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  Edward touched the leather door with his other hand, admiring the taut shine. He had already opened the walnut drinks cabinet and poured two whiskies, which now sat on the fold down table, the ice gently pinging on the elegant crystal as they swung smoothly round the steep bends on the country road. When Sir James had offered the previous night to send the car for them, Edward had protested it wasn’t necessary. Sir James had insisted.

  ‘Nonsense, Edward. I shan’t be needing it and you might as well travel in comfort. I look forward to seeing you and Fiona at Falblair. The first of many weekends I hope.’

  Edward hoped so too.

  June had seen the end of the rain and the start of the summer. Each day dawned clear and blue. The sort of weather that raised spirits and made people happy, despite everything.

  Perfect campaigning weather, Edward thought.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Oh, things. The campaign.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Going well, I think.’

  ‘Urquhart? How’s he doing?’

  Edward knew what Fiona meant.

  ‘He’s at Falblair already,’ he said. ‘Went up early to discuss campaign finances with Sir James.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  Fiona lifted her glass and sipped her whisky. Edward looked at his wife with pleasure. Her hair had been done recently. It was blonder, he thought. Her face was smooth and one-toned, beige against the red lips. She’s like fine porcelain, he thought.

  She sensed his desire. She put down her glass and let her fingers brush his swelling crotch.

  The car was slowing down, preparing to turn in between two stone pillars topped with ornate gargoyles. A man dragged the black metal gates over the gravel and waved them through. A single track road wound ahead through rowan, birch and pine. They heard a muffled crash as a roe deer sprang from the woods and jumped lightly across the road in front of them.

  ‘Sir James said Falblair was a hunting estate,’ said Edward delighted. When he spotted the house he was momentarily lost for words.

  The Victorian mansion stood in a wide expanse of parkland. It was an impressive Gothic pile, fronted by a carefully manicured lawn that rolled down to a private loch with a jetty and a moored rowing boat. Across the loch in the trees, they caught a glimpse of the chimney of an estate building.

  ‘That must be the hunting lodge Sir James mentioned. He rents it out to weekend parties,’ said Edward.

  ‘All in all, very nice,’ murmured Fiona.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Edward, secretly wondering how many Boards he would have to be on, to get a place like this.

  The car drew up in front of the magnificent entrance. As the chauffeur opened the car door, Sir James appeared with Ian Urquhart. Edward’s Private Secretary looked pleased with himself. It seemed discussions had gone to plan.

  Sir James stepped forward to meet them.

  ‘Welcome to Falblair, Edward, and Fiona. How lovely you look, my dear. Quite flushed from your journey through the Perthshire hills. Come in and make yourself at home.’

  ‘The trouble with Scotland is that it’s full of Labour supporters!’

  Sir James raised an eyebrow humorously, the cue for a ripple of laughter to make its way round the assembled company. ‘So, Edward,’ he continued. ‘It’s your job to prove me wrong. Wake up the electorate. Show them they’re better off with us.’

  They were sitting round a log fire after a delicious meal, served, Edward had noted, by no less than three attractive young women. Now he was nursing a fine brandy.

  ‘It’s rather like the good old days of the Empire,’ Sir James was saying. ‘Sometimes the natives don’t recognise what’s in their own interest.’

  Edward joined in the approving nods of agreement.

  ‘They simply don’t understand our policies,’ Sir James continued. ‘That is the reason they reject them.’

  Someone let out a snort of contempt.

  ‘It’s up to us to go on explaining. Don’t worry, as the medicine takes effect they’ll come round.’

  ‘Hear. Hear,’ Edward chimed in.

  ‘I’m glad you agree Edward. Your election will be a step in the right direction. Your predecessor was sound enough, but set in his ways. Should have retired years ago. We need fresh blood. This is a tremendous challenge, and I feel you are the man for the job. Sir James beamed benificently.

