Torch (14 page)

Jaz trailed
from room to room. They were all the same. Lived in. Everything was
as it should be, except for the open front door and the
blood-soaked body of the dead dog on the grass outside. Jaz walked
round the downstairs one more time then headed for the kitchen,
lifted the blanket from Bess’s basket and went outside.

He threw the
blanket over Bess’s warm body, mouthing obscenities at Tommy
Moffat. The Labrador was far too old to be a threat to anyone. She
could bark but that was about all. Which is probably why she
died.

Jaz had to stop
himself picturing Emps lying somewhere between the cottage and the
barn in exactly the same state. Tommy Moffat was a heid-banger, a
nasty, twisted, creepy bastard. He would get him for this.

Jaz tucked his
bandaged hand inside his coat and set off to check the drive and
the garage for the car. Both were filled with nothing but shadows.
Where the fuck were they? Where was Tommy? Jaz didn’t have an
answer. He decided that standing outside freezing wasn’t making him
think any better.

Back in the
cottage, he filled the kettle and pulled it over the hot ring on
the Aga to boil, then looked for the coffee. While he nursed his
cup and thawed out, he thought about phoning the police. If they
came and found the dead dog and the open front door, they would
look for the occupants. But if the police got involved they’d find
his fingerprints all over the house. They would come looking for
him. If Tommy had done something to the kid or the women, suspicion
would be bound to fall on him.

With any luck,
Amy and her mum had gone out before Tommy arrived. Tommy might have
found the place empty, got pissed off and killed the dog. Jaz was
warming to this version of events. Maybe Tommy never came to the
cottage in the first place. Maybe someone else killed the dog. Jaz
rinsed his cup at the sink and put it back where he got it, his
mind made up.

The phone in
the hall had the call light flashing. He pulled his cuff down to
cover his finger and pressed the play button. MacRae’s voice was
gruff and Jaz could have sworn he heard a muffled curse before the
message. MacRae wasn’t pleased to find no one home and said he
would call back later. Jaz dialled 1471, wrote the number on the
telephone pad, tore it off and stuck it in his pocket.

He would look
for Tommy first, then contact MacRae. Jaz wasn’t sure who he was
more frightened of, Tommy Moffat, or MacRae when he found out his
kid was missing.

Outside, the
moon was filling the back garden with washed out light. Avoiding
the blanketed figure of the dog, Jaz struggled over the fence and
headed into the wood.

MacRae flung
the phone on the desk. ‘If that punk’s gone anywhere near Amy I’ll
kill him.’

‘Hold on, Sev,’
Rhona tried. ‘Is there any reason why Amy and Gillian wouldn’t be
at the cottage? Could they have gone out somewhere?’

‘Where, for
Chrissake?’

‘Visiting a
neighbour?’

MacRae was
making a concentrated effort not to shout at her. ‘Amy talked about
watching the Hogmanay celebrations.’

Rhona looked at
him. ‘Sky!’

‘Gillian’s
mother doesn’t have Sky.’

‘So maybe they
went somewhere that did?’

MacRae looked
stricken. ‘I don’t know anyone up there. I don’t know where to
phone and find out.’

Rhona looked at
MacFarlane and he nodded imperceptibly.

‘We’ll send a
car to check the cottage,’ he said to MacRae. ‘Then we’ll make some
enquiries. It’s a rural area. Probably everyone within a twenty
mile radius will know where Gillian and Amy are tonight.’

MacRae looked
relieved. ‘Thanks.’

The café was
half empty. Rhona went to the counter and brought back two mugs of
scaldingly hot tea. MacRae was sitting at the same table they’d
used at their first meeting.

‘Knew you’d
want to be near the Ladies,’ he said.

‘After you
drink this, you’ll want to be near the Gents.’

They sat in
silence. Rhona could hear the distant music, a fast reel that got
faster by the minute. In a few minutes the dance would stop and the
concert begin. Maybe MacRae was right all along. Maybe it was a
hoax and the Torch never intended to target tonight or any other
night in the celebrations. Maybe he just wanted them running around
thinking he would.

A different
kind of music was signalling the start of the concert. Different
from the mad whirl of fiddle and bagpipe, this was a soaring sound.
Hauntingly Celtic.

MacRae checked
his mobile.

