‘We’ve traced the original owners of that derelict house,’ Niall Cameron told Solly as they walked together towards the meeting room at the end of the corridor. The psychologist noted the light in the DCI’s eyes and nodded. ‘Something significant?’ he asked.

  ‘We think so,’ Cameron replied. ‘The place was owned by a family way back in the fifties. It was passed down to the only daughter eventually and that’s when it became abandoned. We’re still trying to find out more about what happened to her, but one thing we do know, she died in unusual circumstances, a suspicious death that was never resolved by the Fiscal.’

  Solly raised his eyebrows. ‘And who was she?’

  Cameron gave him the ghost of a smile. ‘That’s what is so interesting,’ he said. ‘Her maiden name was Stevenson but her death was registered in the name of Kennedy.’

  ‘Christopher Stevenson,’ Solly said slowly. ‘That has to be a link, surely?’

  ‘We think so,’ Cameron replied. ‘We’ll find out more in the next few minutes if our officers have come up with any details about this family.’

  Maggie sat silently as the car bumped along the rutted track. Breathe in, breathe out, she told herself, quelling the rising panic that made her back and neck rigid with fear.

  She had to dissemble, make him think that she was happy to go along with his plans. That was the only way she would be safe from whatever manic rage had already consumed four innocent victims.

  Before they had left the old kirk, he had taken her handbag and pulled out her mobile, thrusting it into the side pocket of the car. The action had alarmed Maggie. He was cutting her off from anyone who might try to make contact. But, she reasoned, at least he hadn’t broken it or chucked it away. Perhaps she could retrieve it later, once they had stopped? But the way he had snatched it had alarmed her, as though he were taking possession not just of the phone but of Maggie herself.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Christopher said, casting a glance at her as the car slowed down. He patted her gloved hand and Maggie kept quite still, teeth gritted, resisting the impulse to flinch at his touch. What if he should become amorous … expect her to do things with him?

  She closed her eyes, intoning a prayer to a heavenly father who had promised always to be with her. A feeling of guilt swept over her: was it only in extreme situations that she ever offered up a supplication like this? ‘Ask and it shall be given unto you,’ wasn’t that what the Scriptures said? Maggie swallowed hard. If ever she needed that promise then it was right now.

  Help me, she begged silently. Please, please help me.

  ‘Here we are.’

  Maggie’s eyes flew open as she sat looking into the darkness ahead, the twin headlights picking out grey, leafless trees whose branches appeared ghostly in the pale white light.

  She swallowed, her mouth dry. ‘Where are we?’ she whispered.

  ‘My dear, we’re home,’ Christopher smiled. ‘Can you see it?’ he pointed towards a shape half hidden by the trees.

  Maggie blinked, striving to see what he was showing her.

  ‘It’s unfit for habitation now, of course, but we’ll rebuild it, won’t we? Make it our very own.’

  Maggie nodded silently, sensing his arm creeping across the back of her seat. Whatever fantasy this man was having, it evidently included her. Pretend to like what he’s telling you, a small voice urged. Don’t let him see how frightened you really are.

  She leaned forward, peering out of the windscreen. Perhaps that was the shape of a gable end, after all, the remains of a dwelling house left to become a ruin. A woman’s body had been found there, Bill had told her. Had she been brought here to be dumped in the self-same grave? Her heart thumped so loudly she feared the man next to her must surely hear it.

  ‘Was this your home once?’ she asked, her voice high and strained. Keep him talking, she thought, anything to avoid getting out of the car.

  ‘Oh, yes. And it will be again, I promise you.’ He smiled, taking his hand and brushing a strand of her hair away from her face.

  ‘You are quite beautiful, you know,’ he murmured. ‘Perfect.’ He stretched across and pulled a bag from behind her seat. ‘Here.’ He handed her a large plastic carrier bag. ‘I bought these for you. We could go for a little walk now.’

  Maggie opened the bag to see a pair of brand-new wellington boots. She swallowed hard, mouth dry as she remembered a detail from Bill’s triple murder case. Lorna Dawson had found the woman’s body after examining the mud on a pair of wellington boots. He must be mad to risk coming back here again! But then, she reasoned, no sane person would behave like this.