  Edward held out his glass for the proffered refill. He could take any amounts of this sort of life, he thought. The glorious ambience, the excellent food, the wine, but best of all was the permeating odour of opulence, a mix of silk, brocade and polished wood. Exactly what he’d have he’d been trying to develop in his house and would have done, if it hadn’t been for the dubious smells that emanated from his children’s rooms.

  ‘Enough business for tonight.’ Sir James’ glance followed Ian Urquhart as he moved to replenish Fiona’s glass. ‘What about our plans for tomorrow? A shoot for the gentlemen, of course and…’ he paused here in admiration of his own magnanimity, ‘a morning’s pampering at Gleneagles for the ladies.’

  There was a murmur of appreciation from the females, including Fiona, Edward noticed. He had been looking forward to the prospect of some shooting; the cool metal shotgun in his hands; its thrust as he pulled the trigger. Bang. Bang. Bang. Edward glanced over at Fiona and she smiled back at him.

  The party was breaking up, drifting towards the wide curve of the staircase. Ian Urquhart came over to ask Edward if there was anything he needed to discuss with him before he went to bed.

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time to talk in the morning,’ interrupted Sir James. ‘I’m sure you’re all anxious to get to bed. I should say, Edward, that young Urquhart here has been zealously representing your interests since he arrived. You’re very lucky to have him.’

  ‘I believe I am, Sir James. I believe I am.’

  Fiona closed the bedroom door firmly behind them.

  ‘Well,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Fiona crossed to the dressing table and began to take off her jewellery. Edward watched her, thinking how nice her neck looked in the firelight.

  ‘Sir James could hardly keep his eyes off Ian. I’m sure he got him to refill the glasses so that he could admire his bottom,’ she said.

  Edward came to stand behind her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, massaging them free of the black straps of her dress. ‘I can’t blame him for that Fiona. I’ve been known to do the same to you.’

  Fiona laughed and looked up at him.

  ‘So what do you think? Are they at it?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘You’re not annoyed?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m delighted. As long as the romance lasts as far as the by-election.’

  ‘You’re a mercenary, Edward.’

  ‘And that’s why you love me.’ He slid his hand down to hold her breast.

  ‘I could get to like…’ she waved her arm around the room, ‘all this.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ Edward said.

  ‘So it all depends on the result of the election.’

  It was a statement not a question.

  ‘The election is a bygone conclusion.’ Edward wasn’t going to show nerves, even to Fiona.

  ‘I wouldn’t like anything to come between us and success,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing will.’

  Chapter 18

  Jonathan had not switched on the computer for two days. Instead he lay across his bed and stared at the ceiling, which had an amazing capacity to transform itself into sets of digital images. When this got too freaky, he went out to buy fags and more drink. When he got back, Mark had left a phone message to ask why he wasn’t answering his email, and to tell him he was in Aviemore and would be back Saturday to tell him all about it. Jonathan didn’t want to know.

  He got up from the bed, collected four sticky glasses from various sentry points about the room and went down to the kitchen. Th
e kitchen was in as big a mess as his room and he felt marginally guilty that Amy would have to clean it up before his parents came home from their swanky weekend in the country. But, he decided, it wasn’t all his mess. Morag and her microwave slimmer’s meals! Foil wrappers covered every kitchen surface, curled up in disgust at the remains in their white containers. He had already told the stupid bitch that eating two slimmers’ meals was the same as a fat-filled diet.

  Jonathan brushed the cartons into the already overflowing bin and reached in the cupboard for what had to be the last tin of baked beans. He set the dial on the microwave and went to look for a clean plate. Small hope. He rinsed the least revolting one under the hot tap, tipped the beans onto it and put it in the microwave. While he waited for the bell to ping, he toyed with the idea of a drink of milk then changed his mind when he saw the age of the carton and settled for a coke instead.

