THE SHADOW MAN
Helen Fields

Copyright

Published by AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Copyright © Helen Fields 2021

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover photographs © Jane Morley/Trevillion Images (main image), Tim Robinson/Trevillion Images (shadow of man)

Helen Fields asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008379308

Ebook Edition © February 2021 ISBN: 9780008379315

Version: 2020-12-25

PRAISE FOR HELEN FIELDS

‘Read it in two sittings. I literally had no choice. A fast and enthralling thriller’

Paul Finch

‘Watch out Rebus, McRae and Perez, there’s a new detective in the running to become Scotland’s fictional top cop … a real cracker of a page-turner that is truly difficult to put down’

Scotland Correspondent

‘Deliciously dark and gritty. Another winner from the hugely talented Helen Fields’

Caroline Mitchell

‘Must read! With nail-biting twists at every turn, this will have readers gripped from start to finish’

Closer

‘Compelling, breathtaking and a tense ride from that unbelievable opening scene right to the last word. Brilliant!’

Angela Marsons

‘A tightly plotted tale of obsession and manipulation’

Woman

‘An edge-of-the-seat thriller from this accomplished writer’

Isabel Ashdown

‘Without a doubt, this is one of the best first detective series I have read’

Woman’s Way

‘Utterly compelling and dizzyingly twisted, with characters so real they could step off the page’

B P Walter

PRAISE FOR THE SHADOW MAN

‘The Shadow Man is so chilling. With a dark, compelling plot and brilliantly drawn characters, you will be hooked from the first page’

Debbie Howells

‘The Shadow Man is a terrifying police procedural, packed with suspense and a killer from your worst nightmares. A truly unique protagonist pitted against a chilling killer, it was hard to put this book down until the very end’

Vicki Bradley

‘Atmospheric writing, breath-taking pace and fascinating characters. I loved it’

Suzy K Quinn

‘A VERY dark read! Complex, intriguing characters, a compelling plot and good dynamics between partners make this a standout read of the year so far’

NetGalley Review, 5 stars

‘From the first page to the last, this story grabs you and doesn’t let you go. An absolute page-turner of a book and spine tinglingly brilliant! Set against the backdrop of Edinburgh, the characters and the city literally come alive on the page. You feel every emotion the characters go through’

NetGalley Review, 5 stars

‘This is the best book I have read for quite a long time. It kept me hooked throughout and although I’ve enjoyed all of Helen’s books, I think this surpasses her others – which takes some doing’

NetGalley Review, 5 stars

‘Thoroughly enjoyed this book. Brilliant storytelling with a cracking pace’

NetGalley Review, 5 stars

‘This is a standalone novel from Helen Fields – whose Perfect detective series I LOVE – and golly, it is clever. It is quick, and it is shocking in some areas – but the depth of research and quality of writing is exceptional’

NetGalley Review, 5 stars

‘A five-star read! A brilliant new character in Dr Woolwine and also a very creepy villain. I like the way a character from the brilliant DI Callanach series is in the book also. Would love to see this as a new series’

NetGalley Review, 5 stars

Dedication

For Caroline Hardman

Funny, talented, kind and (thankfully) extremely patient

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Helen Fields

Praise for The Shadow Man

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

From a distance, the grave appeared freshly dug and empty. To the birds overhead though, vision sharp enough to spot the briefest wiggle of worm or skitter of insect, an older coffin was visible in the depths of the hole. Time had rotted the wooden lid. Time, and the pressure of another coffin stacked on top of it. A family grave stores both more memories and more bodies than a single resting place.

This hole in the ground, if earth could tell tales, would be fit to burst with stories. Of bodies come and gone. Of hope and disappointment. Of dirt disturbed more often than any resting place should ever have to bear. Few visitors attended that sombre space, and those who did had not ventured to the far edge for many years. The cemetery was ancient and unused to new requests for burials. It stood beyond the outer limits of the city, in a circle of trees that kept prying eyes out and the spirits of the dead in.

One man came and went as needed. He visited a grave there – and sometimes brought others with him. He would sit in the grass and talk to a gravestone, listening intently, as if waiting for a response. Sometimes he would dig a coffin up, and sometimes he would bury it. Always the same one. Half the time, there was a soul to inter. Sometimes, more than one. Months later he would reappear. Then he would clear out the coffin. Place new flowers at the gravestone. Put away the remains in the boot of his car, after careful stripping and cleaning. Drag the coffin into the bushes and fill the hole in the earth.

The birds did not sing on the days he appeared there. No rodent ran through the grounds or hopped from tree branch to tree branch. The sun hid behind clouds. The world seemed to know more tears were to be shed. Now, the uppermost section of the family grave stood empty again. Merely a matter of waiting for the space to be occupied. Time stood still here, the same ritual repeated, until the grave was little more than a revolving door between one world and the next.

Chapter One

A sleeping woman watched over by the stranger who had hidden for hours in the shadowed bay of her bedroom curtains. That’s all there was to the scene. He was a spider, patient and unmoving, poised to drop and stun his prey. There was no malice to it. Only need. The white sheet covering her body rose and fell with each breath in the oblivion of slumber. Three steps forwards and he could reach out and touch her, run his hands through her long dark hair, press the half moon of his fingernail into the dimple that punctuated her right cheek as she smiled. His arms would wrap around her frame perfectly.

