Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) (23 page)

‘What was she looking at? Maybe she knows? Keep walking, keep walking,’
Mary Clark powered forward on pure adrenalin. For a moment she thought she’d been caught, but when she was spotted by the doctor she had managed to bluff her way through. Leaving Glasgow Royal Infirmary Mary was amazed she hadn’t been recognised. She looked down to examine her borrowed trousers and laughed. To mask the length she had rolled up the legs and then tightened the belt. None of the clothes really fitted but it seemed that people avoided looking directly at you when you were wearing a uniform. Mary had been cooped up in the hospital for more than a week and had enjoyed a constant heat of about 25c so the first gusts of freezing air which met her on the esplanade came as a shock to her system. ‘Where now?’ was the question of the moment. Mary’s first problem was that she didn’t really know where she was, although she knew that she wasn’t far from the city centre. Outside the hospital piles of ice lay by the roadside, blackened by pollution from the city’s traffic. The dreary mounds would lie for weeks after the thaw, a fleeting reminder of the big freeze. Mary became aware of heavy traffic. It took a few seconds before she realised it came from the M8 which lay parallel to the road outside the hospital with only the pavement and crash barrier to separate the two carriageways. Mary opted to follow the traffic and headed west. She started on foot downhill, along the perimeter of the hospital, passing by the multi-storey car park and the Victorian sections of the hospital, past the Cathedral. In the background Mary could see the Necropolis so she knew to turn right along Cathedral Street which would take her back into town. It wouldn’t be long before she was back in civilisation. Mary caught a glimpse of herself on the black glass window of one of the buildings at Strathclyde University. She looked awful, pale and drawn and much thinner. She also realised that she looked ‘wrong’ in the clothes she was wearing. Checking through the pockets of the black jacket she found a purse and a mobile phone. The purse had less than £10 in it which was disappointing. More intriguing though was the range of credit cards: Visa, MasterCard and a number of store cards. These might be more useful. Her first thought was to look at the mobile phone.
‘She might be a cop but I bet she’s as lazy as the rest of us.’
Sure enough there were the codes stored on the phone: Visa as 9854 while MasterCard was 7767.
‘Bingo’.
She knew she wouldn’t have much time to use them but she was confident enough they would not be cancelled within the hour. If she was quick she could restock and then go to ground.

Her first port of call was to the John Lewis department store across from the bus station. Here she got everything she needed: a job lot of jeans; dresses; jumpers; gloves; hats; boots; bags; underwear; and a warm winter jacket, which she knew would be essential. Smiling as she punched in the pin number the checkout girl asked if she would like to take out a store card. Mary laughed and explained she was in enough trouble as it was without taking on more credit. They had both laughed at that. The check out girl said she ‘understood’ what she meant. Next stop was Jessop’s to buy some photography equipment; this she thought would come in handy, while Sainsbury’s metro store provided the food she needed to get her through the next few days. She knew the cameras would have picked up her movements. At a cash machine Mary entered the pin again.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE A WITHDRAWAL?

“Yes please.” Mary withdrew the maximum which was a generous £400 and then repeated the action at the machine next to it for the other card, in an action she thought would make her movements harder to trace, telling the woman behind her the machine was broken and the queue dully shifted over behind her. Mary knew she would have to get out of the clothes. It had been almost an hour since she had left the hospital and so far she had managed to avoid causing a scene. She put £1 into a public toilet and entered. Stripping off the police clothes she kept the baton and handcuffs. The toilet stank of chemicals and the plastic corrugated sides were stained with the black marks of stubbed out cigarettes. These portaloos had a reputation for being popular with risqué lovers at the weekend but Mary fancied few would be as risqué as her. She dressed herself in comfortable clothes and took the camera out and hung it round her neck. The rest she stuffed in one of the cavernous bags she’d been given from the department store and stepped back out into the world. She wandered down Buchanan Street as a tourist, making sure to look up and point her camera every so often and then made her mind up that she needed to get out of sight. Dumping the bag with the clothes and boxes into an industrial bin, left unlocked in an alley, she felt prepared. As she walked among the people of the city: the office workers, the students, the horseback police and the tourists, she knew that none of them would spot her. They would be looking for someone dressed as a policewoman, certainly until they found out about the transactions. Her final act on camera was to buy a one-way ticket to London at the kiosk at Central Station. After that she left the credit cards in a bin inside the station pub, and then boarded the train. It wasn’t due to leave for another ten minutes which gave her time to change clothes again. Disembarking she waited on the platform and waved to an imagined someone.
‘That should throw them off the trail for a while.’
She now had nearly a thousand pounds in cash and she knew what she had to do.

