‘But sir,’ she protested. ‘Your injury. You’re not supposed to…’
‘To hell with that. Just tell him where I’ve gone.’
Addison was halfway to Deans’ house when the first call from the scene came through on his Airwave terminal. The note of tension in the caller’s voice put him on edge immediately.
‘Sir. It’s PC Whitfield. I’m in the premises at Vancouver Road. I was told to call you when…’
‘Yes. What’s happening? How is Corrieri?’
‘DC Corrieri is unconscious, sir. She has been beaten over the head and there’s a lot of blood. We’re still waiting on the ambulance.’
‘What about Deans?’
‘Sir?’
‘The householder. How is he?’
‘There’s no one else here, sir. There are signs of a break-in in the kitchen, glass all over the floor and footprints round the back door. There’s blood there too, sir. And a trail of it leading towards the front door.’
‘Shit. What about Deans’ car? It’s a blue…’ Addison struggled to remember what Narey had told him. He was rusty after so many bloody hours spent writing damn reports. ‘A blue Focus. It should be parked outside.’
‘No, sir. There’s nothing there except DC Corrieri’s pool car. Although… there is a clear patch of ground suggesting something has driven off recently.’
‘Shit, shit, shit. Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Get the paramedics to her as soon as they arrive.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Addison switched off the call and booted his foot harder to the floor, his siren demanding a clear path through the mid-afternoon traffic. Being a Saturday in the run-up to Christmas, there was no shortage of people making their way to or from the shops and progress was much slower than he would have liked even once he had bludgeoned his way onto the Clydeside Expressway. What should have been a fifteen-minute drive turned into twenty and he was just hoping the ambulance got there in half that time.
As he turned off Norse Road into Vancouver Road, he allowed himself to breathe again when he saw uniformed cops already blocking off the access points and a fleet of emergency vehicles on the scene. He parked on the first available bit of road, taking care that he didn’t obstruct the ambulance’s exit, and ran towards the house. He was halfway down the path when he was met by two paramedics in green coveralls coming the other way carrying a stretcher. Corrieri’s head was already in a neck brace, an oxygen mask over her mouth and her face streaked with blood. One eye was closed over and the other was covered in a swathe of bandages.
‘How is she?’ Addison demanded from the first of the two paramedics.
The man shook his head gravely.
‘Not good. Severe blunt force trauma. Response signs are poor. We’re taking her to Gartnavel now. We’ve got to go.’
Addison nodded them on their way and hurried down the path, seeing the bulky, white-suited figure of Campbell Baxter, the scenes of crime manager from the SPSA, standing just inside the doorway.
‘Suit up,’ Baxter demanded, holding out a set of white coveralls, shoes and gloves for Addison to put on.
‘Jesus, I don’t have time for this shit,’ he complained, putting the gear on anyway. ‘What have you got?’
‘We’re not long here,’ Baxter told him, clearly irritated by Addison’s reaction. ‘We managed to get a few positional shots of DC Corrieri before the paramedics removed her. There’s no sign of the object used to strike her and we’re working on the basis that the assailant took it with him.’
‘Did the neighbours see anything?’
‘You will need to ask your officers that but I believe the answer is no. The houses opposite are gardens rather than front entrances so any witnesses would need to be from the homes on either side.’
‘And Deans?’
‘The blood in the kitchen is not DC Corrieri’s so we’re working on the basis that it’s the householder’s until we get confirmation. The blood trail that leads to the front door and then along the path you have just contaminated is the same blood as the victim of the kitchen attack.’
‘So Deans has been abducted?’
‘DI Addison, you know I can’t…’
‘It looks that way, guv, yes.’
DC Mike McCaughey, recalled from his bed, had appeared over Baxter’s shoulder.
‘I’ve already given his car registration to Control and they’re on the case now. Do you think it’s Peter Bradley?’
Addison blew out a puff of irritated air.
‘He’d have to be favourite. Get cars over to the travellers’ site in Dumbarton and interview every fucker there. Jesus. Okay, show me where this guy broke in and then someone get me Narey on the phone. She’s the one who started this mess.’
As soon as Narey had ended the call to Addison, she put her foot on the accelerator, bursting down the hard shoulder and pounding her horn until she had enough speed and room to pull back onto the road. She switched to the outside lane at the first opportunity and flattened it.
Her head was racing, too, with thoughts of Deans, Bradley and, above all, Corrieri. She kept hearing the sickening sound of something heavy being smashed against something fragile, followed by the worrying sound of silence before the call was cut off. Corrieri was her DC, they worked well together and liked each other. Corrieri was her responsibility.
Narey looked at the clock and the speedometer and pushed her foot harder against the accelerator in a fruitless attempt at more speed. She bashed her fist against the steering wheel in frustration, unintentionally beeping the horn but glad of the noise and the signal of intent to other drivers. Seeing it was nearly half past the hour, she switched on the radio too, seeking Radio Scotland and some news from Scotstoun.
There was no mention of it, the news being led, as it had been for the past week, by the extreme weather. Road closures, school closures and accidents were the order of the day yet again. There were knee-jerk calls for investment in new machinery to keep the roads clear and opposition politicians demanding the head of the Transport Minister because lorries were being parked up on the M8. There was good news too though, according to the newsreader: the arctic weather had brought an opportunity for skiing to those who could get to the slopes and there was the promise of fun and games on Scotland’s only lake.
Narey’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the Lake of Menteith and the confirmation that it had frozen over sufficiently to allow people onto the ice. Apparently the public were descending on the lake from all over central Scotland and impromptu curling matches were already taking place. Narey knew she was breathing heavier and her mind was working overtime.
She jumped at the sound of her phone and veered slightly across the lane, skirting dangerously into the rutted ice and snow that fringed the road before pulling the car back into a straight line.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Addison. Rachel, Corrieri is in a bad way. She’s being taken to hospital now. I’ll let you know more when I get it.’
‘Shit, shit. What about Deans?’
‘He’s gone. It looks like he’s been taken in his own car. We’re guessing it’s Bradley. We’ve had one sighting of the car heading out of town along Great Western Road.’
There was silence from Narey’s end of the phone.
‘Rachel? You still there?’
‘Yes. I think I know where he’s going.’
CHAPTER 52
Narey took the Dunblane junction onto the A820, swerving past a car that was dawdling in the outside lane and pulling straight out in front of another as she crossed the bridge over the motorway towards Callander. The country road was narrow and winding and she prayed she didn’t get stuck behind a tractor. She hammered her foot to the floor, only reluctantly slowing as she neared the village of Doune.