In his mind, he’d measured every part of her. Twice, he’d passed by close enough to brush her body with his, once in the street, once in the school playground. The latter was a risk, but it had proved fruitful. In the beginning, he’d been concerned that the watching phase might be dull. How wrong he was. Familiarising himself with the lives of the ones he’d chosen had become his oxygen as the rest of his world had started to fade.

He ran appreciative fingers over the top of the dresser at his side. No dust. No sticky fingerprints from the children. Angela was all wife, mother, and homemaker. Her bedroom was the epitome of family. Photographs adorned the walls. A wedding, more than a decade ago, with a bride leaning into the arms of her groom, her dress demure, hair pinned up with just a few curls left hanging. A promise for later that night, Fergus thought.

It had taken months of patience to find a time when her husband would be away, then he’d struck gold. The man of the house had treated the children – a boy of seven and a girl of five – to a camping trip for a night, enjoying Edinburgh’s idyllic August. The husband couldn’t have realised it, but the experience would be good practice. After tonight, he would be a single parent unless he married again. Fergus couldn’t imagine why anyone would try to replace Angela. She was everything.

Each morning she walked her children to school, the boy racing ahead, sometimes on a scooter, while the girl held fast to her mother’s hand. He liked to watch them all together. Angela’s face wore an indelible smile when she was with her offspring. He’d never seen her looking tired or cross. In all the hours, all the journeys he’d witnessed, she hadn’t rolled her eyes, yawned or snapped at them. In the photos on the bedroom walls, she was not just a parent but utterly engaged in the act of parenting. He studied those pictures one last time, committing each to memory. There she was hugging her son as he clutched some sports trophy, and there she was laughing as she made cupcakes with her daughter, beaming with love. And there they were as a family on their bikes, pausing as a passerby took their photograph, defining togetherness.

Fergus had been in that bedroom before. He’d taken pieces of her home with him. A silky soft shirt from the laundry basket. A lipstick from her handbag. Nail clippings from her bathroom, still showing the colour of her toenail varnish. There was a whole section dedicated to her in his own bedroom, and a file. Paper, not digital. He was ill, not stupid. Computers could be hacked. The information he’d gathered was from the real world. Her date of birth and marriage certificate had been obtained from official records. He knew where she shopped, which doctor’s surgery she attended, who her friends were. A timeline constructed from his labours provided an accurate structure of her week.

Her kitchen bin was an endless source of intelligence. She rarely chose precooked meals or processed foods, preferring fresh fruits and vegetables. There were no magazines, but the odd newspaper was recycled. Angela liked hard soap bars rather than liquid soap dispensers. And she was on the pill. The discarded wrapper from the previous month was in his file, too. No more children planned, for now at least. She was content.

Edging closer to the bed, he breathed in her scent. She’d bathed before slipping between the sheets. He’d been in the house long before that. Easier to allow her the reassurance of checking each window and door, believing that anything that might do her harm was safely beyond the boundaries of her home. As she’d soaked in the steaming water, lavender bubbles caressing her skin, he’d made sure her curtains were drawn and taken the keys from the lock in the back door. No point taking chances. If she got spooked or surprised him and ran, he couldn’t allow her to exit the property.

When all was secure, he’d sat outside her bathroom door and listened to her humming. He’d imagined her running the pale green flannel up and down her arms, her legs, between her breasts and around the back of her neck. He’d waited as she’d read the book he’d noticed on her bed, resting on a freshly laundered towel and her dressing gown. When he’d heard the cascade of water that signalled her standing, he’d shifted position into the window alcove, behind her curtains, focusing on breathing silently and remaining still. There were windows open in the upstairs bedroom to allow some of the cooler night air in, and he’d planned to close those once she was sleeping soundly. If she screamed, the noise would travel out into the crescent, and her neighbours would be alerted. Fergus couldn’t allow that to happen.

Now, she was right in front of him. So much hard work had brought him to this moment, he almost couldn’t bear for it to end. Until he looked in the mirror. Hung on the end wall of the bedroom, opposite the window, it reflected Angela’s pretty head on her pillow, and the man looming over her. While her hair was gleaming and vibrant, his harshly shaven mat was greying prematurely, thinning more than anyone in their late thirties should have to tolerate. His eyes were pale in the scant light that entered from a streetlamp beyond the curtains, but he could still make out their watery blue, surrounded by creases of red on white. But it was his skin that told the real story. A greener shade of white. Waxy, sallow, wanting.

Fergus Ariss was dying.

However long he had left, there was insufficient time to achieve everything. He’d dreamed of travelling. In his twenties, he’d had a world map on his wall. The idea was to scratch off a section of chalky paint every time he took a trip. A school visit to France had offered one country beyond the United Kingdom’s borders, then came a friend’s stag weekend in Amsterdam. He’d always wanted to go to the USA. To explore Peru. The Great Wall of China was his ultimate goal. Now, he had to fulfil all of his dying wishes in Scotland. Even the borders were too far to cross at this stage.

His body had betrayed him. There was nothing the doctors could do, in spite of their protestations that he should let them assist. He could smell the rot of his own body. No herb or spice could mask the taste of death in his mouth. There was pain and grief, then there were moments of clarity when he understood that death would be a release. Months of hospital treatment weren’t the answer. Prolonging life regardless of the quality of that time was nothing more than fading away. He didn’t want to fade any more than he already had. He wanted to blaze a trail into the next life. But there was so little time, and so much left to do. Starting with Angela.