Eric Sanderson returned to work on Sunday afternoon. The security guard, Charlie, was surprised to see him.

“Alright Eric? I wasn’t expecting a visit from you today.”

“No rest for the wicked and all that.”

“Any sign of Onur yet?”

“Listen Charlie, Onur’s been living in a nightmare. He’s been lying low these last few days, helping the police with their inquiries about his family. It all looks to have been sorted out but there are a couple of things that still need to be finalised before they go public with the details. You need to keep quiet on this – mum’s the word?”

“I’ve no gripe with Onur but—”

“If I hear you’ve been talking you will have no job – understand?”

“—Sure...sure. I don’t want to make waves.”

“I don’t mean to get heavy Charlie but it’s been hard for him. It’ll be fine you’ll see. How are things going here? Have we had any joy with pile 104?”

“Well you can see for yourself the weather’s improving which should speed things up. One of the boys said given a little bit of luck we might even be able to get the project back on schedule.”

“That’s excellent news. Catch you later Charlie and just remember – you don’t know a thing.”

Eric sat at the wheel of his car chewing on his fingers. He was nervous. Eric knew what he was about to do was dangerous, but if it worked he could blame Mary and take the credit for finding the girl.
‘Yes, it’s worth a try. I just need to wait until the site is cleared.’
Eric was fairly confident that the police had lost interest in him.  Detective Arbogast had phoned to say that Mary had gone missing from hospital and that he must tell them if she made contact. They said they would be making another public appeal and that they might want him to help to try and find her through a statement to the press. He had growled something about hell freezing over but said he’d think about it. It seemed to Eric that he no longer figured in the investigation which was an unexpected bonus.
‘Mary seems to be their main suspect which suits me fine, it’s about time the little bitch got her comeuppance.’

The stock room was under lock and key and security had an eye on the place 24 hours a day. That was in theory anyway. In reality Charlie the overnight security guard was a 67 year old man who was just there to make up the numbers. The security system was archaic to say the least. Madoch’s business empire had started on the road to legitimacy by channelling drug money through ‘security’ agencies. Staff appeared on the payroll with no real job description. Intimidation and protection had been his line, up to the point where he no longer needed to make his money the hard way, but the security arm lingered on. Here at the wind farm it was felt high tech security wasn’t needed so they had brought in some antiquated VHS recording systems to help the flow of money through the company’s various arms. Old Charlie just sat and read the paper through the night. He was happy and no-one else really cared. Distracting him had been easy.

“I saw some teenagers on the site from my office Charlie. Could you check it out for me?”

“No problem boss, they’ll run when they see the torch,” Charlie said, before disappearing into the dark of evening. In the security room Eric pressed stop on both machines and then left. The licensing requirements for storing explosives were strict and they were not permitted to keep them on site for more than 24 hours. But with blasting due to take place tomorrow the latest batch had already arrived. As he pressed the security code into the external pad the door clicked open, causing the internal light to flicker on. There were around forty bags of ammonium nitrate and eighty gallons of fuel oil. This was only of any use in confined spaces. They would drill down into the rock, pack in the ANFO and then set it off with dynamite. There were six boxes of dynamite, one of which he opened, depositing half the contents in his holdall. It would be his job to set the explosive for the blast the next day and when the job failed he would complain about poor quality product. He might even get a reduction on the next order. This was the beauty of the plan, only he and Onur had access to these supplies and even though the order book stated how much was there, there would be no-one to suggest it all hadn’t been used. He packed the small brown cylinders into his bag. The sticks measured around 20 cm by 2½ cm across and they all had one magic ingredient: nitro-glycerine.

