The Blood Road Read online

  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.

  He kisses her forehead. ‘We’re going to get Aiden back.’

  Something curdles in her lungs, making it hard to breathe. ‘What if—’

  ‘Hey, it’s OK.’ He kisses her again: frowning, serious. ‘You do whatever they tell you, follow all their rules … and leave everything else to me and the gang.’ Then that grin spreads again. ‘This is it!’

  After all this time.

  She hugs him. ‘I can’t believe it’s finally happening…’

  A sliver of sky glowed a pale shimmering blue, the clouds above it painted in violent shades of pink and orange. Everything else was a dark heavy grey.

  ‘Don’t lose her!’

  Danielle Smith’s tail-lights burned red, disappearing as the road twisted along the flank of Bennachie. Trees loomed over them, turned into scratchy inkblots by the pool car’s headlights. Dark fields. The shining windows of a farmhouse in the distance.

  Tufty shifted his hands on the wheel. ‘I’m not going to lose her. I didn’t lose her on the dual carriageway, did I? Or all the way out here? No, brave Sir Tufty stuck to her like a secret sneaky sticky … stain?’

  ‘Be careful, OK? Can’t afford to screw this one up.’

  ‘How am I screwing it up? I’m doing everything it says in the manual! Regulation distance for following a vehicle on quiet roads at night is—’

  ‘Oh shut up.’ Logan pulled out his phone and called Steel. ‘We’ve pulled off the A96 at Port Elphinstone. Heading west on the B993. I repeat—’

  ‘Heard you the first time. I’m irascibly sexy, no’ deaf.’

  ‘Where’s Rennie?’

  The sound grew echoes, the clatter of Cuban heels on stairs reverberating underneath. ‘Getting himself a pool car and hopefully some Tic Tacs. Boy’s got breath you could strip paint off the Forth Bridge with.’

  ‘What about my firearms team?’

  ‘I’ve got two words for you: “awa” and “shite”.’ More clattering.

  ‘Oh you’re kidding me!’

  The clattering quietened down a bit, followed by the thump of a door and louder echoes. ‘Well, what did you expect? We’ve got no actual intel, we’ve got no corroboration, we’ve got no proof. We haven’t even got a sodding location. All we’ve got is your scar-puckered gut to go on.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Course they’re no’ giving us a firearms team.’ Another thump, and the sound opened up – no more echoes. ‘So we follow this private investigator woman of yours till she leads us to the Livestock Mart, we call it in, and then we get a firearms team.’ A shrill whistle ripped out of the earpiece.

  ‘Aaargh!’ Logan yanked the phone away from his ear.

  ‘RENNIE, YOU USELESS LUMP OF BADGER SPUTUM, WHERE THE MOTHERFUNKING…’ A car horn blared in the background. ‘Oh. About time too!’

  ‘You nearly deafened me!’

  ‘Oh, boo-hoo.’ Some rustling and clunking was followed by a loud thunk and the sound of an engine starting. ‘Don’t just sit there: drive!’

  Logan hung up. Stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it as he frowned out through the windscreen.

  Dark. No rear lights.

>   ‘Tufty?’ His eyes widened. ‘Where’s Danielle Smith’s car?’

  ‘Ah… Funny you should mention that…’

  Logan crumpled forward in his seat, until the seatbelt stopped him, and covered his head with his arms. ‘Aaaaaaargh!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Constable. Why didn’t you—’

  ‘I’m sorry! You were shouting and there was all this…’ He grabbed Logan’s arm. ‘There! Look, thar she blows! Woot! Jodrell Bank, we does has a liftoff!’

  Danielle’s tail-lights snaked through the darkness up ahead, headlights casting the trees into sharp relief as she passed them.

  Logan slumped back. ‘Don’t do that.’

  Tufty pulled on a sickly smile. ‘Anyone can make a mistake…’

  Raymond paces up and down the kitchen, hands clenching and spreading and clenching and spreading.

  Sally’s mobile sits on the table in front of her, the dark screen reflecting her face: thin, bags under her eyes, the bruise on her forehead spreading out from beneath its skin-coloured sticking plaster – already starting to go green and yellow at the edges.