After creeping around the end of the bed and slipping off his shoes, he slid his body weight gently onto the mattress. A smile flitted across Angela’s face as his body joined hers. He fitted behind her like a puzzle piece, and she murmured as he slid his arm over her waist, pushing his face gently into her neck and breathing the scent of her shampoo. She was so warm in his arms. So soft. Destined for him.

Then she woke, took a breath sharp enough to push Fergus’ chest from her back, and every muscle in her body seized. She jolted, but he’d been ready for it. He squeezed his arm around her, dragging her backwards into him, snaking his free hand under her neck and over her mouth.

‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘Angela, you have to trust me. I’m not here to hurt you.’

She tried kicking, going for his shins with her heels, but the sheet hampered the force of her movements, and Fergus shifted his right leg on top of both of hers. Her breath was hot and wet in his hand, and her head was a wild creature whipping left and right. He waited it out. There were no surprises. He’d played the scenario out in his head hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. In his pocket was a handkerchief, and on it was a carefully measured dose of chloroform. There were things he wanted to do with Angela, and those things required her not to fight him. Fergus wanted her pristine.

‘Let it out,’ he said. ‘I know you’re scared and confused, but I chose you.’

Angela heaved forwards, rolling her mouth hard onto his fingers and biting down. Fergus tried to keep his grip on her, but his hand betrayed him. His fingers shot out straight and his wrist flicked backwards, giving Angela the space to bend her head forwards then smack it backwards into Fergus’ face, the rear of her skull a true weapon, splitting Fergus’ nose from between his eyes to below the bridge. The pillow became a mess of bloodied hair. He couldn’t see, and his face was a mask of agony. Only his right arm and leg remained steadfast, holding her in place. She spat, and a chunk of something warm and soft landed on his hand as he pinned her to the bed. The flesh was from his finger, he realised as he rolled her onto her back and slid his body on top of hers before she could attempt an escape.

‘’S all righ’, lemme help you,’ he muttered.

Blood droplets from his face burst juicily as they hit hers. Angela began to sob.

‘I’m not cross. Don’t cry,’ Fergus said.

Fergus pulled the handkerchief from his pocket with his right hand, shifting his left forearm to rest solidly across her breastbone. She gushed air.

‘Please don’t …’

‘Hurt you? Why would I? I’m your one true love, Angela.’

He pressed the handkerchief to her lips. A cotton kiss in the dark. Angela’s hips bucked beneath him, and he imagined a different bed, her holding him, wanting him on top of her.

Her neck arched. She did her best to fight, but he wanted her compliance more than she wanted her freedom. Desperation had fine-tuned him into an extraordinary beast. He could smell her toothpaste, and it was a field of wild mint. The diamonds in her eyes were more riches than he had ever imagined he would own.

Then the bedside lamp was arcing through the air. Had it been switched on, he knew it would have left a rainbow of light in its wake. Even as he saw it coming, he recognised it was too late for avoidance. Shattering on contact with his cheekbone, the pottery base turned gravel and took root in his flesh.

Angela fought harder as Fergus swayed, his head a wasp nest as he reeled from the injuries to his nose and cheek. The important thing was to keep the handkerchief over her mouth until she was asleep, but his hand was trembling and weak, and now he could see two Angelas, neither of them clearly. His hand needed help to maintain the pressure, so he pushed his forehead down on top of his own hand, doubling the force and allowing him to close his eyes for a moment. If he lost consciousness now, it was over. If she got out from under him, he was done. Everything he wanted, what pathetic time he had left, would be smoke.

She battered him with one fist. He had to take back control until she complied.

With one last monumental effort, Fergus raised his body a few inches then slammed his whole weight onto her ribcage. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and her fingertips scratched weakly at his knuckles. The bed was wet, he realised. His knee rested in a damp, warm patch. That was fine. A success, in fact. She was relaxing. Surrendering. His whole head buzzed and burned, tidal nausea swept over him. Fergus let her hand slide from his grasp as the world pixelated then faded. His body covering hers like a blanket, the handkerchief then his hand and finally his head resting on her mouth, Fergus could resist unconsciousness no longer.

Was it possible that death was coming for him so much sooner than he’d anticipated? Fergus breathed deeply, trying to catch hold of the pain, yearning to stay in the moment with Angela, but there was a roundabout spinning mercilessly in his head, and he couldn’t get off her, couldn’t have lifted his head or moved his hand from her mouth if his life had depended on it.

Angela’s body juddered beneath his.

He couldn’t get off.

Angela inhaled ragged, raw breaths through her nose as the chemical held over her mouth worked its magic.

He couldn’t get off.

The last breath he heard leave her body was an inhuman rattle. He longed to comfort her, to tell her he was sorry. There was so much he’d wanted to do with her, and it had all gone so dreadfully wrong. Now, he had to start over. And first he would have to find someone new.

Chapter Two

Night-time was her time. The day’s colours had faded, and in the grey hues she was finally equal to those around her. Connie Woolwine exited the imposing Balmoral Hotel and crossed the road towards Leith Walk. It was midnight, and still the heat bounced up off Edinburgh’s roads. The late-licence pubs were turning out. She could hear both singing and sobbing from the crowds of revellers, depending on the level of drunkenness. Carrying only her hotel key card in one pocket of her jeans and her mobile in the other, she walked past the crowds, enjoying the stretch in her legs after a long flight and the sense of liberation she knew would come from allowing herself to get lost in a foreign city.