  Maggie froze, every instinct telling her to get out and run, but her common sense battled against that urge. Stay with him, play along, the same small voice soothed. Make him want to be kind.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, trying hard to keep her nerves in check, glancing at the man seated so close to her. ‘I’m a bit too tired to go for a walk right now. Besides, it’s ages since I had anything to eat,’ Maggie continued. ‘How about you take me somewhere nice for dinner?’

  She smiled at him, forcing an expression of false charm that she did not feel.

  ‘Oh.’ He drew back, a look of surprise on his face. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. Are you hungry, my dear?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes,’ she said as firmly as she dared. ‘I am.’

  ‘Well.’ He sat back heavily as if the mundane thought of food was something new to him. ‘I suppose I can cook for you. I don’t live very far away, after all,’ he added, almost to himself.

  ‘We could come back and see the old house when it’s daylight,’ Maggie suggested. Anything to play for time, she told herself, hoping that it would not require an entire night spent in this man’s company before Bill found her.

  ‘Hmm.’ Christopher gave a little nod and switched on the car engine again. For a moment he seemed to be looking into the darkness, looking at something that Maggie could not see, and she wondered what had happened to this old house and why it meant so much to the man who had taken her captive.

  ‘Sorry, she hasn’t turned up yet. We tried her PR but she didn’t answer either. Do you know when she might be here? We have an audience waiting,’ the young man told Lorimer, looking anxiously at his wristwatch.

  ‘I thought she usually arrived a good bit before an event, at least that’s what she told me,’ Lorimer replied, frowning. His plan to surprise Maggie before her event appeared to have backfired somewhat, he thought ruefully, the bouquet of red roses clutched in one fist. ‘Wasn’t she at the library earlier on? Could she still be there? Maybe one of the librarians offered to bring her here?’

  The theatre manager shrugged. ‘Sorry, all I know is that your wife’s PR told us they would be here by six-fifteen at the latest and it’s past that now.’ The man gave a frown of annoyance. ‘I hope she doesn’t let us down,’ he added. ‘This has been on our programme for weeks.’

  Lorimer grasped his mobile and tapped on the number next to Maggie’s name. The call rang out for a few seconds then went into voicemail.

  ‘Maggie, I’m at the theatre in Ayr. Where are you? Ring me back right away, will you?’

  He pocketed the phone, regretting now his visit to Solly. If he’d left Glasgow earlier, decided to meet her at the library instead of the theatre, then she would be with him right now. Instead … his thoughts began to darken. Where was she? And why had Maggie not rung the theatre if she was going to be delayed in any way? It simply wasn’t like her. Maggie was always so well prepared and punctual, a habit instilled by years in the classroom.

  No, he told himself, suddenly. Something had happened. And it was up to him to find out where she was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  After the dark woods and the unlit country roads it came as a surprise to Maggie when the car entered the outskirts of a small town. Christopher drove sedately along its streets, turning at last into an estate of post-war bungalows and semi-detached villas, neat gardens picked out by street lights overhead.

  This was where he lived? She looked from one house to the next, seeing only what appeared to be a very ordinary crescent of homes. A glance at the man driving slowly over the speed bumps told her nothing more than what she already knew; Christopher’s appearance as a normal middle-aged man simply belied the reality of his madness. Who knew, after all, what life lay behind these curtained windows, these identical driveways with their shiny cars? Hadn’t she taught that very thing in so many studies of literature? How the outward show of things was often at odds with something dark and menacing within?

  The car turned a corner and they drove along a little further before stopping outside a detached bungalow next to a narrow lane, its high hedges shadowing the property. There were no lights on in the house, nor in the one next to it, Maggie noticed, her thoughts turning to how she might escape from this man’s clutches.

  ‘I’ll fetch your case later,’ Christopher told her, clasping her wrist firmly. ‘Everything’s ready for you indoors, my dear. I even have the heating on a timer,’ he added with an avuncular smile.

