Slowly he walked around the church, looking for any sign that Maggie had been there, but there was nothing. He came back out, pushing the creaky gate behind him with a dull clang and leaned against the railings. Where had she gone? Ivy Thornton was not answering her phone and Maggie’s was still going to voicemail.

  He looked one way and then the other, his torch flicking across the cracked pavement and into the gutter.

  An owl hooting made Lorimer turn suddenly and look up but he could see nothing in the thick tapestry of branches except rags of clouds drifting across a pale moon. With a sigh he turned back, the torch making a circle of light near his feet.

  It was at that moment he noticed it.

  Bending down, Lorimer scooped up the shiny pale pebble and laid it in the palm of his hand. It was Maggie’s little bit of quartz from Calgary! He looked down again, trying to create some sort of sense from the discovery. Had she lost it? Or was this a way of leaving something for him to find?

  Heart racing, Lorimer closed his fist around it. She could be a sentimental woman at times, keeping little treasures to remind her of happy times; no way would she discard this without a good reason.

  So, where had they gone? He imagined her being bundled into a car, thrown into the boot, even, and taken away …

  Where had he taken Celia Gemmell? Lorimer suddenly decided to follow his first thought and head further north to the wooded area near Hessilhead. Maybe, just maybe, he had replayed the same journey of a year before. Gloom settled on Lorimer’s mind. What would he find there? Another shallow grave? What was it Solly had said? The man was deluded into thinking that Maggie could love him. Well, if he had taken her captive, how long would it be until he saw how wrong he really was?

  ‘Hello, are youse looking fur ma neighbour?’ An old man pointed to the door opposite his own flat. ‘He’s no here, the noo. Holidays, awright fur some,’ he added glumly.

  Molly and Davie approached the man standing in the lighted doorway. He was dressed in a knitted pullover that had gravy stains down the front and a pair of grey slacks that were baggy at the knees.

  ‘Police Scotland,’ Davie replied, looking the old man up and down. ‘Do you know where he is and when he’ll be back?’

  ‘Polis, is it?’ The old man seemed to brighten up at the sight of Davie’s warrant card. ‘Well, well, whit’s the man been up tae? Too squeaky clean, they types, if ye get ma meaning, son.’

  ‘Do you know where he is, sir?’ Molly asked, barely concealing her impatience.

  ‘Aw, he’s mibbe in the ither hoose the noo, or away his holidays. Wait a wee minute, hen.’ He shuffled away from them into the flat and stopped a little way along the hall. Molly could see him stoop down by an old table that had a lower shelf covered in papers.

  ‘Here ye are,’ the neighbour said at last, holding out an old envelope. ‘Wrote doon his address wan time when the postman had to redirect some mail.’

  Davie took the envelope from the old man and showed it to Molly. ‘Think he might be there?’ he whispered but she did not reply.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Molly said, handing the old chap her business card. ‘If you do see your neighbour, please can you call us? It’s important and we would prefer it if you do not let him know we have been here.’

  The old man’s eyes widened and he nodded silently, watching as the two police officers departed from his doorstep.

  *

  Niall Cameron listened as his detective sergeant reported on their findings. ‘We’ll send our own people there,’ he said at once. ‘It’s not that far from where we found the Gemmell woman’s body. Makes sense that he had a place in that area.’

  He laid the mobile on his desk but immediately it rang out again and he saw the name Lorimer illuminated on its screen.

  ‘Cameron,’ he began.

  ‘Niall, it’s me. It’s the stalker, I think he’s taken Maggie. I’m on my way to the place where Celia Gemmell was buried,’ Lorimer told him.

  ‘What? Where are you? What’s happened?’

  Lorimer gave his DCI the facts about Maggie’s disappearance and his fears that she had been snatched.

  ‘We’re heading in the same direction,’ Cameron said grimly. ‘But we’ve found out his real identity, Lorimer. I don’t know how he’s done it but the man styling himself Christopher Stevenson has been running rings around us all this time.’

