“You cross the river into some trees and the bothy’s about a mile ahead of you.” The end was almost in sight. She drove on into the belt of trees that crowded the track. A couple of hundred yards further on, she rounded a bend and, to her astonishment, almost ran over a man who was walking down the track towards her, a long-handled axe over his shoulder and a bundle of sticks under one arm. She skidded to a halt and wound down the window. The man, who was muffled up in anorak and close-fitting woollen hat, a scarf wrapped tightly round his neck and chin, raised a hand in greeting. “I’m looking for Kit Martin’s bothy,” she said. “Am I on the right road?”
His dark brows furrowed. “The writer? Yes, it’s about a mile up the track.” Judging by his accent, he wasn’t local born and bred, but he obviously knew the area. No doubt one of the in comers who, like Kit, had snapped up many of the properties that came on the market, tempted by the low prices and the peace of a rural lifestyle.
“Thanks,” she said. “You’ve not seen him today, I suppose?”
The man shook his head. “I’ve just come out for some wood.”
Fiona waved and drove on. Soon she emerged from the trees on to open hillside. The wiry brown stems of heather in its winter plumage stretched up the hill, broken up by rocky outcroppings that varied from a single boulder to uneven patches stretching for as much as thirty yards. Ahead there was another clump of trees. She guessed that was the windbreak for Kit’s bothy and pulled over to the side of the road before she reached the woodland.
This was it. There was no turning back now. Fiona felt sick with fear and anticipation, but she had to go on. She grabbed the carrier bag containing her purchases from the mountaineering shop and the hardware store and shoved it inside the waxed jacket. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she opened the door and clambered out on to the roadside.
Fiona knew she couldn’t approach the bothy head on. If the killer was there with Kit, he’d doubtless be watching the road in. She studied the lie of the land and made her decision. She struck off into the woods at an angle to the road, pushing through the young saplings and tramping down the brambles that obstructed her path. It was hard going, especially since she was conscious of trying to make as little noise as possible.
After about ten minutes, the trees ended abruptly in a wide clearing. At the centre was a single-storey stone building with a slate roof. She was facing the end wall, which had no windows. Perfect for her plans. She glanced to either side, disconcerted by the absence of a vehicle. If the killer was there with Kit, they had to have arrived in something. What if she was already too late? What if he’d done what he intended and killed Kit already? She’d never felt so scared. Or so alone.
“Don’t overreact,” she muttered under her breath. At worst, they only had a couple of hours start on her. It was important to the killer that he complete the murder ritual as it was outlined in the book. There hadn’t been enough time for him to have exsanguinated Kit and painted the walls. Either they weren’t there yet or the killer had driven off into Lairg for supplies.
Or else she had guessed completely wrong.
Refusing to allow that thought to settle, Fiona opted for action. Adrenaline pumping, she ran in a low crouch from the trees to the shelter of the gable end, grateful for the flexibility of the lightweight boots. Then, with infinite care, she inched along the wall to the rear of the bothy. At the end, she chanced a quick look round the back. No sign of life. There were three windows in the wall, she noted. She wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead and boldly turned the corner.
Fiona could feel the thud of her heart in her chest as she tiptoed to the edge of the first window and looked carefully round the edge of the frame. The room spread before her was obviously Kit’s bedroom. There was no sign of activity. It was a curious sensation to look in on a life so familiar and yet so strange. A surge of emotion swelled in her chest, making her catch her breath.
She swallowed hard and swiftly crossed the window, slowing again as she approached the second window. This looked like a later addition, having a markedly different size and shape to the other two. As she drew nearer, she could see it was completely obscured by a blind. This was almost certainly the bathroom. If she was right, this was where Kit would be held prisoner. She moved her head through various angles to try to catch a glimpse inside round the edges of the blind, but she could see nothing.
Frustrated, she moved on to the third window. Again, a quick glance confirmed there was no movement inside the room. Seeing no one, Fiona took a long look at the interior. It contained a large table, a couple of armchairs on either side of a wood-burning stove, a small galley kitchen area and a couple of cupboards that ran the full height of the room. A narrow metal cabinet stood open, its door obscuring the contents, and on the floor near the door were a couple of Waitrose carrier bags. They didn’t look as if they’d been there for long, being apparently free of dust. She also knew there wasn’t a Waitrose within three hundred miles. A tiny piece of evidence, but enough to convince her she’d come to all the right conclusions.
Then she spotted something that confirmed her worst fears and made her stomach churn painfully. In the far corner, half hidden by the angle of the chimney breast, was a small table leaning at an angle. On the floor beside it was a tangle of smashed plastic and metal. It was unmistakably the remains of a satellite phone.
So they were here. And judging by the absence of a vehicle, the killer was temporarily absent. He was obviously a careful operator, the destruction of the phone a clear sign that he accepted the remote possibility that his prisoner might break free. She wondered momentarily about the man she’d seen in the woods. But he’d looked perfectly innocent, with his bundle of wood and his axe. And besides, he’d been on foot. She wished she’d thought to ask him if he’d seen any unfamiliar vehicles around.
But thinking was wasting time. Fiona moved away from the window and ran round the far corner. She passed a small stone shelter that contained a diesel generator, then turned down the front of the house. The double wooden doors were shut and locked, she soon discovered. She pushed with her shoulder, but they didn’t budge.
She was going to have to break in, and at the rear was the best place to do it. She ran back to the bedroom window and tugged at the bottom of the frame. Locked. Fiona pulled the lump hammer out of the bag tucked inside her jacket and hefted it in her hand. No point in just breaking the glass. She’d have to smash the wooden strut that ran up the middle of the lower sash. She breathed in, drew her arm back and swung the hammer round in a sharp arc. The wood splintered and the glass on both sides shattered explosively. On the quiet hillside, it sounded remarkably loud. A pair of jays started out of the wood behind her, their hoarse cries making her jump.
As quickly as she could, Fiona broke off the window spar then cleared the glass from the frame to avoid cutting herself as she went through. Gingerly, she put one leg through the gap, hoisting herself over the sill and into the bedroom. The house was quiet, though it lacked the indefinable stillness that usually accompanies emptiness. Fiona stood motionless for a moment, listening for any sign of danger.
Cautiously, she crossed the room and pulled the door wide open. To her left, in the gloom of the hallway, the bathroom door was closed. She reached a tentative hand to the doorknob, almost too afraid of what might lie behind it. She screwed her eyes shut, steeling herself for action, then clenched her fingers round the knob, turning it and throwing the door open in one motion.
FIFTY-FOUR