It was her first trip to Scotland. Six hours and counting. The buildings were so steeped in history and architectural perfection that they might have been conjured rather than built. Lights from tall buildings scattered moving images on the bustling streets. It was humanity soup, reminding her a little of Boston, Massachusetts. Taking a left into Union Street, she marvelled at how safe the city felt. Every person who lived there a 24-hour witness to the comings and goings around them. So much connectivity. Edinburgh’s city centre was a human body, each street a blood vessel, with so few areas that were exclusively business or commerce. It was a city you could live in, rather than simply exist.

A catcall interrupted her thoughts, and she turned her head towards the man who’d issued the unwelcome quasi-compliment. Other men surrounded her as she made eye contact with the one who’d expressed an interest. A cloud of alcohol fumes assaulted her nose, and she breathed in beer and cheap liquor freshly deposited into the stomachs of the twenty-somethings who were obviously suffering a high level of drunken delusions.

‘You on your own then, love?’ the catcaller asked.

The accent was English rather than Scots. She’d spent enough time in London to recognise the East End vowel sounds.

‘I’m meeting someone. Excuse me,’ she replied, keeping it light but icy as she tried to take a step forward.

‘You’re American. Should’ve known with an arse like that. Don’t see many that tight where we’re from.’

He moved clumsily forward and Connie sidestepped him, pushing her shoulder between two of his mates to exit the group.

‘Don’t be a bitch. We were just having a laugh,’ one of his companions added.

She allowed herself a private eye-roll and kept walking.

‘Stupid cow. Can’t take a joke,’ he insisted when she didn’t retaliate.

Keeping her gaze forward, she neither rushed nor slowed down.

‘Think you’re better than us, do—’

His hand was on her right buttock for no more than a second before she’d grabbed it by the wrist, wheeled around, and dug her thumbnail hard and deep into the half-moon lunula at the base of his index fingernail. Connie released him as his scream hit the air, and he leapt backwards, clutching his hand.

‘She bloody tasered me or something. Shit.’ He clutched his hand to his stomach, eyes watering.

Connie turned and stood her ground.

‘The pain’s already gone,’ she said. ‘It only lasts while the pressure’s on. You assaulted me and I’m entitled to defend myself. I’m going to walk up the road now, and none of you should follow me. I have a tendency to overreact when someone touches me. Next time, the injury won’t be so transient.’

There was a group shuffling and some muffled swearing, but no one seemed keen to take her on. Connie nodded, turned and continued towards Gayfield Street. She was expected in the gardens at Gayfield Square imminently, and she didn’t want to keep the man waiting.

She left at a regular pace. Running would have been a mistake. Showing any level of fear always was. Predatory men were no different than mountain lions – that was how it had been explained to her in the self-defence classes she’d attended religiously in her early twenties. A mountain lion could be fooled into thinking you weren’t lunch if you stood your ground, made yourself look big and stared it down. Turn away, run, show weakness, and you were a walking entrée. Ordinary testosterone-fuelled men were rarely intimidating to her now, though. Drunk idiots threw punches. Icy-cold restraint was much harder to fight.

Connie turned a corner and realised that the word ‘gardens’ after the name Gayfield was something of an overstatement. The grass had withered in the exceptional heat. A couple of forlorn benches were available as seating, and there were trees around the edge of the flora that had been preserved in the midst of the rectangle of buildings, but that was it. Cars were parked all around the edge, and there wasn’t a square yard that escaped being overlooked by some building or other. It wasn’t somewhere she could feel relaxed as she read a book on a blanket, or picnicked with a friend. It was a walk-through more than a venue to stop and smell the roses.

‘Are you waiting for someone?’ a man asked.

He stood a short distance behind her, taller than her by a head at well over six feet.

‘Did you know it was me, or do you randomly walk up to women at night and say that, because it’s likely to get you in trouble?’

‘God, yes, stupid of me. I should’ve simply introduced myself. I just assumed …’

‘That’s okay.’ She held out a hand for him to shake. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Baarda, right?’

He was in his late forties, tall with curly brown hair, broad shoulders, and a physique that shouted former sportsman who’d recently begun to lose the will to exercise.

‘Right.’ He shook her hand enthusiastically. ‘And you’re Dr Woolwine.’

‘Connie,’ she said. ‘Let’s walk.’ Dropping his hand, she led the way off the grass and into the road, looking up at the surrounding buildings as they went. ‘Not much in the way of obvious CCTV, in spite of all the buildings. Do the police have anything at all?’

‘Little if any that will help. Sunset was eight thirty-eight on 20 August. Elspeth Dunwoody disappeared at around nine thirty p.m. She was seen entering the gardens at five past nine from another road, and her car was caught on cameras two roads away at nine twenty-four p.m. After that, nothing. Most of the CCTV is focused on doorways and the pavement areas. There’s a distant shot of her climbing into her car, but nothing close up.’

‘You’ve seen the footage?’ Connie asked, standing centrally on one particular parking spot and taking photos of the 360-degree view around it on her mobile.

‘Not yet. I only arrived from London this afternoon. I checked in with the Major Investigation Team, looked through the file, then checked in at my hotel and came here. Apologies, I should have made it a priority to view the CCTV. Careless of me.’