  Lorimer drove deeper into the woods. It was hard to believe that someone like that had been leading a double life for so long. Solly might feel some pity for the stalker but right now all that Lorimer felt was a cold rage.

  He stopped at the same spot he had parked before when Professor Dawson had made her brilliant discovery. He cut the engine, leaving on the car headlights so he could see the path ahead. Crime scene tape still fluttered around the place where Celia’s body had lain, a stark reminder of what might happen to Maggie.

  Hefting the torch again in his right hand, he walked slowly towards the old ruined house. If need be he could use it as a weapon as well as to light his way.

  Lorimer kept to the grassy area, shining the beam on the moist ground. Then he stopped as fresh tyre tracks appeared on the ground. Someone had been there, and by the looks of it, fairly recently. He flashed the torchlight upwards and around, but there was nothing to see. Stepping to one side, he trained the light back on the tracks, noticing now that there was a curve where a vehicle had been turned around and a second set of tracks heading out of the wood. He gritted his teeth, realising that the Lexus must have driven over the same set of tracks on his way into the wood. But at least he knew now that officers were on their way to the nearby town where the stalker had his weekend residence.

  It took just a few minutes to drive out of the woodlands and back to the main road that led towards Lugton and Beith. Cameron had outlined his strategy for taking the man into custody and there was a team of officers heading that way already, but Lorimer was determined to reach the stalker’s address before anything happened to Maggie.

  ‘Here you are, a nice cup of tea,’ he said, laying down a tray.

  Maggie looked at the hand-knitted tea cosy and the bone china cups and saucers then up at the man’s beaming face. It was like being part of a scene from a different era. Was this what he had planned? Was there something from this man’s past that made him seek out a woman with dark hair, someone significant? Solly thought so, Maggie reminded herself.

  Christopher rubbed his hands in glee. ‘Shall I be mother,’ he said coyly and Maggie nodded silently, still letting him think she was a willing party to his weird fantasy.

  For a moment he looked at her, eyes narrowing. ‘You’re very quiet,’ he scolded her. ‘Not like you at all. After all these talks? I thought you would have plenty to say,’ he chided.

  Maggie forced a faint smile. ‘I’m rather tired,’ she told him. Then, fearful that he might suggest bed, she added, ‘I’ll just go and wash my hands, if I may. Where’s the bathroom?’

  She made to stand up and he moved swiftly towards her, grabbing both her hands in his. ‘I’ll show you, my dear,’ he said, pulling Maggie to her feet and leading her out of the room and along the hallway to the end of a corridor and indicated a white-painted door.

  ‘In there,’ he said. ‘Don’t be too long. We don’t want your tea to get cold, now, do we?’

  Maggie entered the toilet and closed the door behind her, pushing the snib into an old worn hole in the wood to lock it. With a sob of relief she sank on to the toilet, head in her hands.

  Could she remain in here? She looked at the lock again in dismay. One heave and he could force his way in. No, she decided, it was better to have this short break from his staring eyes to gather her thoughts. If she were to pretend to feel ill … an idea took hold, something that might prevent him touching her, tonight at least.

  She gazed around her. The small room was half tiled in pink, the rest of the walls painted pale grey, not a man’s choice, she thought, wondering who had lived here before her captor. And what had become of her.

  Maggie splashed her face with cold water and dried it, wiping smudges of mascara from beneath her eyes. Then, flushing the toilet, she heaved a sigh. There was only so much time she could linger here and besides, she sensed the man’s presence in the corridor outside.

  Opening the door and pulling the light cord, Maggie almost collided with him.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Sorry I took so long.’ She made a face. ‘Time of the month,’ she added, improvising quickly.

  He drew back for a moment and let Maggie walk past him back to the small sitting room, an expression of mild disgust on his face.

  Seated opposite him once more, Maggie raised the cup of tea to her lips and took a small sip, wondering for a moment if it was safe to drink. Could he have dropped something into it while she had been out of the room? She’d seen plenty of TV crime shows where things like that had happened.