  The moment he got out of the car, Maggie felt for the handle but it was on some sort of child lock, securing her where she sat. Slowly, she removed her seat belt and took a deep breath. It was either make a dash for it and risk his wrath or go along with whatever mad plan he had for them both. Too late, she remembered her phone lodged in the driver’s door.

  ‘Out you get, Margaret.’ Christopher was there, bending over and offering his hand, as though abducting a woman was perfectly natural. But then, he didn’t see it that way, did he, she thought as he helped her out of the car. He was seeing her as his beloved, not as the wife of a police officer who was surely trying to locate her whereabouts at this very moment. Oh, dear Lord, let him find me.

  Christopher tucked her arm into his own and led Maggie up a short path to the front door. In moments he had the key in the lock and she was led inside, dazed by how quickly everything had happened and how she had lost the opportunity to escape. Or was she following an instinct for survival? Pretending to be a part of whatever fantasy this man was playing out in his sick mind?

  Maggie’s heart thumped in her chest as she stumbled beside him.

  What was waiting for her in this house? Did he have some sort of room full of whips and straps? Had he taken other women here and kept them prisoner?

  The door closed behind them, slamming loudly as though a gust of wind had caught it, making Maggie jump.

  ‘This way,’ he told her, half-dragging Maggie along a carpeted corridor and into a room towards the back of the house.

  Where was he taking her? Was this where she would feel certain pain? Be subjected to torture or sexual abuse? A feeling of nausea filled her throat and Maggie swallowed hard, her stomach churning.

  A click of the light switch and the place was washed in light, making Maggie blink.

  ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, looking around at the room. Whatever she had expected, it was not this room decorated in shades of beige and brown. There was a small sofa, its moquette seats covered in a pale fleece throw and a matching pair of armchairs, their velour cushions stacked at an angle. In one corner an ancient television sat on a wooden stand, in another stood a standard lamp, its yellowing fringed shade reminding Maggie of something a great-aunt had owned way back in her childhood.

  ‘Sit down, Margaret, do,’ Christopher said. ‘Oh, but allow me to take your coat. We’ll just put it here,’ he said, holding out his hands and indicating the settee.

  How polite he was, she thought, with a nervous shiver, his manner making this situation quite surreal.

  Maggie shoved her gloves into a pocket then fumbled the buttons on her coat, terrified that he would come nearer, desperate to avoid his touch.

  ‘Here,’ she gasped, handing the coat to him.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ he asked, folding her coat carefully as though it were some precious object.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she replied, looking up at him and seeing the way his eyes feasted on her face. Anything to delay whatever he had in mind.

  He’s obsessed, an inner voice told her. Capitalise on that.

  ‘Just milk, no sugar, thank you,’ she added, forcing a polite smile. This is crazy, Maggie told herself. Taking tea with a murderer. She clasped her hands together tightly, stopping them from trembling. The small action prompted another prayer. Help me. Please, please, help me.

  ‘I won’t be a moment,’ Christopher said. Just make yourself comfortable.’ And with that he left her alone in this strange room, staring after him.

  Looking around, Maggie took note of the faded flowered wallpaper, the low marble hearth with a two-bar electric fire, china ornaments ranged along the mantelpiece. It looked like an old lady’s house, she thought, not the sort of place she had expected at all. Was there another person living here? Would she find some poor old soul in a bedroom nearby? No, she told herself, remembering how confidently he had taken her arm. He’s not bringing me home to mother. Perhaps he’s lived here with someone else. And now he’s on his own, trying to find the perfect woman to make him happy.

  The sound of ticking made her turn to see the carved wall clock on the wall behind her, the sort of thing she might have found in an antique shop, its dark wood containing a pendulum clock with roman numerals, the casing topped with an eagle’s head. With each loud tick, Maggie’s heart beat faster. How many more minutes did she have until something dreadful happened?

  ‘And now we know who owns it,’ Cameron said triumphantly, turning to write a name on the whiteboard. ‘And this,’ he continued, pausing to write beneath it with a blue marker pen, ‘is his current address in Glasgow.’

  Murmurs and a scattering of applause broke out as the officers from the MIT congratulated one another.