‘You don’t have to apologise to me; I’m just the hired help. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here at this stage. It’s not my usual kind of case. Here, stand with me. I want to know which of these flats are residential and which are business.’

‘Um, should we not perhaps wait until a more social hour for that sort of—’

‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Now, look around and give me a percentage idea of the curtain-twitching response we get.’

‘Sorry, what exactly are you about to—’

Her scream was an arrow through the midnight air, piercing the fiercest double glazing and the thickest of curtains.

‘One, two, three, four … There we go,’ Connie muttered as the first onlooker peered out, followed by the flicking on of lights and the opening of windows.

‘Someone will phone the police,’ Baarda said quietly.

‘Good. I’d like to know precisely how long before there’s a reaction to an incident around here.’

A door opened and a man walked out sporting a plaid dressing gown. Connie couldn’t suppress the smile.

‘Do you need assistance? Is that man bothering you?’

‘Thanks for checking on me. And he’s a police officer, so we’re good.’

‘Well, then you’ve woken up the entire square for no reason. Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself.’

He exuded the attitude that only the truly monied managed to develop and a loudness of voice that was designed to indicate superiority. Connie ran a distracted hand through her hair and shoved her hands in her pockets as she stepped closer to the male.

‘Were you at home between nine and nine thirty p.m. on August 20th?’ Connie asked, ignoring the request for an explanation as if she simply hadn’t heard.

‘I suppose I must have been. I rarely go out in the evenings, but I don’t see the relevance of the question.’

‘Did you hear any screams that evening? Anything that made you look out of the window or feel concerned. Perhaps your neighbours mentioned a disturbance to you the next day.’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s a quiet square most of the time, but certainly when most of the traffic has left the city at the end of the day.’ He pulled his dressing gown cord sharply and smoothed his hair. ‘I should go in.’ He looked up at the neighbouring windows, many of whose frames were now filled by curious faces.

‘Of course,’ Connie said. ‘Appreciate the help.’

Baarda stared at her as the man walked, head held high, back into his home. Connie smiled as he disappeared. She couldn’t get her head round dressing gowns.

‘Do you have one of those?’ she asked Baarda, a slight lift at one corner of her mouth.

‘I, er, suppose I do. Could I just ask …’

‘You can,’ she said. ‘But please feel free to stop asking if you can ask something before you actually ask it. Kind of a waste of time. It’s not as if I’m ever going to say no.’

Baarda’s phone rang.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘No need to send units. We’re in that exact location. No incident here. Righty-ho.’

‘Righty-ho?’ Connie laughed. ‘Holy crap, it’s like I joined the cast of Downton Abbey. Where did you go to school, Eton?’

Baarda’s darkening cheeks were visible even in the poorly lit square.

‘You did! Wow, I thought Eton was reserved for royalty.’

‘Popular myth,’ Baarda murmured. ‘You do know we’re still being watched. We should probably relocate somewhere more discreet.’

‘Probably,’ Connie said in her best British accent, standing her ground and staring back at the onlookers. ‘Elspeth wasn’t disappeared from here, though. She went willingly. This is a high-end residential area with people who respond to noise, so it’s unusual. Scream in New York and people just turn up their TVs. Here, the residents actively object. There were what, twenty, maybe even thirty eyes on us? At nine thirty in the evening, someone would have taken a look, and Elspeth would have screamed a lot louder and longer than me if she were being abducted.’

‘And yet she’s gone,’ Baarda said.

Connie folded her arms and leaned against a lamppost, face turned towards the stars.

‘People disappear every day. They can’t cope with the stress of their job or discover they’ve got a terrible illness. They suddenly see their face in the mirror and decide they hate themselves. I could give you a thousand reasons. I may not be able to tell you yet why Elspeth’s gone, but I can tell you that no one forced her into a car here against her will.’

‘Because she didn’t scream?’ Baarda asked. ‘They might have been holding a knife to her throat or a gun to her back. Silence isn’t necessarily indicative of acquiescence.’

‘It’s not,’ Connie said, pointing at him. ‘But modern media’s done us a few favours that have changed our behaviour. Women in particular understand that once you climb into a car with an assailant, you’ve given away the power. You’ll most likely be raped, probably killed after that. Most women would risk a bullet or a knife wound rather than get into a car, well aware that the journey would likely be their last.’

‘And if her abductor had threatened her children? Not difficult to do – say their names, ages, the home address, perhaps their school. What mother wouldn’t comply to protect her offspring?’

‘Offspring?’

‘Children,’ Baarda said.

‘I know what it means,’ she said. ‘It’s just kind of clinical. But I agree, that’s a much more effective way to manipulate a woman. Her abductor would have to have been stalking her for some time. If it were me, I’d have tried to leave a trail. Dropped my bag, slipped off my watch or a ring, tripped and left blood droplets on the ground. Anything to say I was here and now I’m gone. I’m in danger. I take it the area’s been forensically searched?’

‘Apparently so. Nothing found,’ Baarda said. ‘So what’s your competing theory?’

‘That you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Why threaten a woman and make her skittish when you can present yourself in a perfectly believable way? Fake IDs are easy to get hold of – pretend to be a police officer. Tell her that she’s needed at the scene of an accident, for example. Get her out of the city into a dead-end road. From there, it’s pretty simple.’

‘Her car hasn’t been found,’ Baarda noted.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Tell me something, what are we doing here?’

Baarda gave a fleeting smile and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Police work,’ he said.