  As he closed his mouth gingerly over the scaldingly hot beans he tried to work out what he should do. It would have to be today. His parents would be back tomorrow. He reached for the coke and pulled back the ring. The can exploded angrily and some liquid frothed out onto the floor. Fuck. There was a dish towel near the sink and he began mopping up with it, but it was already stiff with the remains of some earlier spillage.

  Jonathan gave up and threw it in the sink.

  He took a swill of the coke and munched it through the beans, cooling the burning bits on his tongue. When he was finished he went back to his room and tipped the rest of the coke into a glass with the vodka. He switched on the computer.

  The reply came back within minutes. Jonathan wondered again if Simon carried his computer back and forward to work with him, or maybe he had one in both places, his replies were always so quick. They arranged to meet outside the Art Gallery at seven o’clock. It was handy for the town and the clubs, Simon said. They would get a taxi and go wherever Jonathan fancied.

  It was that easy.

  Jonathan shut down and headed for the shower, taking the vodka with him. As the water pounded his head, he sang at the top of his voice. Noone banged on the door to tell him to hurry up or shut up.

  Chapter 19

  Chrissy’s mother answered the phone. She told Rhona that Chrissy had left on Friday night and wouldn’t be back till late Sunday.

  ‘What’s up hen? Is everything alright?’

  ‘Fine,’ Rhona assured her. ‘I just got back from Paris and I really wanted to talk to her. Her mobile seems to be off. Do you have any way of getting in touch with her?’

  ‘Naw, hen. She’s gone camping.‘ Rhona heard the noise of a door slamming. ‘I’ll have to go dear. I’ll get Chrissy to get in touch as soon as she gets back.’

  Rhona’s heart sank. She cursed herself for not checking her messages. But what difference would it have made anyway? She hadn’t been there to talk to Chrissy anyway.

  She went through to the kitchen.

  In the convent garden, her friend the gardener was at work raking the path through the rhododendrons. He must have sensed someone watching for he looked up and waved. On a normal morning Rhona would have taken him a coffee. No this morning.

  There had also been a message from Sean but he was cut off almost immediately. There was a second garbled attempt amputated mis-mid sentence. Then came a voice scarcely recognisable as Chrissy.

  Rhona stared blankly at the pile of dishes left from last night. Whatever way she looked at it, she just didn’t buy the story of the camping trip. It struck her that Tony might know something. She hadn’t phoned him at home before. It rang out until she was ready to give up, when a sleepy female voice answered.

  Rhona apologised. ‘I was looking for Tony.’

  ‘That’s okay. Just a minute, I’ll get him.’

  When she heard Tony’s voice Rhona apologised.

  ‘Sorry. Sounds like I’m cramping your style,’ she said.

  ‘No problem. Welcome back. How’s things?’

  ‘Fine. Look, I was wondering, did Chrissy tell you where she was going this weekend?’

  ‘No. Should she have? Wait a minute. There was something. Someone rang her yesterday afternoon and she went a bit funny after that. She said her dad had gone on the rampage again.’

  ‘Right. Thanks. That’s probably it.’

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Tony.’

  ‘See you Monday then.’

  If she had been worried why hadn’t she said something on Thursday, when they were out shopping together? She had seemed cheerful. But maybe she had been putting on a face. Rhona realised she had been so bound up with her own stuff that she wouldn’t have noticed anything anyway. wouldn’t have noticed anything anyway. If she was

  But had there been anything to notice? Chrissy had generally been her usual self, except for the day her brother had come looking for money. Rhona cast her mind back to the meeting outside the lab. Patrick was the only one that was halfway sound. Patrick must know what was going on. She hesitated. Chrissy wouldn’t like it. If there was a problem at home, she would want to sort it out by herself.

  The post and the newspaper arrived while Rhona was in the shower, still mulling over her next move. She carried them through and laid them on the kitchen table. The postcard showed the Sacré Coeur bathed in warm sunshine.

  Dearest Rhona,

  Good food, good wine, great music.

  Missing you. Phone soon.

  Love S.

