REMEMBER YOU READ IT FIRST ON MURDER BEHIND THE HEADLINES
Angry with herself for succumbing to the insidious nastiness of the website, Fiona disconnected from the Internet. It had taken her almost an hour to get no further forward.
Frustrated, she tried Steve’s numbers again. No change. He was still out of reach. Fiona closed her eyes and massaged her temples. Somewhere locked away in her mind, she must know something that would lead her to the bothy. Think about anything else, she told herself. Let your subconscious do the work. Easier said than done, though, when all she could think of was Kit and the ordeal he could be going through.
A walk, that would do it. A quick turn through the local streets, where she could force herself to look at the details of the houses and gardens. That might just free her mind sufficiently to open the door to the information she knew must be there.
Glad to have something positive to do, Fiona jumped up and grabbed her mac, still lying on the bed in the damp heap where she’d thrown it when she came in. She pulled it on, picked up her mobile and practically ran out of the door and down the stairs into the street.
She turned to her right and started walking along the terrace, looking intently at the houses as she passed, glancing down into basement areas and taking stock of what people had done to make them attractive. She checked out curtains, appreciated a particularly vigorous Russian vine, made a mental note of an elaborate door knocker. Knitting for the brain.
At the end of the street, she turned left and walked down the hill towards Stockbridge, describing the tall sandstone buildings to herself as she passed them. At the bottom of the hill, she stared in the off licence window, making a mental selection from the bottles on display. She crossed the road and walked back up the hill, never faltering in the catalogue of her surroundings.
She was halfway along the street where her hotel was when her mind released the treasure she’d known was in there. “Lee Gustafson,” she said out loud in a tone of wonder. Then she was running, racing back to her hotel room to apply the gift she’d just been given.
Oblivious to the appalled stare of the night porter, Fiona sprinted across the reception area and up the stairs. Almost before her door was closed, her mac was thrown into a heap again and she was back in front of the laptop. Lee Gustafson was an American crime writer who wrote ecological thrillers. He shared the same US publisher as Kit. They’d been sent on a promotional tour together a couple of years previously, where they’d drunk their way round the mystery book shops of the Midwest and forged a friendship that endured through e — mail. Just over a year ago, Kit had lent Lee the bothy so he could do some background research into conservation of rare species in the Highlands. Lee Gustafson must know exactly where the bothy was.
Now all she had to do was find Lee.
Glasgow was an amber gleam over to the west. But Kit knew nothing of that. He’d suffered the agonies of cramp in the arm he’d been leaning on and managed to shift so that he was now lying on his stomach. It had eased the pain in his shoulders and the pins and needles in his leg, but it wasn’t helping the dull ache that still occupied his skull.
He had no sense of time. All he knew was that he had been trapped in this moving vehicle for at least two hours. He only knew that because, in an exquisite form of torture, he’d been forced to listen to his own voice spelling out in his own words what he feared was going to be his own fate. By his estimate, there was another hour of the talking book of The Blood Painter to go.
He’d tried to tune it out, singing his favourite songs inside his head. But it didn’t work. The relentless story kept intruding, forcing itself into his consciousness. Ironic that he was trapped by the power of his own gift.
At least while they were still travelling, there was hope. At some point, his captor would have to stop for fuel. It would be his chance. He could try to kick the tailgate, or the boot, or the back door, whatever it was that was keeping him from rolling out on the road. He cast his mind back. What did he have on his feet?
His heart sank. He’d been in the house all day. Moccasin slippers, that’s what he had on his feet. Even with the full power of his legs behind them, the only sound they’d make would be a dull thud. Hardly audible among the throbbing motors of the petrol pumps. And he didn’t think anyone as careful as the man who had captured him was going to park up in the middle of a busy service area and leave Kit behind while he went off for a burger and a coffee.
There must be something he could do. After all, he had constructed the trap himself. If there was any escape, he should be able to figure it out.
It would help if he didn’t have to listen to his own voice condemning him to death.
Getting Lee Gustafson’s phone number had posed no significant problem to Fiona. International directory inquiries had him down as ex-directory, which didn’t surprise her. It was only politeness that had made her try that route first. But in reality, she had no compunction about calling one of the handful of crime writers whose numbers were stored in her personal organizer. She told herself it didn’t matter that it was getting on for one in the morning. Nevertheless, she deliberately chose Charlie Thompson first. Charlie lived alone and she knew him to be a night owl. Chances were he was lying sprawled in his armchair watching a horror video, cat on his chest, glass of Armagnac to hand. Rather him than someone who would be panicked out of sleep by her call.
The phone was answered on the fourth ring. “Greetings, earthling,” a deep bass voice rumbled in her ear.
“Hello, Charlie. It’s Fiona Cameron.”
“Good Lord. Shouldn’t you be a pumpkin at this time of night? Or are you in fact speaking from the fruit and veg department of Tesco’s?”
Fiona gritted her teeth and tried not to shout at him. “I’m sorry to bother you, Charlie, but Kit’s out of town and I need Lee Gustafson’s number.”
“Fiona, darling, if you want a man to whisper sweet nothings in your ear when Kit’s away, you don’t have to pay international call charges. I’d be happy to oblige.” He chuckled.
“I’ll bear that in mind, Charlie. Do you have Lee’s number?”
“Spurned again, eh? Hang on, Fiona, it’s in the other room.” She listened to the sound of furniture groaning, a cat protesting, then heavy footsteps fading off. Charlie, the only man she knew who wore biker’s boots round the house. A long minute passed, then the footsteps thudded again. “You still there? Got a pen?”
“Yes to both.”
He read out Gusta’fson’s number, repeating it to make sure she had it down. “Enjoy yourself with Lee,” he added. “But not so much that you forget my heart still burns for you.”