‘MacFarlane
will contact us as soon as he has word about Amy,’ Rhona assured
him.

‘I think I’ll
head up there tomorrow.’

‘Good
idea.’

‘Assuming all
goes well tonight.’

‘It will.’
Rhona said with a certainty she wasn’t sure she felt. ‘I think you
were right,’ she answered the cynical look. ‘I think he wanted to
put the wind up us. That’s all.’

‘He
succeeded.’

‘So where does
that leave Jaz?’

‘Jaz is a
punk,’ he said without malice. ‘He might be involved in the drug
fires but he isn’t the Torch.’

‘No, he isn’t,’
she agreed.

The ring of the
mobile stopped whatever MacRae planned to say next. Rhona watched
his relief as he listened to the message. He slipped the mobile
back in his pocket.

‘Gillian and
Amy are at the hotel with the rest of the village, watching the
concert on the big screen. Gillian says she’ll phone in the
morning.’

He reached for
the half bottle in his pocket and threw some into his tea. ‘On the
subject of Jaz. The local policeman says no one fitting his
description has been seen in the village.’

‘Where did he
go, then?’

‘Maybe he
needed to disappear for a while. Maybe he was getting on someone’s
nerves,’ MacRae suggested.

‘If there is
some connection between him and Robbie Stevens... ’ Rhona didn’t
finish. In the last ten minutes Jaz had moved from being the
villain to being the hunted in both their minds.

MacRae stood
up. ‘Fancy some fresh air?’

They cut up
into George Street. The crowd had dispersed, the dance billed as
‘the longest Strip-the-Willow in the world’ was over. The big
old-fashioned clock that hung above the door of the bookshop showed
eleven o’clock.

‘I could walk
you back to Greg’s,’ MacRae offered.

‘Maybe we
should hang around a bit longer?’

‘MacFarlane
will get in touch if we’re needed.’

They walked in
a comfortable silence. The air was sharp, the pavement sparkling
with frost. The sound of the concert retreated into the distance as
they skirted Charlotte Square and headed along Shandwick Place.
Rhona wondered, not for the first time, what Severino MacRae would
be like off the job. Then she wondered if he ever was off the job.
He put the job before everything, like she did.

By the time
they reached the flat, cars were filling the westbound carriageway
with families heading home. Rhona could tell by the set of MacRae’s
shoulders how relieved he was. She felt the same. Above them Greg’s
windows were in darkness. She suddenly didn’t want to walk into an
empty flat. MacRae must have guessed what she was thinking.

‘I could do
with a coffee,’ he said.

He was sitting
with his back to her, watching the fire. Rhona sat the coffee on
the table then on an impulse fetched the whisky decanter from the
cabinet.

MacRae accepted
the glass without comment and moved over so she could sit next to
him on the sofa.

‘One down. Two
to go.’ He lifted his glass.

‘I don’t think
Greg’ll be happy if we finish his whisky.’

‘You know what
I mean.’ His voice softened. He moved his face close to hers. ‘We
make a good team,’ he said gently.

He watched her
reaction, his eyes bright blue in the firelight. Time hung for a
moment between them, then he ran his finger gently down her
cheek.

‘So what
happens now?’ he said.

The sound of
the siren woke her. Rhona rolled over searching for the light
switch. The ambulance screamed past and the room dropped back into
silence. She glanced at the clock. She hadn’t heard Greg come in.
For a moment she thought about visiting his room to check, then
decided against it in case the boyfriend was curled up in bed
beside him.

‘Hey.’ MacRae
was standing at the door.

‘Hey.’

‘You couldn’t
point me in the direction of the shower?’

‘Three doors
down on the left,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’
MacRae smiled wryly. ‘And by the way, the couch was as comfortable
as you said it would be.’

Turning
Severino MacRae down had been harder than Rhona could ever have
imagined. It was a classic scenario; those who get frightened
together, end up in bed together.

He’d taken the
rejection well. Maybe too well for her ego.

When he
re-appeared, she was in the kitchen, coffee at the ready. He sat
opposite her and proceeded to take in the designer
surroundings.

‘Don’t say a
word,’ she warned him.

‘I wouldn’t
dream of it,’ he answered sweetly. ‘Where’s the owner?’