‘I’m a forensic psychologist. I help work up profiles on serial killers. Yet here I am, paid for at the taxpayers’ expense. You’ve even been drafted up here out of London.’

‘Edinburgh’s MIT are flooded. They have officers out of the jurisdiction working with Interpol and others missing owing to ill health. They needed cover,’ Baarda said. ‘No mystery there.’

‘Except this isn’t a murder case. It’s a disappearance with no sign of foul play or a struggle. Come on, you know more than you’re telling. Share.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘You shrugged. A shrug is an affectation. It’s rarely involuntary, like widening your eyes when you’re shocked. You were trying to appear casual and deflect. It’s a dead giveaway.’

Baarda sighed. ‘I was given the heads-up that she’s someone’s daughter-in-law.’

‘Businessman, celebrity or politician?’ Connie asked.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Only if you want an accurate profile of her abductor. If she disappeared for political reasons, it’ll be a different personality type to someone who’ll kidnap for financial reasons. If it’s someone prominent in lawmaking or enforcement, it could be a revenge scenario. I could list endlessly, but it’d be faster to summarise with yes, it matters.’

‘Head of a global tech company, widely known for his philanthropy, more political contacts than I could name … and I take your point.’

‘But somehow that’s been kept quiet so far. Not even a hint of a media leak.’

‘My guess is that everyone involved believes this is an extortion attempt and that a leak could mean a sudden and tragic end to Elspeth’s life. I was as surprised as you that I was paired up with a profiler. As far as this being at the taxpayers’ expense goes, I’m sure contributions will be made that far outweigh the actual cost to the country, but this way we have the entire police facilities and intelligence at our disposal.’

‘I see,’ Connie murmured, moving closer to him and lowering her voice. ‘You know, I can’t profile someone we’re not sure exists. Sounds to me as if Elspeth was living a high-pressure life. The sort of life where you might just hop on a train then hitch a lift somewhere until you’re well and truly lost.’

‘Do you think that’s what she did?’ Baarda asked.

‘I’m a forensic psychologist, not a psychic. I’ll need to meet with the family tomorrow if I’m going to help. Can you set that up?’

‘Sure, but not until morning.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s too late to call anyone now. I hired a car. I can give you a lift back to your hotel if you like?’

‘That’d be good,’ Connie said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all. There wasn’t much choice of vehicle left, I’m afraid. I had no option but to take the bright yellow monstrosity over there.’ He gestured to the far side of the square.

Connie stared blankly. ‘No one warned you?’ she asked.

Baarda frowned.

‘I’m an achromat. A head injury when I was eighteen resulted in a bleed in my skull. When they operated to remove the haematoma from my brain, I was left able to see only in black and white, and shades thereof. I’m afraid you’ll have to learn to do better with your descriptions where colour’s concerned.’

‘You literally can’t see any colour at all?’

‘I remember colours, but not as abstracts. I can place colour linked to an object, a place, sometimes even an emotion. You’ll get used to it.’

‘Have you?’ he asked.

Connie paused. ‘I find it easier to read facial expressions accurately, landscapes are somehow more beautiful, sunsets are disappointing, and I may appear in clothes that clash. That about covers it.’

‘I doubt that,’ Baarda said. ‘I can’t imagine a world without colour.’

‘This isn’t a world without colour,’ she corrected softly. ‘It’s a world where I have to paint the colours in with my mind. You’d be surprised how much more you notice when you have to work this hard at it.’

‘Is that why you began to specialise in profiling, because of your perspective on the world?’ Baarda pointed his keys at the line of cars, and lights flashed back at him.

‘No,’ Connie said, walking to the passenger side. ‘I became a profiler as a matter of survival.’

Chapter Three

The cherry-red BMW sat in the sweeping driveway, abandoned. Connie had her back to it, hands on her hips, staring instead at the police officers who had arrived at the scene first.

‘Retrace your steps in your mind,’ she told them. ‘Each one of you. From when you drove in and first saw Elspeth’s vehicle, to getting out of your cars and walking towards it. Which window did you look through? Who touched which door? Think hard about what you saw.’

‘Respect, ma’am, but I don’t see how it’s going to help even if we can remember …’ one of the bolder Police Scotland officers attempted.

‘Call me ma’am again, and see how much I like it,’ Connie said.

‘It’s an expression recognising authority over here,’ Baarda intervened.

‘When an American police officer calls you ma’am, he’s either about to arrest you, or he wants you to shut the fuck up and move away. I’m guessing this situation is the latter. So listen up and think. Were all the doors properly shut when you arrived?’

There was vague nodding.

‘Because if they weren’t, it suggests a hurried exit, or that she was surprised when she was exiting the vehicle.’

‘Um, the driver’s door might have been open a wee bit,’ another officer stuttered. ‘I grabbed the handle to open it and I can’t be certain if it was properly secured.’

‘Well done, that’s the detail we’re looking for.’ Baarda’s comment covered Connie’s obvious sigh.

‘And the keys?’ Connie continued.

‘Still in the lock, ma’am. I mean, miss. We haven’t moved them.’

‘The neighbours have been spoken to,’ Baarda explained. ‘Looks as if the car’s been here a while, although there’s no precise timeline.’

‘Whose house is it anyway?’ Connie asked.

‘Elspeth Dunwoody’s best friend. The family is currently away sailing in the Caribbean and has no idea why the car would have ended up here. No one had spoken to Elspeth for a couple of weeks before her disappearance.’

