elvira McCulloch, the one I was telling you about,’ says Costello, smugly.

‘Well, you wanted to speak to her. So are you going to keep us standing here until it rains or ask us in?’ says Billy, cheerfully.

‘Please come in, Miss McCulloch,’ says Costello, looking at me like a cat regarding a full litter tray.

‘Call her Elvie,’ says Billy, as Costello and I wait to see who blinks first.

‘I think we all need to have a wee chat,’ says Costello, in a low growl with a hint of a threat as she stands aside, suggesting we should follow her into the station. ‘I’ve been reading about you and the coincidences that follow you about.’

Billy smiles at her. ‘You always were a smart cookie, Costello, mouthy but smart. Whenever there’s one coincidence too many, chances are it ain’t coincidence. More like the link you’re looking for. So wake up and smell the toast as they say.’

The cops both ignore him. ‘If you have no objection I’d like to go through your statement with you.’ Costello’s gaze has not wavered. Her eyes are remarkable, a light grey flecked with dark; they are cold, suspicious eyes. I wonder how bad the world is when she looks through them. More wolf than sheep, then.

‘Fine,’ I say.

‘She’ll be very co-operative,’ says Billy, and slaps me on the back, forgetting his sore wrist. He swears. ‘I’ll come with her ’cause she doesn’t say too much.’

‘Probably can’t get a word in.’ Costello eyes me warily as we enter a small reception area, there are a few nods back and forth. Anderson goes forward to punch in a number on a door keypad. The glass partition flies open.