Текст книги "Stay Alive"

Автор книги: Simon Kernick

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Seventeen

Today

GLENN SCOPELAND, BETTER known to those who knew him as Scope, sat in the minibus watching the river flow by towards the stone, three-arched bridge that spanned the small Highland town of Tayleigh. He looked at his watch. It was gone five. In less than an hour it would be dark, and there was no sign of the family of canoeists he was here to pick up. Jock, the owner of the canoe hire company, had given him two mobile contact numbers for the group, and he called them each in turn.

It didn’t surprise him when they both went straight to message. Reception was patchy on this stretch of the river at the best of times. He left two separate messages asking to be called back as soon as possible, then settled back in the seat to wait. He didn’t think there’d be any problem with them. Customers were often late. The scenery was gorgeous and they often just dawdled. The river wasn’t particularly high at the moment – it had been a fairly dry summer and autumn so far, so it was unlikely there’d been any capsizing. He decided to give it fifteen minutes, then he’d call Jock and see what he wanted him to do.

Scope had worked for Jock for a few months now, ever since he’d arrived in Scotland. The work was irregular and poorly paid, but he enjoyed it, and he got on well with Jock, which in the end counted more than most things. Scope had some money set aside, so for the moment at least he didn’t have to worry.

By his own admission, he was something of a drifter. Ever since he’d left the army more than ten years earlier, he’d held down a variety of jobs – never anything too serious, or for too long – and he’d moved round, both in the UK and Europe. His wife, Jennifer, had divorced him when he was still in the army. Things had been a bit of a mess domestically and his daughter, Mary Ann, had ended up going off the rails. She’d died of a drugs overdose, aged barely eighteen, and then Jennifer had died in a car crash that might have been an accident but was, thought Scope, probably suicide, six months later. Now he was the last member of his immediate family still alive. Sometimes that made him feel guilty. Other times, it made him rail against the injustices of the world. But up here in the lonely wilds of Scotland, he was finally coming to terms with his loss, and his place in the world. In truth, this was the first time he’d been even mildly content in a long time. He’d even begun to enjoy his own company, now that he’d escaped a past that in recent years had become increasingly violent.

Four years ago, he’d gone after the men he believed were responsible for the death of his daughter, starting with the dealer who’d sold her the fatal dose of unusually pure heroin, and working his way up the chain until he’d finally reached the corrupt businessman who’d grown rich by importing the drugs direct from Turkey and Afghanistan. Scope had killed the businessman and his two bodyguards with a lot less emotion than he’d been expecting, which worried him. He didn’t consider himself a bad man, and yet he’d done bad things.

And just when he was hoping that his killing days were behind him, he’d received a call six months ago from his wife’s sister, begging him for help in looking for her kidnapped son. Scope wasn’t a detective, but it seemed he had a knack for finding people, because he’d rescued his nephew and killed the kidnappers, somehow avoiding the attention of the authorities in the process. It was after this that he’d decided to get well away from civilization, while his luck still held, and now all he wanted to do was clear his head and try to work towards some kind of future.

He looked at his watch again. 5.15. Frowning, he got out of the minibus and walked the few steps down to the narrow strip of shingle, which was the usual exit point for the canoes at the end of the day trips, and looked back up the river. It ran straight, wide and shallow for about a quarter of a mile into Tayleigh, but there was still no sign of his family of canoeists. The sun was coming down fast and the light fading. Scope couldn’t imagine that anything was wrong, but he still didn’t like it.

Pulling out the mobile, he called the office landline.

The phone rang for more than two minutes but there was no answer, which struck him as odd. If Jock was out, he’d have left the answering machine on. He always did that, never wanting to miss out on a potential booking, and the office was attached to the cottage where he’d lived for the best part of thirty years, so he couldn’t be in there. There was also a speaker attached to one of the outside walls, which amplified the ringing, so even if he was down by the canoe put-in point, he’d have heard it.

For the first time, Scope began to feel concerned. Had something bad happened to the canoeists, and had Jock gone to their aid? But, if so, surely he’d have called. After all, he wasn’t in the best shape.