Mary knew what she was about to do went against everything she stood for, but she had no other choice. She kept a low profile that afternoon, spending three hours in the Odeon watching a terrible fantasy film she had picked for the length alone and used the opportunity to catch up on her sleep, exhausted by her efforts so far. She wouldn’t be able to use public transport as she might be seen. Mary needed a car. If she was going to avoid any unwanted questions she was going to have to steal one. Mary knew just the place to go. In the cinema toilets she changed clothes once more, this time into a tight red Lycra dress and high heels. She wished she had bought some makeup but reasoned that it probably didn’t matter. Making sure her police baton was handy she left for the red light district, a place she had worked for years trying to support the women who were abused.
‘Well tonight I’m giving it back,’
she thought as she made to the corner of Anthony Street and Newton Street. She dumped her bags in bushes nearby where she managed to cut her hand on thick gorse. She smeared some of the blood on her lips to give her some colour and stood by the corner. After about 15 minutes Mary was approached by another woman who seemed angry.

“Think you’re taking my spot tonight? I don’t think so. You’d better move or there will be trouble believe you me. I’m not in the mood for arguing so take a walk. ARE YOU STILL THERE BITCH?”

Mary froze, she knew this woman. It was Maggie Deans. Maggie – who had once come to her after being stabbed by a punter who didn’t want to pay. Nothing happened of course, that was the tragedy of it. Mary turned to face Maggie head on. She said nothing at first, allowing Maggie the time to figure out what was going on.

“Mary is that you? Mary Clark? But why would...are you not?” The question was left hanging.

“Yes it’s me Maggie, they’re looking for me. I was attacked and left for dead. You know what that’s like. The thing is I know who did it and I think I can do something about it. The police want to blame me but I know the truth. We’ve been friends for a long time. Maybe you think I’m just one of those do-gooders out to ease their own conscience and maybe I am, but tonight it’s me asking you for help. I need a car.”

Maggie Deans nodded. She didn’t really understand what was going on but she could see from Mary’s face that she was deadly serious. That was a face she knew only too well.

“I’m not going to ask what’s going on – I have a feeling I don’t want to know – but I will do this one thing for you. Stand back and be ready.”

Maggie took Mary’s place on the kerb and about 40 minutes later the transport arrived. As the car crawled along the kerb, the window descended allowing the victim’s face to leer out. Mary had been expecting someone older, someone fatter and more repulsive but this was a young man, quite good looking, who came to a halt not six feet from her. Maggie leaned over to make her deal from the pavement. Mary was fast and brutal. She pulled Maggie aside and pulled open the door on the driver’s side. He’d been smoking a cigarette, trying to look cool and it dropped out and rolled down below the car as he was propelled from the haven of his driver’s seat.

“Not wearing your seat belt – naughty boy,” Mary said. As his head passed her body she swung low with the baton, the skull cracking under the pressure. His prostrate body lay on the ground.

“He’s still moving, I think he’ll be OK,” Mary said, with a wink to Maggie and then she took her place in the driver’s seat. The engine was still running and moments later she was on the motorway and heading south. As Maggie watched her leave she picked up the half rolled cigarette from the ground. It had been a joint.

“Every cloud has a silver lining,” she said, inhaling deeply, “Are you alright down there son? I think you’ve been car-jacked.” Whatever it was he said he didn’t sound too happy.

As Eric drove off with his illicit cargo, he made a mental note to berate Charlie for his lax security the next time he got a chance. By the time he arrived back at the farm it was late on Sunday night. Karim was pleased with the haul and was even happier with the latest news.

“They think Onur is responsible for the Tower – they’ve issued a picture.”

Eric nodded. He had also mistaken Karim for Onur the first time they had met. He had been called into Mister Madoch’s office for a meeting on ‘operational matters’ which meant that there was a delicate matter which needed his special attention. The two men had a long standing agreement. He hid people and no-one asked any questions. That time had been different though. He had greeted who he thought was Onur, ‘What a surprise to see you here,’ but the surprise was his when he was told this was the brother, Karim. Mr Madoch had told him his services were needed but that this time there would be four people staying with him, one of whom might be staying a bit longer than the others. Mister Madoch did not appreciate his ‘weakness’ but he fed it all the same. Many times he had turned the other cheek, each time building a stronger case against the hopeless human being that was Eric Sanderson.