‘If he’s not
asleep next door then he’s with his latest, who gave me a hell of a
fright last night by appearing from nowhere. He’s got a key, so it
must be serious.’

They lapsed
into silence, Rhona trying to keep her mind off what the morning
might have been.

‘So what
happens now?’ she said.

‘We’ve had that
conversation. You turned me down, remember?’

Rhona changed
the subject. ‘You said you were going north.’

MacRae’s face
darkened. ‘I’ve decided against it. We’d only argue in front of Amy
and I don’t want that. Anyway the Hogmanay celebrations aren’t over
yet.’

Two days still
to go.

‘I can hang
around here if it helps?’

‘Better get
back to your own murder. Knowing the mean city there will be plenty
of forensic work for you over the next couple of days.’

Glasgow at
Hogmanay. A whole year’s Friday and Saturday nights rolled into
one. Sentimentality and violence walking hand in hand. A lethal
combination.

They parted
company at the door. MacRae didn’t look back as he went down the
stairs. Rhona waited till she heard the front door slam then went
in. MacRae was trouble, in more ways than one.

It took an hour
to pack and tidy up. She eventually knocked on Greg’s bedroom door
and glanced inside. The bed hadn’t been slept in. He must have
spent the night at Justin’s. Rhona wondered if she should call him
then decided to leave a ‘thank you’ note instead.

The journey
back was uneventful. Clear cold skies clouded over as she neared
Harthill bringing thick sleet against the window. A text message
came in ten minutes later, making her heart skip a beat.

Hillhead
Underground 8?

Liam

Rhona texted
back ‘yes’.

Chapter
24

The motorbike
wasn’t difficult to trace. The girl in the petrol station at the
village was only too glad to talk about it.

Jaz emerged
with a can of coke, a sandwich, an invitation to a party and
exactly what he wanted to know. The whereabouts of Tommy
Moffat.

Tommy had
arrived at the petrol station at about nine. Jaz imagined the
girl’s paroxysms of delight that someone with a cool motorbike was
planning to spend Hogmanay in the village. He’d asked for somewhere
to stay and she’d suggested her mum’s Bed and Breakfast. Tommy had
agreed and then asked her what he really wanted to know, where
Skiach Lodge was. The girl had given him directions.

Jaz hadn’t made
quite the same impact. No motorbike and no cool gear, but she’d
invited him to the party anyway. After all, tomorrow was
Hogmanay.

Frost was
forming on the road and now and then a slither of frozen rain hit
his face. Jaz passed a hotel bar loud with convivial voices. A kid
pushed the door open and rushed outside, another kid following.
They swung in a cold circle then dashed back in. Jaz almost
followed them into the blast of warmth and good humour.

At the end of a
string of houses, the road forked. Skiach Lodge was on the left
hand fork.

As he passed
the last street lamp, the way ahead grew murky. The pavement
dwindled to a narrow track between the tar and the bordering trees,
forcing Jaz to stumble along in the icy rain. He wondered if it was
raining as heavily in Edinburgh. MacRae would like that, he
decided. It would put a damper on the whole proceedings. Jaz swung
his thoughts away from MacRae and the woman forensic. He had his
own job to do.

Skiach Lodge
was well hidden by trees, protected from the gaze of the casual
passer-by. Ten minutes later, Jaz was over the wall and into the
dense, wet undergrowth of wintering rhododendrons. He was soaked
through and the bitter wind clawed at his chest. Whatever happened
he had to find shelter soon.

He made for the
back entrance. A gate led through a high wall into ridges of frozen
soil. Ahead, a kitchen window shone a welcome. Jaz kept hard
against the wall and risked a look.

He had to admit
the bastard looked at home. His feet were up on the fender, a can
of lager at his mouth. Jaz wanted to crush the can down Tommy’s
fucking throat. He clenched his teeth to smother his anger and
listened.

Tommy was
talking to somebody. Jaz couldn’t see who it was but he knew it was
female. Tommy was on his feet now, thrusting his tight jeaned hips
forward to show off the hard dick. The girl came into view. She was
getting the message alright. She slipped between Tommy and the
kitchen table. Tommy drained the last drop of his can and pulled
down his zip.

Tommy’s
attention was fully occupied, for the moment. Jaz took the chance
to get inside unnoticed.