And then, just as he got back in the minibus, he saw him: a man walking on the opposite bank of the river, a mobile to his ear. Scope squinted to see him better. The man was in profile and a good fifty yards away but, even from this distance, Scope could tell he wasn’t a local. Wanting to get a better look at him, he reached into the glove compartment and rummaged round until he found a pair of binoculars that Jock liked to use for birdwatching.

The man had his back to Scope now as he mounted a flight of steps on the other side of the bridge, but as he reached the top and climbed into a four-by-four that was illegally parked on the side of the road, his face came back into view again, and Scope noticed two things. One, he was using a satellite phone rather than a mobile, which was extremely unusual in these parts, and two, he had two faded scars, which looked like knife wounds, on his face.

Scope watched him drive away, wondering who he was, because there was something about him he didn’t like.

He put the binoculars away and, as he picked up the mobile, it rang in his hand.

It was the office and he smiled at his own paranoia. Bad things didn’t happen up here in this stretch of the Highlands. It was one of the reasons he was here.

‘Hey Jock, I’ve been trying to get hold of you. The canoeists haven’t turned up.’

‘That’s why I’m calling,’ said Jock. ‘They came out early.’

‘Where?’

‘Down near Cawler Rapids. Can you get back here?’

Scope frowned. ‘Are you all right, Jock? You don’t sound too good.’ He didn’t. His words were being delivered slowly and with effort, as if he was in pain. Scope knew he’d had some trouble with his heart a couple of years back, and he had to watch his health.

‘I’m okay, but I need some help here. Now.’

‘But what about the canoeists?’

‘They’re here. We’ll get the canoes later.’

‘They’re all right, though?’

‘Yeah. Fine.’ It was clear he wanted to get off the phone.

‘Sure,’ said Scope, wondering what was wrong with him. ‘I’m on my way.’

Eighteen

THE RECEIVER FELL from Jock Calvey’s hand, and the intruder replaced it in its cradle on the desk.

‘How long will it take him to get back here?’ the intruder demanded in a thick Middle Eastern accent.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ whispered Jock. He felt sick. He’d tried so hard not to betray Scope. The man was a friend more than an employee. Scope didn’t give a lot away in conversations, and Jock could tell he had a past that was tinged with tragedy, but he was a good man – the type who would do anything for you if it was within his power. And now he was bringing him here to his death.

In a life spent entirely as part of a small, close-knit rural community, Jock had never been in a situation anything like as terrifying as this; never once thought that violence would come knocking on his door as it had done today.

‘You did the right thing. And now your family are protected. That is good, yes?’

The intruder was smiling, looking pleased with himself. He’d been smiling when he’d arrived at the office too, trying to look friendly as he pointed to an Ordnance Survey map in his hand, but straight away Jock hadn’t liked the look of him. The smile looked fake. And it had been. As soon as he’d opened the door, the intruder had punched him hard in the face, knocking him over.

Jock wasn’t a big man, and at 64 his best years were a good way behind him, so he’d been in no state to resist as the intruder had dragged him to his feet, holding him with one hand while punching him in the face and gut with the other – the whole time never making a sound. Finally, he’d been flung back down in his office chair, and the intruder had handcuffed him by the wrist to one of the chair legs so that he was sitting at an extremely uncomfortable angle. The whole thing had lasted barely twenty seconds.

And then the questions had started. Who else was here? Who else had he hired canoes to today, aside from the family with the two girls? Who was meant to be picking them up at the other end of their trip?

Jock had no idea why he could possibly want all this information. And he certainly couldn’t imagine what anyone could want with Tim and Jean Robinson, and the two girls with them. The little blonde one reminded him of an older version of his only grandchild, Grace, and he prayed nothing had happened to her. She’d seemed so sweet and full of life.

Although Jock was in no state to mount physical resistance, he was a lot tougher inside than he looked, and at first he refused to answer the questions, telling the intruder to take what he wanted but leave him alone, silently thanking God that his daughter and his granddaughter weren’t visiting, and that, whatever happened, he was the only one who was going to get harmed.

But his bravery hadn’t worked. The intruder had produced a knife. And that was when the torture had begun.

