More fields of ruined barley, a huge puddle of water spreading out from beneath a five-bar gate onto the road.
The baker’s van slowed, sending up big curls of dirty water.
Tufty hummed a wee song to himself as they surfed through after it.
Logan puffed out a breath. ‘And are you actually going to tell me?’
‘You were banging on about missing kids, so I spoke to a pervert of my acquaintance: Barry the Nonce. Took a bit of leaning, but he’s been away speaking to his slimy wee pals and guess what he’s just told me. Go on, you’ll no’ guess, but have a go for your Auntie Roberta.’
‘OK, I’m going to hang up now.’
‘You’re even less fun than you used to be, you know that, don’t you?’ There was another pause as she milked whatever it was. ‘It’s no’ Santa Claus that’s coming to town tonight, it’s the Livestock Mart. And I mean the Livestock Mart.’
Logan sat upright, eyes wide. Turned to Tufty. ‘Stop the car!’
‘Aaaaaaargh!’ He slammed on the brakes and the car slithered to a halt in the middle of the huge puddle. ‘What? What’s happened?’ Looking around, frantic. ‘Did I hit something?’
Behind them, someone leaned on their horn.
Logan shifted his phone to the other ear. ‘Where and when?’
‘Nah, we’re no’ that lucky. Whole thing runs on an invitation-only basis. From what Barry hears: if you make the cut, you get a text with the when so you’re ready to go and, a couple of hours later, another one with the where.’
Tufty stuck a hand against his chest and slumped in his seat. ‘Nearly gave me a heart attack!’
A Ford Escort drove around them, the driver sticking up one finger and mouthing obscenities as he passed.
‘And Barry the Nonce...?’
‘He’s no’ on the list. But it’s still happening tonight. What we gotta do is figure out where.’
So that was why Chalmers wanted him to keep DI Fraser out of her hair for seventy-two hours. She knew when the Livestock Mart was scheduled.
He turned in his seat and stared out through the rear window. The line of traffic behind them was getting shorter as each one gestured and swore their way past. They couldn’t be more than a couple of miles from Danielle Smith’s caravan. There was still time.
Logan faced front again and thumped Tufty on the arm. ‘Do a U-turn and get back to that building site ASAP. Wherever Danielle Smith’s off to: that’s where we’re going too.’
Tufty hauled the wheel around.
40
Danielle tapped her nails against the tabletop, staring at her iPhone. Hurry up and ring.
Baskerville had picked up on the tension, pacing the length of the caravan, making semi-growling noises.
Come on and ring!
She’d done her make-up twice, her hair once, changed into three different all-black outfits — before settling on cargo pants, black trainers, a black sweatshirt and a silky bomber jacket. Maybe the bomber jacket was a mistake? What if she got someone’s blood on it? How was she going to get that out of silk? Gah... No: leather jacket. And not the good biker one either, the Sixties one from the vintage shop. In case she had to burn the thing.
She stood and stripped off the bomber jacket.
Frowned.
What about the canvas night-camouflage one from—
Her phone buzzed on the tabletop and she snatched it up, unlocked it.
NUMBER WITHHELD:
19:15 Location 6F — Doors open 20:30 for 21:00
Yes!
She stuck the bomber in the wardrobe again and put on the night-camouflage jacket instead. Checked herself in the mirror — definitely the right choice — loaded up the pockets with the essentials, pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, and climbed out of the caravan. ‘Baskerville: stay. Guard.’
He gawped at her, mouth hanging open, tongue dangling out like he hadn’t a brain cell in the world.
‘No, I’m not falling for the idiot look, and you’re not coming with me.’
Baskerville gave a miserable whine, then lay down with his big triangular head on his paws. Staring up at her.
‘And that’s not going to work either.’ She clunked the caravan door shut and locked it, ignoring his yowls as she jumped into her Clio and drove down to the makeshift fence / gate at the end of the drive. Did the whole unlocking-the-padlock-driving-through-and-locking-it-again routine, before punching the coordinates for ‘6F’ into the satnav and pulling out onto the road.
The car drifted past rain-drenched streets. People hurrying home from work.
The satnav was estimating forty-five minutes, but on a rainy Monday evening with rush hour in full crawl? Quarter past seven was maybe doable. As long as she considered the speed limit more of a suggestion than a rule.
She poked the icon on her dashboard screen and set the hands-free kit ringing.
The suburban streets gave way to darkened countryside.
Hacker’s voice banged out of the car’s speakers. ‘Danners? Is it in?’
‘They’ve texted through my watchpoint. It’s the far side of Bennachie. On my way now.’
‘Great! Good. You all set?’
Danielle reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the semiautomatic: Smith & Wesson, M&P 40 2.0. A thing of utter beauty. She ran a gloved thumb along the safety catch. ‘Better believe it.’
‘We’re going to get Aiden back tonight, Danners. We’re finally going to do it.’
Sally digs her fingernails into the placemat, one leg twitching under the table, staring out through the patio doors.
Raymond paces along the edge of the patio, shoulders hunched against the rain, phone clamped against his head.
Please. Please. Please. Please...
He stuffs his phone in his pocket and hurries to the doors, hauls them open and slips inside, a huge grin nearly splitting his face in half.
She swallows. ‘It’s happening?’
‘It’s happening!’
Sally grabs hold of the table and lets a huge breath rattle free. ‘It’s happening. After all these years, it’s actually happening.’
Raymond fetches the red rucksack from the cupboard under the stairs. Dumps it in front of her. ‘You need to be ready: they’ll be in touch soon.’ He marches off again.
After everything she’s gone through, it’s finally happening...
He returns with an armful of carrier bags, tipping the contents out onto the table: bundles of twenty-pound notes. A thousand pounds per bundle. Raymond counts them into the rucksack. ‘...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...’
Fifty thousand pounds from selling her father’s house.
‘...thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four...’
The five thousand she got from the publishers for her book.
‘...fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two...’
The four thousand she’s saved over the years.
‘..sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five.’
Sixty-five? Sally frowns. ‘That’s not right, it’s meant to be—’
‘I cashed in my ISA: got us another six grand.’ He zips up the rucksack. ‘Better safe than sorry.’
She stands and holds out her arms, trembling, tears making the kitchen wobble as he wraps her in a big hug, burying his face in her neck.
She stares over his shoulder at their reflections in the patio doors. Standing there like ghosts, hovering in front of the darkened garden, the ivy-covered shed barely visible on the other side.