Also in the cavity was a Sabatier kitchen knife with a sharply honed blade. It was already on its way to the Home Office labs where it would be exhaustively tested for the slightest trace of Susan Blanchard’s blood. “I can’t believe he held on to the knife,” Steve had said, still capable of being astonished by the stupidity or arrogance of offenders.
“We don’t know yet that it is the knife,” his colleague cautioned. “It might be the one he used on the rapes. It’s not necessarily the same one he used on Susan Blanchard.”
Among Coyne’s clothes, they had found several lycra cycling garments, all of which had been bagged up and sent for analysis.
They also found several trophies and certificates for cycling races that Coyne had won. There was no question that he could have been the cyclist hammering down the paths of Hampstead Heath that morning.
He had both the skill and the stamina to have carried it off without even breaking sweat.
Steve walked into the observation room and settled down to watch the two officers he’d chosen to interrogate Gerard Patrick Coyne begin their work. The questioning had just begun when the call came through from Sarah Duvall.
Looking at the map, Blake could see only one possibility. No way they’d head down to the loch side road. They knew he had wheels at his disposal and they’d have no chance of avoiding him. The only other option was to hike out across the shoulder of the hill. That way they’d hit the road into Lairg near some cottages where, presumably, somebody would have a phone.
He couldn’t believe that Martin had the stamina or the strength to make it that far. She’d probably leave him at the bothy and set off to find help. That would suit him perfectly, he thought with satisfaction. If he drove round to the end of her escape route, he could climb higher up the hill and find a vantage point where he could take her out with the shotgun. There were plenty of places to hide a body in a landscape as wild as this.
Then he could make his way back across the hill to the bothy and finish what he’d started. It would be a bonus, allowing him to get back to The Blood Painter. Much more satisfying than if they’d perished in the ravine.
It looked like the gods had decided to reward him for his patience. He deserved it, but it wasn’t often in this life that people got what they deserved. He’d been changing that lately, and it was nice to see the universe joining in on his side.
Blake turned the key in the ignition and smiled with satisfaction as he set off back down the hill towards the dark waters of Loch Shin.
Few of the officers who worked with Steve Preston had ever seen his temper. But there was no doubting the towering anger that had him in its grip as the hapless officers who had been responsible for the surveillance on Francis Blake stood before him. Joanne and John, pulled off the interrogation of Coyne before it had even begun, and Neil, summoned back from the suspect’s flat before the search was complete, were in no doubt that they had not so much fallen down on the job as collapsed in a disintegrating heap.
“It’s beyond belief,” Steve raged, his face pale apart from two spots of high colour on his cheekbones. “You’re supposed to have had this man under tight surveillance, yet according to the City Police, he’s been in and out of his flat at will, without any of you knowing. You have no idea what he’s really been up to, have you?”
“Nobody told us about the bike,” John said stubbornly.
“All this time, Blake’s had a ten-speed racing bike in the back yard, a key to the back door, access to the van way that runs along the back of the row of houses. In all the time you were supposed to be watching him, did none of you think to take a look at the back of the premises?”
Neil stared at the floor. Joanne shrugged helplessly. “We didn’t realize you could access the back door from Blake’s flat, sir,” she tried.
“You’re supposed to be detectives,” he spat, his voice heavy with contempt. “A uniformed probationer would have had more nous than the three of you put together. As it is, City think we’re a complete bunch of tossers.” He slammed the flat of his hand on the desk. “Does anyone have any idea where Francis Blake is right now?”
No one responded. Steve closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He needed this like a hole in the head. Kit appeared to be on the missing list, Fiona was God knew where in the Scottish Highlands doing God knew what, and he couldn’t do anything about it because the Susan Blanchard case was suddenly alive and kicking again. It was his worst nightmare. He opened his eyes and growled, “When was the last time any of you logged him in or out of his flat?”
“He went to the paper shop on Friday morning,” Neil said. “It was a miserable day, so when he didn’t come out again, I wasn’t too surprised. The light was on in the flat all day.”
“It could have been on a timer switch, couldn’t it?” Steve snapped. “So the bottom line is, we have no idea where Blake has been since yesterday morning? And we have no idea when he’ll be back?”
Again, none of them replied.
“Has anyone any idea where he’s gone?”
They exchanged looks. No one spoke.
“Brilliant.” Steve took a deep breath, trying to get a grip on his anger. He took a cigar from his desk drawer, unwrapped it and lit it. The nicotine hit seemed to go straight to his very soul, calming him with its familiarity. “Neil, I want you round at Blake’s flat. Talk to the neighbours, see if you can get anything out of them that City have missed. And you two go and have a coffee, get your heads on straight and get back here in twenty minutes. We’ve got a suspect to interrogate, even if City don’t.”
As they filed out, his shoulders slumped. This was rapidly turning into the worst day of his life. And it could get a lot worse before it got better.
Fiona rounded the outcropping of rock where she’d left Kit fifteen minutes earlier. He was sitting on a flat stone, leaning against the boulder, sipping a can of Coke. His face was still ghostly pale, but he appeared more alert than when she’d helped him the few yards from the Land Rover to his resting place.
“How did it go?” he asked.
Fiona rubbed her shoulder where she’d landed awkwardly. “Let’s just say it looks a lot easier in the movies,” she said.
“But it worked?”
She nodded. “I left the driver’s door open, I put it in first gear, wedged the rock halfway on the gas pedal and jumped. And as you predicted, the door shut behind me and the Land Rover carried on in a straight line. On to the bridge and down into the gorge. I don’t think he can have seen a thing.”
Kit managed a wan smile. “You did well, Fiona.”
“It was fucking scary, let me tell you.”
“Are you hurt?”
She pulled a face. “Shoulder. I caught it on a rock as I rolled. Nothing serious, I don’t think, but I’ll have a hell of a bruise. Now, we need to start making tracks.”
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Kit said. “I’m still so dizzy.”
“I don’t know if you can either,” Fiona said. “But I’m not leaving you here. If Blake has rumbled our little ploy, he’s going to come after us. And I’m not leaving you alone and vulnerable. Let’s get as far along the hill as we can. And if you can’t go on, we’ll find somewhere safe where you can lie up and wait till I fetch help. But this is far too near the bothy. We’ve got to put some distance between us and Blake.”
She folded out the Ordnance Survey map and together they studied it. After she had spotted the problem with the bridge, Fiona had driven the Land Rover back to the bothy, then as far as she could across the rough ground behind it, where she’d unloaded Kit. According to him, it was possible to walk from here to the main road near where she’d left Caroline. It was a distance of between five and six miles, she reckoned.