  She clears her throat. ‘Maybe they—’

  Her phone buzzes and she snatches it up, unlocking it with shaking fingers.

  A text message.

  NUMBER WITHHELD:

  57°18’43.1”N 2°29’34.7”W – No later than 19:45

  Watchword: ”Foxglove”

  Raymond hurries over. ‘Is it them?’

  ‘Map coordinates.’

  She copies and pastes them into the phone’s map app which churns and churns and finally fills with an unnamed road northwest of Inverurie. Pressing ‘GET DIRECTIONS’ sets it churning again. Then brings up a blue line from the croft to the designated spot with an estimated journey time of twenty-two minutes.

  Sally stares at the microwave clock – ‘19:10’ – then scrambles to her feet, grabbing the rucksack and her jacket. ‘I have to go!’ Rushing into the hall.

  Raymond blocks the front door. ‘Wig!’

  The bloody wig! She snatches it off the coatrack and jams it on her head as she rushes out through the front door, wrenches open the Shogun’s door and throws herself in behind the wheel. Slamming the door shut as Raymond runs down the track towards the gate.

  Sally dumps the rucksack in the passenger footwell, jams the key in the ignition and twists it: the engine roars into life.

  She can do this. For Aiden.

  Her hands shake on the steering wheel as she accelerates down the drive.

  Raymond’s waiting for her, right in the middle of the track, the gate lying wide open behind him.

  Get out of the bloody way!

  She slams on the brakes and buzzes her window down. ‘Raymond, I—’

  ‘It’s going to be OK. Deep breaths. You can do this.’

  ‘I have to go.’

  He steps up onto the running board and leans in through the window. ‘You know I’d come with you if I could.’

  She nods. Blah, blah, blah.

  ‘We’re going to bring Aiden home tonight, Sally. That’s all that matters.’

  She stares at him. ‘That’s all that’s ever mattered.’

  He wraps a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her into a kiss. His lips taste of bitter coffee and Extra Strong Mints. Then he lets her go and hops back to the ground again. ‘You can do this!’

  For Aiden.

  She puts her foot down.

  Raymond jumped away from the puddle as Sally’s four-by-four hammered out through the open gate, sending up twin walls of dirty brown spray. This was it. Succeed or fail, it was all down to her.

  He pulled out his phone, dialling as he picked his way over to the side of the track, steering clear of the puddles. ‘Andy?’

  Andy’s voice crackled from the earpiece, distorted and broken. ‘Guv? I can barely hear you.’

  ‘Are you on?’

  ‘Guv? Hello?… Hello?… Can you— me? Gu—’

  Oh in the name of Christ. Not now. Not tonight!

  ‘Andy? Andy!’

  Damn it. He hung up and tried again.

  Straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, this is Andrew Harris. Leave a message after the bleep.’

  No point. Either they were ready, or they weren’t. He’d just have to trust them.

  He put his phone away. Stood there, at the gate, watching Sally’s tail-lights get smaller and smaller, then disappear.

  She was a strong woman – a lot stronger than she thought. She could do this. And Danners and Andy would look after her.

  Ray grabbed the gate and hauled it shut again. Clipped the hooky thing onto the chain. ‘Please, God, let it be this time. Let us finally bring Aiden home.’

  What really hurt was that he couldn’t be there to help.

  He sighed, shook his head, and walked back to the croft.

  Danielle slowed the Clio and turned off the stereo – right in the middle of Jimmy Page’s big ‘Heartbreaker’ solo. The road stretched away into the darkness ahead, not a house in sight, not even the distant lights from a lonely farm. Nothing but trees and bushes crowding in on all sides.

  The satnav’s voice broke the silence. ‘You Have Reached Your Destination.’

  The only feature in sight was an unmarked track on the left, cutting deeper into the woods, wide at first, then narrowing. A black Range Rover gleamed at the edge of her headlights. It’d reversed up the track about twenty / twenty-five feet and sat there. Like a funnel-web spider. Waiting.

  She pulled off the road and onto the track, parking in front of it – nose to nose. Killed the engine. Stuck the gun in her pocket again. Put on a plain baseball cap. And climbed out into the rain.