‘Public or private best friend?’ Connie asked.

‘Is there a difference?’ Baarda looked confused.

‘Some best friends you only speak to occasionally, never get round to seeing in person because the bond is strong enough to withstand little contact. They’re difficult to trace unless you’re on the inside. If, however, she’s an “out on the town” best friend, or an “always standing at the school gates together” best friend, then someone would have noticed. It would have been easy enough to find this address and to come up with an excuse to get Connie here.’

‘Check that out straight away,’ Baarda instructed the uniformed officers.

They scuttled off, looking relieved to be going.

‘She’s not inside the property; it’s been thoroughly checked. Her mobile isn’t in the car, but her handbag is,’ Baarda said.

‘No keys, no handbag. No clothes missing from her wardrobe, and a genuinely distraught husband and kids. It doesn’t look good.’

‘Best will in the world, it doesn’t take a forensic psychologist to figure that one out.’

‘Why do people say that?’ Connie mused, working her way around the vehicle and looking it up and down. ‘Best will in the world. It always precedes an insult. Not a big, in-your-face kind of insult. Just something slipped in sideways.’

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that it seemed obvious.’

‘You are institutionally apologetic. Seriously, you’ve got to get past that.’ She knelt down by the passenger side door and looked more closely at the paintwork. ‘There’s something on here. Tell me what you see.’

Baarda joined her, the two of them on their knees in the gravel staring at the door.

‘It’s red and has formed a droplet, but it hadn’t dripped very far when it dried, so there isn’t much of whatever liquid it is. But that’s red on red. How did you see it when you can’t make out colour?’

‘It’s easier for me, actually,’ Connie said. ‘Your brain fools you. It sees a patch of red against a mass of other red information and it’s hard to differentiate. My brain only deals in shades. The additional liquid on top of the red paint made a denser shadow. The usefulness stops there when I have no clue what the liquid might be. Could have been engine oil or mustard for all I’d have known.’ She took out her mobile and photographed the spot. ‘We have scenes of crime incoming, right?’

‘We do. I’m guessing if that’s Elspeth’s blood then we’re either waiting for a ransom call, or looking for a corpse.’

‘Not enough evidence to assume that, even if it is her blood,’ Connie said. ‘Don’t tell her husband yet, but get this rushed through the police labs – and I mean rushed like fast food, not rushed like passing new legislation.’

‘Point taken. I’ll chase it up personally. I should be able to get next-day DNA results if I make a couple of calls.’

‘That’s impressive. What squad were you with in London?’

‘Met Operations. I have a few years’ experience in what used to be called the kidnap unit. I suspect they were perfectly happy to pack me off up here. I don’t think I quite fit the Met Ops’ new cool, slightly unshaven, three hours a day in the gym, alpha-male type.’

‘Are there no women in Met Ops?’ Connie asked.

‘They’re also more alpha-male than me, I’m afraid,’ he smiled.

‘Actually, recent studies have proved that the alpha typing is often a handicap when it comes to higher-ranking promotions and long-term personal partnerships. Management wants quiet calm and diplomacy with an analytic brain, and relationships require longevity with warmth and humour.’

‘Sir!’ The shout came from near the driveway entrance in some bushes.

Connie and Baarda made their way towards the officer calling them, standing far enough back not to corrupt the scene.

‘What is it?’ Baarda asked.

‘Shoe, just the left one. Definitely female, and it matches the description given by the missing person’s husband.’ The officer held up one gloved hand.

From her fingertips dangled a pale slip-on sports shoe with little scuffing or wear. It was fairly new, and it hadn’t been in the dirt long, Connie concluded.

‘Any blood spatters on it?’ she asked Baarda, who stepped forward to inspect it.

‘Nothing visible. Can you point to where exactly you found it?’

The officer pointed about a metre from her feet, approximately two metres into the undergrowth.

‘So either it flew off her foot when she was kicking and resisting, or she was sufficiently aware of what was happening to make sure she left us a sign that she’d been taken against her will and threw it in there. Her assailant couldn’t let her go and risk wasting time searching for it,’ Connie said.

‘So we set up camp in the husband’s house and wait for the ransom call then,’ Baarda said quietly.

‘If she’s lucky,’ Connie said. ‘That really depends on what her kidnapper wants from her, doesn’t it? Drive me back to my hotel? I need to write up my notes.’

‘Now? Shouldn’t we be reporting back to the family and going into the police station for a briefing? I usually leave note-taking until the evenings.’

‘You’re a policeman, DI Baarda. You follow procedure, have meetings, share information, chase up leads. My job here is not the same.’ She walked to the passenger door of his car and climbed inside, clicking her seat belt securely and double-checking its reactive lock mechanism by tugging on it firmly as Baarda got in next to her.

‘I just assumed you’d want to be as involved as possible. You know, the more information the better, make sure no one’s missed anything.’

‘I’m here to paint a picture of the man or woman who currently has possession of Elspeth. I’m assuming it’s a he, but there could be a she behind this if it’s extortion, a revenge kidnapping or an attempt to distract from a different sort of offence. That could be anything from insurance fraud to corporate manoeuvring given her connections.

My task is usually much simpler. When you have a string of dead bodies there are patterns, victim similarities, situational similarities. Even then, I can’t be distracted by processes, procedures and police politics. Here, I’m throwing darts at a profiling board almost blindfolded. So I need to go back to square one, and see if I can do justice to the fact that I’m being paid. I can’t do that in the middle of probable chaos in a police station. You’re my filter.’

