Final Cut Read online

  CONTENTS

  Final Cut

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  About the Author

  Also by Lin Anderson

  FINAL CUT

  Lin Anderson

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Lin Anderson 2009

  The right of Lin Anderson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978 1 848 94543 2

  Book ISBN 978 0 340 92244 6

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NWl 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Dr Jennifer Miller of GUARD, DCI Kenny Bailey (retired), Andy Rolph, R2S CRIME Forensic Services Manager, Tom Smith of Arboga, Sweden, stained glass artist and member of the Larkfield Gang (www.tomsmith.se), and the staff and regulars of the Beechwood, Glasgow.

  To Detective Inspector Bill Mitchell

  1

  ‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,’ he murmured.

  It had been the recent televised Remembrance Ceremony that had prompted him to return. Watching five hundred primary-age children walk behind the British Legion flags, their poppies as bright as their little red mouths.

  There was nothing to see now, especially in the winter twilight, but he knew they were there.

  He smiled.

  They were his.

  They would always be his.

  It was dark when he left the forest. Out of the sheltering trees, an icy blast met him head on. Snow swirled round him in a frantic dance.

  When he reached the road he turned for one last look, promising himself he’d return soon. He braced his body against the wind, enjoying the pleasurable heat of memory as he stared back at the maddened trees.

  2

  ‘It’s fucking freezing.’ Private Fergus Morrison cupped his crotch, where his testicles had shrunk to the size of marbles. He’d have to get out of this wind soon or frozen balls would be the least of his worries.

  The entry to the civic dump loomed out of the darkness, lit by a single high-voltage beam. To his right a wall was graffitied with a Toryglen gang slogan, You are now leaving Toi land. In the distance, across a strip of darkness, rose the lighted mound of Hampden Park, graveyard of so many Scottish football hopes.

  The gates to the site were closed, the vehicle barrier down. He slipped underneath it and took a run at the gate, easily hoisting himself up and over.

  He landed with a dull thud and stood upright, listening. A rusty sign on the fence had told him CCTV cameras were in action. He doubted that. Who would bother protecting Glasgow’s rubbish?

  He narrowed his eyes against the thickening sleet. The nearest skips were for metal, wood and household waste. He glanced in at the pile of bursting bin bags. It would be warm in there, but he couldn’t stand the smell. He wasn’t that desperate.

  When he located the skip he wanted, he climbed in, cursing as his shin caught the metal edge. He fought his way through the layered piles of flattened cardboard boxes to the back wall, glad to be out of the wind finally.

  Once he’d built his cocoon, he settled down to drink the last can of strong lager. OK, he’d secured a place to sleep safely and something to drink. No food, but the six-pack had taken the edge off his hunger. Hey, two out of three wasn’t bad. It was better than Afghanistan. There would be no one taking potshots at him here and any shit that smeared his face wouldn’t be his mate’s guts.

  The memory of sudden death made his hand shake on its way to his mouth. He took a slug of lager, then wedged the can between his knees and lit a fag.

  The arrival of a car didn’t bother him. No one would be dumping at this time. He knew that prostitutes from nearby Govanhill brought their johns here. If it hadn’t been so cold he might even have spied on them and jerked off alongside.

  He took another mouthful of beer and blew lightly on the end of the cigarette. It was the nearest he would get to the warmth of a fire tonight.

  3

  ‘Is Granny going to die?’

  ‘Yes, Granny’s going to die,’ said Claire, more sharply than she intended.

  A small, choking sob came from the back of the car. Despite her stressed state, Claire felt a stab of guilt.

  ‘I don’t want Granny to die,’ Emma wailed.

  ‘Neither do I, Emma.’

  Claire knew she was being blunt, but she couldn’t pretend any more, even for the sake of a nine-year-old girl.

  ‘Will Granny go to heaven?’

  Claire didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she flicked the wipers to fast mode and peered through the sleet-splattered windscreen. The road was pitch black, her beams the only lights for miles, but she knew this route like the back of her hand. Since her mum had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, she’d travelled it often enough.