  Her hand was shaking as she put the card down. Sean hadn’t given up on her. Not yet anyway. But then he didn’t know the truth about her, any more than she knew the truth about him.

  Rhona opened the newspaper to find Edward smiling smugly above a full page interview. He was full of plans for law and order.

  ‘Edward Stewart, the acceptable face of new Scottish Conservatism,’ Rhona muttered. Even Jim Connelly hadn’t cracked the carefully constructed facade. At least Edward wasn’t the main headline and that would definitely piss him off.

  She glanced over the paedophile allegations, then laid the paper down. She wasn’t in the mood to think about the horrors in that story. Then she noticed Bill Wilson’s name and picked it up again. This time she read it properly.

  Chapter 20

  Bill Wilson’s anger had left him drained. Somehow, this time he had internalised the anger, personalised it, and it wasn’t good for either his stomach or his heart, or so Margaret had informed him. He knew it himself. He also knew he could do nothing about it. The death of this particular boy in these particular circumstances was as near to home as it had ever been and he couldn’t explain why. As well as putting his own blood pressure up and his wife’s, he had also rubbed the kids up the wrong way.

  ‘We can’t live in a prison,’ his daughter had said after the last row. ‘You’ll have to let us go back out sometime.’

  And she was right.

  As soon as the exposé on paedophiles hit the newspapers, the cyber sleuth team, headed by Gavin MacLean, started reporting problems mapping relevant sites in the investigation. It was as if they had never existed. And they were no further forward on the murder investigation either. There had been plenty of leads about the curtains, all of them false. No one had reported seeing Jamie in the hours before his death, no one in the close had seen anything. Since most of the occupants were avoiding the law themselves, that wasn’t too surprising.

  Bill pressed the buzzer for Janice and told her he was going down to the canteen. He had promised Margaret he would eat regularly if he was going to spend so much time at work.

  ‘I’ll come down with you. I could do with something myself,’ she said. Bill realised that the young constable had been putting as much time in on this case as he had and that was a hell of a lot.

  ‘Right. My treat tonight,’ he said and Janice groaned.

  ‘Some treat.’

  They carried the canteen’s attempt at vegetable lasagne over to a table and sat down.

  ‘Sir.’

  Bill looke
d up from his gloomy study of the contents of his plate to his Junior Officer. When he was her age, most people had never heard of paedophiles. Now every second week there was a story of abuse. It had been going on all the time. In the old days the kids just didn’t tell anyone, because they didn’t think anyone would believe them. And they were right.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Sorry. What were you saying?’

  ‘We had a phone call from Childline. It came in about five minutes ago.’

  ‘Is this going to put me off my lasagne Janice?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Bill pushed the plate away.

  ‘Okay. Let’s have it.’

  ‘They’ve had a call from a boy, Sir. Says he’s mixed up in this paedophile ring.’

  ‘Was it genuine?’

  Janice nodded. Childline had been sure of it, she said. The boy said he had been recruited by email and he couldn’t get out. He had been threatened that pictures of him would be sent to his family if he told anyone.

  ‘The boy sounded pretty desperate, Sir.’

  ‘Have we any idea where he was calling from?’

  Janice shook her head.

  ‘Did he give any clues to the identity of any of the men?’

  ‘No. He said they would kill him like the last one, if he gave them away.’

  ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Bill pulled his coffee towards him and took a gulp. He needed one lead, just one real lead to get close to these animals. Then he would get them.

  ‘Phone Gavin MacLean and see if we can home in on these email connections.’

  Janice rose to go, leaving her lasagne to congeal on the plate. Bill looked at her tired face and made her sit back down.

  ‘Eat your food first, Constable. And that’s an order.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He stood up. ‘I’m going out for a while. I’ll be back in an hour.’

  The underground car park was almost empty. His dark blue Rover was alone in the far corner. The early shift were all away home. He turned the dial on the radio until he found some background music, then started her up and headed out the gate into the early evening light.