Baarda pulled away, waving gratefully at the uniformed officers who cleared the road to let him pass.

‘You worked extensively with the FBI, I’ve been told. Why did you never become an agent?’

‘That was the dream.’ Connie stared out of the window as they passed mottled heathered verges that disappeared into bushes. ‘My achromatopsia prevented me from becoming an agent, so I chose a profession that would allow me to work with the in-house profilers.’

‘What do you miss?’ Baarda asked.

Connie looked at his face. The question was vague, but the tenderness of his features gave away his meaning. She softened her usual brusque tone, aware that her manner was professional bordering on stony. It was a persona she’d cultivated to counteract some institutional misogyny along the way, and not a little condescension when people learned that she was ‘colour-vision impaired’. The person who’d coined that phrase had left the room soon after she’d responded to him, never to be seen on the same working squad as her again.

‘Mainly clichés. Twinkling Christmas lights, the waves when the weather is just starting to change. I used to sit on my parents’ back porch and watch the sea for hours. Now it’s just more of the same.’

She paused for a moment, trying to do the question justice. Baarda kept his silence where most would have felt the need to fill the space. She respected the fact that he was able not to. In her opinion, men could be measured by such minuscule but enormous details.

‘The sparkle of a ruby. The endless shades of green on a single tree. Seeing images of earth from space, and viewing our tiny place in the universe in all its breathtaking beauty. When I was a child, my parents took me to visit the Grand Canyon. I’d been given my first camera. I was maybe ten. Anyway, I was going through an artistic phase, so every photo I took was in black and white. My parents had my favourite shot blown up, framed, and I must have fallen asleep staring at that image through most of my puberty. And God, I wish I’d taken a colour photo. That’s my only memory of the Canyon. That goddamned black-and-white photo. One of the most beautiful places in the world and I have no memory of it in colour. That’s irony worthy of a poem, right?’

‘I’d miss seeing the light shine off my red setter’s coat,’ Baarda said.

Connie laughed. ‘That’s a great image. What’s its name?’

‘His name’s Tupperware. We made the mistake of letting my then four-year-old daughter name him, and that was her favourite word at that time. But a promise is a promise. The more we tried to persuade her to choose something more … well, doggy, the more intractable she became.’

‘Oh my God, you have to chase a red setter around the park shouting Tupperware? That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘I don’t get home to see him – or the kids – as much as I’d like at the moment.’ His voice dipped.

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, you know, life gets in the way.’

‘That’s bullshit. Life gets in the way of golf or visits to the in-laws or trips to the chiropractor, but home literally is a person’s life. What could get in the way of that?’

He shrugged. ‘My wife’s currently having an affair. She’s been perfectly honest about it. No attempt to cover it up, which I appreciate. I felt it was easier to give her some space while she figures out what she wants.’

Connie didn’t miss a beat. ‘Do you still love her?’

‘I believe so,’ he said.

‘Do you know who she’s having an affair with?’

‘One of the other officers from Met Ops. Makes it all a bit awkward. Probably the reason everyone was so pleased when I got packed off up here.’

‘Holy shit, Baarda,’ Connie whistled. ‘Do you think you might be suppressing some anger beneath that super-polished exterior?’

‘Not at all. I obviously hadn’t been meeting her needs, she’d made that pretty clear, so what was I to expect? I have to take my share of the blame.’

‘Careful with that,’ she said. ‘Taking the blame for someone else’s choices lets them justify their deviancy with no checks or balances. You want to let her off the hook that easily?’

‘You don’t know her, and you don’t know me.’

Connie looked back at him. His neck was strained as he drove, his hands a vice around the steering wheel.

‘I’m sorry, that was rude. I’m never rude. I hope you can …’

‘Stop,’ Connie said, her voice only a whisper above the engine’s purr. ‘The apology should be mine. Let’s call it quits with the personal revelations for today, okay?’

Baarda’s mobile rang. He put the call on speaker.

‘Sir, we’re being bombarded with requests to comment from the press. I don’t know how it leaked, but they know about our missing person, including her identity and her connections.’

‘Shit,’ Connie muttered.

‘And Elspeth’s husband just received the call. There’s a request for five million to be paid in fifties. We have forty-eight hours. Elspeth Dunwoody’s voice could be heard in the background saying, “Please help.” It’s confirmed as her. Her father-in-law’s been informed. We’re working on tracing the call and the payment details.’

‘Very good,’ Baarda said, closing the line. ‘Well, that’s you off the hook. Looks as if we’ve got all we need.’

‘Except Elspeth,’ Connie muttered. ‘What are the statistics on getting her back alive in these circumstances?’

‘We work on an average of fifty to eighty live UK kidnappings per year. Most of them resolve successfully.’

‘How many don’t?’

‘A handful,’ Baarda said. ‘Deaths usually occur while we’re closing in and the kidnapper panics, then concludes it would be easier not to leave any witness who could identify them.’

‘Poor Elspeth,’ Connie said. ‘I hope she doesn’t know that.’

‘We’ll do all we can,’ Baarda said. ‘The contact is a positive sign. I’m hopeful that we’ll get her back unharmed.’

‘I’m glad you’re feeling hopeful, but I very much doubt Elspeth is right now. Wherever she is.’

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