  The sobs in the back had dissolved to an occasional whimper. Claire felt a rush of pity for her daughter. Just because she was beside herself with worry didn’t mean she had to take it out on the child.

  ‘Of course Granny will go to heaven,’ she relented.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  There was a contented sigh as though a weight had been lifted from the small girl’s shoulders.

  ‘Why don’t you have a nap? When you wake up we’ll be home,’ suggested C
laire.

  Silence descended in the back. Eventually Claire heard the soft sounds of sleep. Relieved of the need to worry about her daughter, she concentrated on the road and the worsening weather.

  She turned on the radio, keeping it low. The local station was playing country music, interspersed with warnings about the wind and snow. According to the presenter, the Forth and Erskine bridges were already closed and all ferry sailings had been cancelled until further notice. Travel was not being advised.

  ‘Too late for that now,’ Claire muttered to herself.

  As if in response, a sudden gust caught the car broadside, throwing it towards the left-hand verge. Claire yanked the wheel round, narrowly avoiding hitting a fence post.

  ‘Shit!’

  She would have to slow down, especially on the more exposed sections. When she’d regained her composure, she checked the rear-view mirror. Emma, thank God, had slept through the drama.

  Claire consoled herself with the thought that they would soon be off the moor and in the shelter of the woods. She could speed up then and get them home as quickly as possible.

  She entered the forest, the looming shadows of the trees swaying and creaking above her. Claire peered ahead, seized by a sudden fear that one of the creaking giants might come down and block the road or fall on the car.

  A murmur from Emma brought Claire’s head round.

  ‘OK, sweetie?’

  She waited for an answer, suddenly craving the sound of another human voice, but Emma was fast asleep.

  Claire turned her attention to the rapidly whitening windscreen and tried to see through. The whirling snowflakes looked like fast-moving stars in the full beam of her headlights, so Claire dipped them.

  Then she saw a figure standing in the middle of the road. She slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel.

  Too late, she remembered that you were meant to turn into the skid. The car was on its own journey, ignoring her interference, slithering towards the steep embankment that dropped to the forest floor.

  For a tortuous moment the car balanced on the edge, then Claire’s world turned upside down.

  Approaching consciousness brought a series of nightmarish images: an old woman; a sobbing child; dark shadows of trees bending and swaying above her. Then Claire’s eyes flicked open and she stared into utter darkness. She realised she had no idea where she was, or even who she was. Her head was empty of everything except a searing red-rimmed pain.

  She tried to shift her body, suddenly aware that the reason she could not draw breath was because of a seat belt biting into her chest.

  The seat belt’s sudden release sent her tumbling into a couple of inches of freezing water. A wave of panic hit as she imagined the car submerged and her trapped inside. There was air, but for how long? Taking a deep breath, Claire launched herself at the driver’s door.

  Air escaped her lungs as her shoulder met the inside panel. The door groaned in its frame, but shifted only marginally. Claire waited anxiously for the sound of incoming water. When she heard none she braced herself and tried again. This time it worked. The door jerked open and she heard the howl of the wind and the tortured creaking of trees.

  Thank God. The car was upside down but it hadn’t landed in water.

  Claire inserted one shoulder into the narrow gap, realising almost immediately it would be too tight a squeeze. She retreated and struggled out of her jacket.

  This time her exit was easier. She manoeuvred her upper body through. A sudden moan and shudder of the car sped up her efforts. She freed her hips to land with a grunt on a boggy bed of moss and heather.

  She lay there for a moment, catching her breath, then struggled to her feet. Out of the partial shelter of the car, a gust hit her head-on. She gripped the door to stay upright and stared into the darkness, listening for the sound of traffic, hearing nothing but the wind and the trees.

  Which way should she go? Claire stared at the upturned vehicle in confusion. Why could she not remember who she was or what had happened?

  She set off, panicking after a few yards when she realised she was heading downhill. She retraced her steps, or thought she had, then couldn’t see the car. When the bulk of it eventually loomed out of the darkness Claire let out a whimper of relief.

  This time she set off in the opposite direction. The sudden rise of an embankment brought her to her knees, but she knew she had found the road. She scrambled up and stood on the tarmac, the wind whipping her body.