Jock felt faint now. His left thumb was missing, as was part of his right ear. His nose had been slit down the middle, and it was still dripping blood down his chin and onto his throat. The pain from his nose was excruciating, much worse than from his ear and the jagged stump where his thumb had been, but it hadn’t been this that had made him betray Scope, a man he’d been determined to protect if he possibly could. It was when the intruder had picked up the photo of Grace, taken by Jock himself on her fourth birthday, that he knew it was over. The bastard had smashed the photo on the floor and told him calmly and matter-of-factly that he worked for a large organization full of men as heartless as him, and it would only be a matter of time before they found his granddaughter and cut her head off. Unless Jock started answering the questions fully and frankly, that was exactly what was going to happen, he explained, while all the time grinding the ruined photo into the floor with his boot.

The terrible thing was, sitting there in the little office he’d always loved so much, with its view out to the river, Jock had known that whether the man was telling the truth or not, he simply couldn’t risk anything happening to Grace, or to his daughter, Mary, who was bringing her up alone.

So he’d told the intruder everything. And now, by phoning Scope and getting him to come back here, it looked as if he’d condemned an innocent man to death.

Jock looked up at the intruder. He was a young man, early thirties at most, not even that bad looking if you ignored the coldness of his features, and yet there was a blackness in his heart that seemed to have come straight from Hell. Jock knew, just as he’d known right from the beginning of the attack, that he was going to die. His time had almost come two years ago when he’d had a massive heart attack while sitting at the bar of The Farmer’s Arms. He’d been revived then by a junior doctor – up from Glasgow on a walking holiday – who’d been in the pub at the time, and ever since he’d appreciated every day that God gave him.

And now those days had come to a sudden and bloody end, and Jock felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

The intruder looked back at him. He was smiling, the knife still in his hand.

Jock thought about begging for his life. But he knew it would do no good. In twenty minutes he’d learned a great deal about the evil that existed in the hearts of certain men.

Instead he closed his eyes and prayed the end would be quick.

Nineteen

Today 17.44

IT WAS BEGINNING to get dark and Scope was on his guard as he drove through the open gate into the yard and parked next to Jock’s battered old Nissan Micra.

The office of Calvey Canoe Hire was a wooden, single-storey extension sticking out from the front of Jock’s rambling brick cottage. The light was on but Jock wasn’t sitting at his desk, which was unusual, given that he wasn’t in the yard either. But the lights were on in the cottage and Scope remembered that he hadn’t sounded too good, so maybe he’d gone back inside to rest.

Even so, something wasn’t right. The way Jock had said the canoeists had abandoned their canoes halfway down the river but hadn’t told him where; and the fact that there was no sign of them now, even though there was a four-door Toyota Rav parked on the other side of Jock’s Nissan that almost certainly belonged to them.

Scope had an antenna for trouble. It was what came from fourteen years in the British infantry, serving first in Northern Ireland at the tail end of the Troubles, then in the killing fields of Bosnia, and finally in Basra in southern Iraq where, along with the rest of his battalion, he’d spent six months being shot at, bombed, and abused by people who’d smile and wave at you one minute, then walk round the corner out of sight the next and detonate a shrapnel-filled IED aimed at ripping your whole patrol to pieces. It made a man cautious, and Scope had long ago learned that being cautious could save your life.

First he had a look inside the Rav – the kids’ books and sweet wrappers on the back seat confirming that this was the canoeing family’s car; then he crossed the yard and peered in the office window. Nothing looked out of place, and Jock’s A4 diary, in which he wrote down pretty much everything to do with the business, was open on the desk at today’s date. Scope tried the door. It was unlocked and he stepped inside, closing it very slowly behind him so that it didn’t make the whine it usually did.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. He couldn’t hear anything, which was a surprise if Jock and a family of four were in residence. He took a couple of steps further into the room, moving as quietly as possible, and stopped next to the door that led into the cottage’s living room. He put his ear to the wood, but still couldn’t hear anything. It was as if no one was here.

But if they weren’t here, where were they? And why had Jock insisted he come back?

He reached down to open the door into the cottage, which was when he saw it on the carpet. A dark, penny-sized stain that he didn’t remember being there last time he’d been in the office. Crouching down, he touched it with the tip of his middle finger.

It was blood. And it was fresh.

Scope tensed. Jock had called him back here. Jock had sounded under duress. There was no sign of the canoeists. Now there was blood on the floor.