  ‘Right,’ Cameron went on, ‘this is how we are going to apprehend our man,’ he told them, tapping a pencil against the artist’s impression.

  Molly Newton grinned at Davie who was whistling a silent breath through his teeth.

  ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’

  ‘Lorimer’ll be pleased to see this finished tonight,’ Davie said at last. ‘Shame he’s not able to come with us, though. Should be there to see the man arrested.’

  ‘Maybe Cameron will give him a bell,’ Molly whispered as they turned their attention to the DCI who had begun to outline the procedure for making an arrest, now that the stalker’s true identity was known to the police.

  The library was not yet in darkness when Lorimer jumped out of the Lexus and headed to the main entrance where a poster, advertising MARGARET LORIMER, AUTHOR OF GIBBY THE GHOST OF GLEN DARNEL was displayed.

  He tried the handle, shaking it in exasperation, but the big wooden door was evidently locked.

  Racing around the building, Lorimer skidded to a halt as he saw the figure of a woman descending the back steps.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, putting a hand to her chest as she caught sight of him.

  ‘I’m Lorimer, Maggie’s husband,’ he called out. ‘Please, can you tell me where she’s gone?’

  The woman drew back, doubt clearly evident on her face at this encounter with a strange tall man.

  ‘Here,’ Lorimer showed her his warrant card. ‘I think something might have happened. Maggie didn’t turn up for her event at the theatre. Do you know where she went when she left the library?’

  ‘Goodness.’ The woman shook her head. ‘She took a taxi,’ she replied. ‘But I thought she was meeting you … ?’

  ‘Which taxi firm?’ Lorimer demanded, standing his ground, determined to find out every detail that could lead him to his wife.

  ‘Oh, we always use Jock. Wait a wee minute, his card’s on the noticeboard.’

  Lorimer waited impatiently as she unlocked the back door with three different sets of keys. On any other night he could have admired the library’s security but right now every second’s delay mattered. At last he followed her back into the library, watching as she turned on the light and unpinned a business card from a long corkboard in the hallway.

  ‘Here it is.’ The woman handed Lorimer the card.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied, his mobile already in one hand. ‘Sorry to have delayed you,’ he added, hurrying out into the darkened car park once more, leaving a bewildered librarian staring after him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Jock’s Taxis,’ a broad accent exclaimed.

  ‘This is Detective Superintendent Lorimer. I need to speak to the driver who picked up my wife earlier this evening,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Lorimer! Ah, nice to talk to you, sir. I wis that happy to make your wife’s acquaintance. Her being the famous writer an’ all,’ the man began. ‘But why are you askin’ me this? When I dropped her off Mrs Lorimer said you were meeting her. She didnae leave onything in the car, did she?’

  ‘Where? Where did you take her, man?’

  ‘The auld kirk, where you said she wis tae meet ye.’ The voice sounded aggrieved. ‘Alloway’s auld haunted kirk. Did ye no’ get there on time, like?’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just afore five. I wis no sae happy tae let a bonny lass like that stand on her ain, ken, but she telt me ye were going to pick her up. Why … has something happened … ?’

  Lorimer said a brief thanks and pocketed his phone, racing back to the car, a deep frown settling between his eyes.

  Maggie had thought he was going to meet her in Alloway? Who had put that idea into her head? Was this some last stupid trick of Ivy Thornton’s? Had the woman deluded his wife into missing her final event?

  Or, he thought, a deeper dread settling in his stomach, had the stalker managed to lure her there?

  It took less time than the silver taxi had taken to speed away from the library and drive down to the old church near the Burns Centre, gunning the Lexus as fast as he dared. Soon the town gave way to countryside and the dark shape of a spire appeared against a cobalt-blue sky.

  Lorimer stopped by the pavement and felt in the glove compartment for his heavy rubber torch. Switching it on, he left the warmth of the car and played a beam of light along the stones of the churchyard. Had she waited here for him to arrive? Then what? Jock had insisted that no further requests for a taxi had come from Mrs Lorimer. So where had she gone? And who had picked her up from here?