  ‘What are you thinking, Margaret?’ he asked her, leaning forwards and forcing her to look into his eyes.

  Maggie shuddered, despite herself.

  ‘I … ’ she began but just at that moment a heavy pounding came to the front door, making Christopher jump up to his feet.

  ‘Police! Open up!’ A voice came from beyond the door, a voice Maggie knew so well. He’d found her! And there were other officers with him, surely?

  ‘What did you do?’ Christopher snarled, grabbing Maggie by the hand and dragging her out of the room, along a passageway and into a well-lit kitchen.

  ‘Nothing!’ Maggie protested, looking around wildly to see if she could find a weapon of some sort. Something heavy to strike him with …

  There was a back door, Maggie saw, hope rising for a second. A glass door with patterns of leaves. Could she force her way out?

  ‘How did they find us?’ he snapped, his face contorted in a sudden rage that made Maggie cry out in alarm.

  ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘You’re hurting me!’

  For a moment he paused, regarding her with a strange look in his grey eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I will hurt you.’ Then, still clutching her hands, he turned towards a worktop where a magnetic strip of knives gleamed against a dark green wall.

  ‘No!’ Maggie screamed, her nerve snapping at last. Struggling against his grip, she pulled as hard as she could, but this only served to make him lift one hand and belt it across her face.

  She cried out, the pain searing her cheek. For one moment Maggie stumbled then, as she regained her balance, she lashed out a foot, aiming for his ankle. No way was she going down without a struggle, she told herself.

  Maggie knew a moment of pure anger. How dare he lift a hand to her! Nobody in her life had ever done that. She backed away a little, eyes glancing to left and right, desperately searching for some weapon.

  And there it was. An old-fashioned copper kettle, its handle grey with age.

  Grabbing it from the work surface, Maggie swung the kettle as hard as she could, catching her assailant on the face. The crack as it met his jaw gave her a moment’s satisfaction but the roar of pain made her step back once more.

  She quailed, seeing the fire in his mad eyes.

  ‘Get away from me!’ she screamed, aiming the kettle at him again.

  This time, though, he ducked then lunged towards her.

  ‘No!’ Maggie shouted, stepping sideways so that he staggered against the sharp corner of the counter.

  A guttural noise came from his throat, more animal than human as he crept forward once more, determined to corner his prey.

  Maggie threw the kettle at him with all her might but it fell with a dull clang on the kitchen tiles as he leapt towards her.

  She tried to protect herself, arms held aloft, but the killer grabbed hold of her hands, his grip hurting her wrists.

  Maggie pulled as hard as she could, yelping as she felt his fingernails digging into her soft flesh.

  She had to get away … but now she felt her feet skid on the tiled floor as he dragged her back towards those deadly knives.

  Sudden light streamed against the glass door of the kitchen, blue flashing light that Maggie recognised at once.

  The killer saw it too.

  ‘They won’t take you away from me!’ he shouted. ‘They won’t … ’

  Maggie gave one final pull and felt his hands slip out of hers. She half ran, half staggered from the room, desperate to gain the end of the corridor and the front door.

  With a snarl, Christopher pulled a carving knife off the rack and made to follow Maggie out of the kitchen.

  At that moment the crash of splintering wood reverberated through the hallway and a figure pushed into the house, past Maggie and towards the knife-wielding stalker.

  ‘Get out! Now!’ Lorimer commanded, not stopping to glance back.

  Maggie stumbled out into the night air, sobs choking her.

  Lorimer stood his ground as the man lunged towards him then, with a speed that took the man by surprise, he sidestepped and grabbed hold of the man’s wrist. With a yelp, the stalker dropped the knife and Lorimer pushed him against the wall, pinioning his arms behind him.

  ‘Over here!’ someone called out and in moments the place was full of officers from Lorimer’s team, handcuffs fastened on their culprit.