Scope had made enemies in his past, some of whom were very powerful. It was possible that they’d tracked him all the way to here, and that this was an ambush.

He thought fast. If people were here waiting for him, they’d have heard the minibus pull in a couple of minutes earlier, which meant they’d be suspicious if he didn’t put in an appearance soon. Retreating the way he’d come, he opened the office door and shut it again, loudly this time. ‘Jock, it’s me,’ he called out, keeping his eyes trained on the door leading into the cottage, just in case someone came rushing through. ‘I’ve just got a couple of things from the van to put away, then I’ll be through, okay?’

There was no sound or movement from behind the door to the cottage, and for a second Scope wondered if this time his paranoia might be misplaced, but he quickly discounted this. Something was definitely wrong; even if it wasn’t as bad as he was suspecting, it didn’t matter. It was always better to be safe than sorry.

He went back out through the office door again, as if he was going back to the minibus, then ducked down low and raced round the side of the cottage out of sight. The logical course of action would have been for him to take off out of here and call the police, but he couldn’t do that without at least some evidence that some wrongdoing had occurred. And there was something else too. He was fond of Jock. The old man had been good to him. If someone had hurt him, then Scope wasn’t going to let whoever it was get away with it.

He continued round to the back of the cottage, listening for the sound of anyone coming out looking for him, but could hear nothing. The whole place remained silent, except for the occasional noise of the night animals that lived in the woods surrounding the yard as they came out to hunt in the gathering darkness.

Scope fished in his jeans pocket until he found the spare keys to the cottage, which Jock had given him a couple of weeks earlier, in case of an emergency. He’d been touched that the old man had entrusted him with a set of keys when they’d only known each other a matter of months. It wasn’t often that Scope got close to people. He tended to keep his distance, a result of the fact that the two closest relationships of his adult life – those with his wife, and his beloved Mary Ann – had ended in tragedy. But he’d seen a kindness and a vulnerability in Jock that had drawn him in. Like Scope, Jock was lonely, having been on his own since his wife had left him for the bright lights of Edinburgh more than twenty years earlier. The two of them had talked over a bottle of decent whisky on more than one long night, and though Scope had never really opened up about his own past on those occasions, he’d always felt that he could have done if he’d needed to – even the darkest parts – and the old man would have understood, and not condemned him. And for that he was thankful.

He owed Jock. And he owed anyone who might have hurt him.

The back of the cottage was dark but, as Scope peered through the frosted glass in the back door, he could see the living-room lights were on. He carefully unlocked the door and crept inside, conscious that he was unarmed and acting with a complete disregard for his own safety. But that was Scope all over. He’d never been able to turn his back on danger, even though he was always trying to convince himself that his days of walking into the lion’s den were firmly behind him.

The back door opened directly into a narrow hallway that led past the stairs and into the living room, with a kitchen on one side, and a spare room where Jock liked to hoard all kinds of junk, on the other. Scope couldn’t see the door that led through to the office from the angle he was at, nor could he hear a thing from anywhere inside. Slowly, and making as little noise as possible, he made his way through the hallway, past the staircase, being careful not to trip on the boxes that littered the floor like obstacles, containing everything from boat engines to old paperbacks. Jock was a hoarder. He seemed incapable of chucking anything away, unlike Scope, whose possessions tended to be few and temporary.

The living room opened up in front of him as he reached the end of the hallway, revealing a scene that made him retreat into the shadows.

Jock lay dead on his front in the middle of the floor about ten feet away, next to the two easy chairs where he and Scope had sat when they’d shared those bottles of whisky. His face was pressed into the carpet, his arms down by his side, and the beanie hat he always wore – indoors and out – was missing. Somehow its absence made him seem much smaller and more diminished than he had in life. He was no longer Jock. He was just a corpse, and the sight of him, hollowed out like this, filled Scope with an intense emotion that he couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t even anger. It was something darker and more hopeless than that, and he had to force himself to suppress it as he took in the injuries that the old man had suffered.