  No headlights punctured the swirling snow in either direction.

  Claire suddenly remembered a radio presenter’s voice advising against travel. Where had she been and where was she going? A shocking image of an old woman flashed through her mind. My mother is dying.

  A sudden gust of wind unbalanced her. She stumbled backwards and rolled down the bank to land shocked and shaken at the bottom, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. The sound of an approaching car sent her crawling desperately back up.

  On her right a distant pair of headlights disappeared in a dip in the road, then reappeared. Claire waved her hands wildly, her shouts snatched by the wind.

  What if the driver didn’t see her?

  Claire stepped into his beams. For a split second she thought the white van would plough into her, then it swerved and screeched to a halt. The near-side window slid down.

  ‘Jesus, lady. You could’ve been killed.’

  ‘I think there was an accident – my car went off the road.’

  The middle-aged man leaned over and opened the passenger door, offering her his hand to help her climb inside. Claire sank back in the seat.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I must have banged my head. I can’t remember anything after I skidded.’

  ‘Anyone in the car with you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ There had been no one in the passenger seat. But something felt wrong. She could feel it, like a name on the tip of her tongue.

  Emma! The name meant nothing at first. A disconnected word emerging from her addled brain. Then Claire knew with sickening certainty. Her little girl. Emma was in the back of the car.

  ‘Emma, my daughter’s in the car!’ she screamed at him.

  He jumped from the driver’s seat, fighting the wind with the open door.

  ‘There’s a mobile in the glove compartment. Call 999 and tell them what’s happened.’

  Claire threw open the door and half scrambled, half fell out on to the road. The driver was already down the bank and fighting his way towards her car, which was clearly visible in his headlights, its boot crushed against a tree.

  Claire stumbled after him across the boggy ground.

  The back door hung open. He ducked his head inside.

  She waited to hear him say the terrible words that meant her child was dead.

  ‘There’s no one here.’

  ‘What?’ she said stupidly.

  ‘There’s no one in the back.’

  ‘But she was there.’

  The man regarded her worriedly. Claire knew what he was thinking. The woman’s had a bad knock on the head. She’s concussed, confused. Now suddenly she’s remembered a non-existent daughter.

  ‘My daughter was in the back of the car,’ she shouted at him, more certain with every second that passed.

  He nodded as though he believed her.

  ‘I’ll call the police. If your wee girl managed to get out of the car, then she’s not badly hurt.’ He started back towards the van.

  Claire began to shout Emma’s name. Each time the wind snatched it and tossed it away. ‘Please, God.’ She stuck her head inside the car, desperate for some indication that Emma had been there. A doll lay face up in the brown puddle that was the roof. Claire picked it up and looked at its impassive, mud-smeared face.

  The man was coming back.

  ‘The police are on their way. An ambulance will take you to hospital.’

  ‘No!’ Claire yelled into the wind. ‘I’m not leaving here until I find my d
aughter.’ She shook his hand from her arm and started for the woods.

  ‘You can’t wander around in the dark. Wait for the police.’

  His voice retreated as the trees enveloped her.

  4

  She wasn’t confused any more. Now everything was hideously real. She had crashed her car. She had lost her precious daughter. Mad with fear and grief, Claire staggered through the wood. She could think only of the way she had talked to Emma. How cruel she had been. She had made Emma cry. Tears streamed down her face.

  Her voice was hoarse from shouting, her calls making less headway than before against the wind. Now she began to imagine the terrible things that could have happened to Emma. Who was the man in the road? Had he taken her?

  Claire stumbled and fell heavily as her right foot found a dip in the forest floor. Her head hit a stone, momentarily stunning her. She tried to draw breath. Tried to drag herself back to her feet. Her body was swaying, her limbs turned to water. The driver was right. She stood no chance. A strangled sob emerged from the rawness of her throat.

  It was her fault Emma was lost and alone in the forest. It was all her fault. Claire slid to the ground, all strength gone from her body. Then she heard voices behind her. A strong beam of light caught her. A man’s voice shouted, urging her to reply. The beam was followed by another. Claire lifted her head, stood back up and called in return.