  It drummed on the hat’s bill, pattering against her shoulders as she walked across to the big car. The lights were off, but the engine was running – the exhaust clouding in the cold air, drifting away into the trees.

  Danielle stopped by the driver’s window and raised her hand to knock. Her knuckles hadn’t even made it that far before the window buzzed down.

  Probably a man, going by the build, in a light-grey hoodie and a black leather jacket. Black leather gloves, like her own, and a featureless grey mask. No mouth hole, no nose, or decoration of any kind. A grey slab with two narrow horizontal slits for eyes.

  Anonymous as hell.

  She gave him a nod. ‘’Sup, Jason Voorhees?’

  His voice was deep, authoritative. The kind of guy who expected people to follow orders. ‘You’re new, so you get one chance at this and one chance only. Give me your phone.’ He held out a gloved hand. Ah, why not. She passed it over and he tucked it away. ‘You’ll get it back at the end of the night.’

  She better.

  He produced a big brown envelope with the letter ‘A’ printed on it. ‘You stay here until you’ve passed all three clients on to the location. You don’t chat to them, you don’t remember them, you don’t let them see your face.’ He reached across to a cardboard box on the passenger seat and came out with another mask. Only this one was a dull-blue colour, with a big white ‘6’ on it. Heavier than it looked, with a thick strap to hold it in place.

  OK.

  Danielle took off her baseball cap and put the mask on. The world shrank to the view through the two narrow slits. She wedged her cap over the top – tight, but it fit.

  ‘Better. Park where I’m parked and remove your number plates. Anyone who gives you the watchword gets a card from envelope “A”. Anyone who doesn’t give you the watchword gets sent here instead for a special surprise.’ He passed her another envelope marked ‘B’, same size, same shape. ‘Fingerprints on nothing. Understand?’

  She held up her gloved hands, showing them off. ‘Way ahead of you.’

  ‘No one gets to bring a friend. No one gets to take their mobile phone with them. No one gets to record or photograph anything. If in doubt: confiscate it. Search everyone.’ One more envelope, this one with a big ‘C’ on it. ‘When your last client is
on their way, give them five minutes, then get your arse to the venue. Details in there.’ He stared at her, head tilted slightly to one side. ‘Any questions?’

  It was … weird. There was something about that blank face and the calm voice that set alarm bells ringing all the way up and down her spine. Like he was a cat and she was a juicy little mouse.

  She cleared her throat. ‘What do I do if someone kicks off?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  That was more like it. She wasn’t the mouse, she was the attack dog. A grin spread across her face – making her cheeks brush the inside of her mask. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  He clicked the Range Rover’s headlights on and stuck it in drive.

  She waved. ‘Wait: what do I call you?’

  ‘You don’t.’

  OK.

  Danielle stepped aside as the Range Rover backed up, pulled around her Clio, bumped onto the main road and drove away. She stood there till its rear lights disappeared into the rainy night. Then nodded. Took a deep breath. ‘Right. Turn the car round, then number plates…’

  41

  Fat yellow sycamore leaves drifted across the road, caught by the pool car’s headlights as they danced and weaved their way to the rain-rivered tarmac. Danielle’s tail-lights went in and out of focus as the windscreen wipers thunked back and forth across the glass.

  Getting nearer…

  Logan grabbed Tufty’s arm. ‘Kill the lights. Kill the lights!’

  Tufty killed them and the car drifted to a halt in the darkness. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s stopped.’

  ‘Oooh.’ He grimaced. ‘Maybe she’s on to us?’

  They sat there, in the dark, engine running.

  Tufty leaned forward, peering out through the windscreen wiper’s temporary arcs. ‘Or maybe she’s trying to make sure nobody’s following her? Hiding up and waiting for us to drive by, then POW!’

  Logan looked over his shoulder. The road behind them was barely visible. ‘Or maybe she’s meeting someone.’ Why else would she be out here, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night? Well, not night, but definitely early evening. ‘Get the car off the road, find a wee track or something… Up there, where the trees get thicker.’

  Tufty eased the car forward, nose inches from the windscreen, bottom teeth bared. ‘Talk about your all-inclusive Stygian gloom.’