A thin rivulet of blood had run from a deep cut on his nose onto the multicoloured, 1970s-style carpet that had always given Scope a headache, and there was a gaping, messy hole where one ear had been. More blood was clustered round Jock’s right hand, although Scope couldn’t see the cause of it, nor did he want to. One thing was certain, though. Jock had suffered terribly before he’d died, and the man responsible for that suffering was leaning against the far wall next to the door leading out to the office, a pistol with suppressor in one gloved hand. He was short and well built, with the cool poise of a professional killer, and it was clear that he was waiting for Scope to come walking through the door from the office, so he could put a bullet in him.

So it seemed he had been the intended target of the ambush, which meant two things. One, Jock would still be alive if it hadn’t been for him. Two, his days up here in Scotland – days that he’d grown to enjoy – were over, and once again it was time to move on.

There were, however, more immediate concerns. The killer hadn’t seen Scope yet, but he would as soon as he looked round. It looked as if he was working alone, too, since there was no sign of anyone else. Roughly fifteen feet separated them. Scope was unarmed. He didn’t even have his lock knife on him. If he rushed the guy now, he’d never make it, and it was too dangerous to try to creep up on him. There wasn’t enough furniture to cover his approach, and if he were spotted halfway across the room, he’d be an easy target. The killer struck him as the sort who would neither hesitate, nor miss from close range. His whole demeanour was too confident for that.

It left Scope with a simple choice. Go back the way he’d come in, and when he was out of earshot, call the cops and leave it to them. Or deal with it himself. The advantage of calling the cops was obvious. He wouldn’t have to risk his neck, nor would he run the other risk of getting himself into trouble. He could just take off and that would be the end of it.

But there was also a major disadvantage. Round here, miles from the nearest town of any size, it could take hours before an armed response unit turned up, and by that time the man who’d killed Jock would have long since disappeared, leaving few if any clues behind. Jock’s death would go unavenged. And, in the end, Scope just couldn’t have that.

He took a step backwards into the hallway, wanting to get to the kitchen and find a knife, but as he did so his foot hit one of the boxes of junk. Not hard. In fact it barely touched it, but in the heavy silence of the cottage, it was enough to attract the attention of the killer, who swung round fast, gun outstretched, catching sight of Scope immediately.

Even as he pulled the trigger, Scope was turning and diving headfirst into the semi-darkness of the hallway. A second shot rang out as he rolled across the floor, hitting another box. He jumped to his feet, keeping low and trying to make himself as hard a target as possible, as two more rounds flew past him, putting holes in the frosted glass of the cottage’s ancient front door. He could hear the guy coming behind him now and he swung a hard left at the bottom of the staircase, almost tripping up on a box full of oil paintings, and ran headlong into the darkness of the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind him.

He was trapped now. There was no way he’d make it out of the window before the guy caught him, but he didn’t panic. In situations like these, his subconscious always dragged up the words of wisdom he’d been given by a drill instructor during his first days of military training. ‘As long as you’re still fighting, you haven’t lost.’ It had sounded like cheap bullshit at the time, but they’d always served him well. And they did now.

Grabbing a couple of plates and a frying pan still full of congealed fat from the stove, he leaned against a kitchen unit and waited the two seconds it took for the door to come flying open, before flinging the plates straight at the guy, followed a split second later by the frying pan.

Surprised by the ferocity of the assault, the killer managed to fend off the two flying plates, while getting off a wild shot that rattled one of the window frames. But the frying pan caught him under the chin, sending him staggering as he tried to right himself and pick out his target.

Scope didn’t give him time. Crouching down, he sprinted the ten feet across the kitchen and dived into the killer, grabbing his gun hand and forcing it straight upwards as the two of them staggered backwards into the hallway. Scope tried to drive his head into the killer’s face, using his momentum to land a telling blow, but the killer had quick reactions and he turned his head away, so that Scope’s forehead slammed into the side of his head, hitting hard skull. The two of them went crashing to the floor, upending the box of paintings in the process, Scope ignoring the pain as he concentrated on slamming the killer’s gun hand repeatedly into the floor as he tried to get him to release the weapon.