  ‘Steven Dewar,’ Niall Cameron told the head teacher, ‘I am arresting you for the murders of Celia Gemmell, Carolyn Kane, Patricia Donovan and Edwin Ramsay.’ He continued to state the words that gave this man his rights under Scottish law as Lorimer slipped past them, his eyes searching for Maggie.

  He found her sobbing quietly in the arms of Molly Newton, the detective patting Maggie’s back as though she were a child in need of comfort.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he heard Molly soothe. ‘It’s over now.’

  Lorimer met Molly’s eyes over his wife’s heaving shoulders and she gave him a quiet nod. It was over at last, he thought, suddenly exhausted by the race to find his beloved Maggie.

  ‘Let me take her home,’ Lorimer said softly and then, as Maggie turned towards him he heard a plaintive cry.

  ‘Margaret!’ a voice cried out. ‘I’m sorry … ’

  They both looked towards the officers escorting Steven Dewar away from the bungalow. What Lorimer saw was a middle-aged man slumped between them, his thin grey hair blown by the wind, all signs of resistance gone. Whatever fire had ignited his wrath had now burned out, leaving just the shell of a human being. Lorimer stared at him. It was hard to imagine such a pitiable figure could have killed and killed again.

  The sound of the van door slamming shut cut off any further words but, as Lorimer pulled Maggie into an embrace, he felt her whole body shuddering.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  They had managed to eat some of the late supper brought up from the hotel kitchens that a smiling waiter had laid out on a circular table, the white linen now stained by red wine that Maggie had spilled. Now they lay in the massive bed, Maggie curled into his side, waiting for the tale to end.

  ‘We’ll find out more in due course, but it turns out that Steven Dewar inherited the Beith property from the aunt who brought him up after his mother’s death,’ Lorimer told her. ‘The team found out that much from registry documents. The mother’s name was Kennedy and Dewar was his aunt’s married name. There’s some mystery involving that old house in the woods and why he was so insistent that it would be his new home. I’m guessing that’s behind the motivation he had for stalking these women.’

  ‘And me,’ Maggie reminded him drowsily.

  Lorimer sighed, grateful to have her safely beside him. There was a lot to discover but it would be up to Cameron and the team to carry out these interviews now, his own part in the night’s activities being off the record lest it interfere with the eventual outcome.

  ‘Close your eyes and give me your hand,’ he said, stretching out to pick up a small object from the bedside table.

  Maggie’s eyes flew open when she felt the smooth stone on her palm. ‘You found it!’ she gasped, delight on her face.

  ‘Your lucky pebble,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘Saved your life tonight, maybe.’

  Maggie remained silent, pondering what to tell him. Would her husband understand the little voice that had guided her through this dreadful evening, making her stay calm throughout much of her ordeal? Would he think she were mad if she told him that she felt certain someone had been watching over her, in answer to her fervent prayer? Perhaps one day he would understand how these moments of faith had sustained her, Maggie thought to herself. She had put her trust in a false guardian angel once, but, she reminded herself, it was the man beside her that had saved her life back there. Breathing a sigh of sheer relief, Maggie closed her eyes again, an inner prayer of gratitude for the husband she had and for the grace she had been given.

  ‘He won’t speak to us,’ Niall Cameron told Solly. ‘Just sits and weeps into his hands, shakes his head a lot but says absolutely nothing. It’s like he’s suffering.’ The DCI sighed. ‘I almost feel sorry for the fellow.’

  Solly nodded sagely. He had watched the attempts to interrogate Dewar from behind the glass wall in the MIT, pondering what was going on in the head teacher’s twisted mind.

  ‘Would you like to … ?’ Cameron raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  Solly nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied. ‘But don’t expect miracles.’

  He followed the DCI along the corridor and into the interview room where the duty solicitor sat a little way off from the figure now dressed in jeans and a prison pullover. A uniformed officer stood sentry at the door and moved aside as Solly and Cameron entered the room.

  ‘This is Professor Brightman,’ Cameron began, ‘entering the room at nine-thirty a.m. on April tenth.’