But this guy was good. He was clearly winded by the fall, but he wasn’t letting go of the weapon. Instead, he shoved a knee into Scope’s groin and reared upwards, slamming a fist into his right cheek. Scope’s head reverberated from the pain and he felt a flash of nausea as the killer came close to knocking him off altogether. But then, in one sudden movement, he counter-attacked. Grabbing the killer’s other arm by the wrist, and forcing it back down to the floor so he had him temporarily pinned down, he waited the half-second it took for the killer to rear up again, and in that moment he drove his forehead into the bridge of his nose with every bit of strength and anger he could muster. The killer yelled in pain as his nose broke, and Scope butted him again in the same place. Then, changing tactics, he jumped up, dragging the other man to his feet, and smashed his gun hand into one of the kitchen units. This time the gun went off, sending a shot into a cupboard, before clattering to the floor when the man’s grip on it weakened. But, if Scope thought his opponent was finished, he was mistaken, because in the same moment the killer pulled his other arm free, reached inside his jacket and yanked out a bloodied stiletto with a six-inch blade.

Scope leapt backwards as the stiletto sliced through the air, narrowly missing his stomach, then threw himself to the floor, grabbed the gun from where it lay a couple of feet away, and swung back round, his finger on the trigger just as the killer fell upon him, knife raised for the death blow.

There was no hesitation. Scope pulled the trigger three times in quick succession, every shot hitting his opponent in the upper body at point-blank range.

The knife clattered to the floor as the killer let out a heavy grunt and rolled over onto his side. He lifted one gloved hand weakly as his body was racked with spasms.

Slowly, Scope got to his feet, still holding the gun. He looked round. There was no other noise coming from inside the cottage, so he’d been right about the killer being the only one here. But he needed to find out who else was after him and where they were, and there was only one person who could provide him with that information.

Kicking the stiletto well out of the way, Scope reached down and turned the killer over onto his back. He looked in a bad way. Two of the bullets had punctured his chest, the other had hit him in the belly, and there was blood dribbling down from his mouth. His eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and shock, but the most important thing was that he was still alive and conscious. Once again he tried to lift an arm, but Scope kicked it down again and pointed the gun between his eyes.

‘Why did you want to kill me?’ he demanded.

The killer started choking and rolled back onto his side, spitting out a thick glob of blood onto the floor, but Scope wasn’t about to show him any mercy, and he pulled him back round, this time pushing the suppressor into his cheek.

‘I asked you a question. Why did you want to kill me? Did someone pay you to hunt me down?’

The killer looked confused.

‘Answer me, you piece of shit. Were you paid to hunt me down?’

The killer gave a slight, almost imperceptible, shake of his head. ‘I don’t even know who you are,’ he managed to say, his words little more than a strained hiss.

Scope frowned, caught out by his answer. ‘You’re lying.’

‘No.’

‘Then why the hell are you here?’

But he never got a reply. The killer started to choke, and his whole body went into spasm. This time it was Scope who turned him on his side so that he could cough up the blood blocking his airways, but it was too late. After a couple of seconds, the coughing, like everything else, just stopped. Scope grabbed him by his jacket collar, lifting him up, wanting to glean any last bit of information that could tell him what was going on, but the guy was gone.

Scope let him go and stood back up, concentrating on steadying his breathing, as he came to terms with the cold, hard fact that violence had come knocking on his door once again, and he’d responded in kind. He’d never gained any real satisfaction from killing, even when those he killed deserved everything that was coming to them, and he felt none now. Jock’s murder might have been avenged, but it wasn’t going to help him or his family, and Scope just felt empty.

Empty and confused.

The man he’d just killed had had no idea who Scope was, and Scope was sure he hadn’t been lying. There’d have been no point when he was that close to death. And yet he’d obviously tortured Jock to make him call Scope to get him back to the office so that he too could be killed. It didn’t make sense.

He sighed. He was missing something here. And where were the family of canoeists? Jock had claimed on the phone that they’d cut short their trip, but he’d been under duress then, and there was no way they’d have just got out and abandoned their canoes. And yet they’d never arrived in Tayleigh either. Scope thought about this. According to Jock, they were an ordinary local family, so it seemed unlikely they’d be targeted by a professional killer, like the man he’d just killed. But if Scope wasn’t the target, and neither was Jock, then they had to be. And it seemed the killer was determined to cover up any trace of their journey, even going so far as to kill the people who’d hired them the canoes.