‘Jeez,’ Mann murmured. ‘That’s what the bugger meant. The Gaffer,’ she explained in answer to Roza’s puzzled frown. ‘He said to enjoy the train journey. Is there anything that man doesn’t know, or can’t guess.’

  ‘He didn’t know he was going to be shot in the back with a taser,’ her friend countered. ‘Josep,’ she added, looking at the lieutenant, ‘you didn’t hear that. Bring your car and the corporal, to take us to the station. My guys can stay here and look after the G Class, or it might have been stripped for parts when we get back. While you’re doing that, I’m going to call Sabadell and have a helicopter sent to Núria. We may well need it before this is done.’

  Eighty-Three

  Davie Cobb was looking forward to the second home game of the season. With all the summer transfer movement, and the distraction of frustrating European qualifiers which involved the curtailment of player holidays for unpredictable away ties in places he had never heard of, it was usually into September before he could make a realistic assessment of Hearts’ prospects. He was still uncertain as he left the Diggers, but his confidence was renewed by the time he neared Tynecastle Stadium. Third place was a certainty and if either of the big two faltered or, whisper it, both did, then a bloke never knew. As he moved towards the turnstile gate, reaching for his season ticket, he was buzzing.

  ‘That’s him,’ the steward said. ‘That’s Davie.’

  A constable stepped forward, blocking his way. ‘Mr Cobb,’ he enquired, with excessive politeness. ‘If you can step over here, please?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ The exclamation was close to a wail. ‘They’re about to kick off.’

  ‘Can you step over here please, sir?’ The politeness gauge had fallen by at least three points.

  ‘Okay, but just for a minute, mind. If I miss anything Pilmar’ll hear about it, I’m telling you.’ He stepped out of the queue and towards the PC . . . who stood aside, to allow a woman to step forward.

  ‘Mr Cobb, I’m DS Jackie Wright, Serious Crimes.’

  ‘I havenae done anything,’ Davie protested.

  ‘I’m not suggesting that you have,’ she assured him, ‘but there’s something I need to talk to you about, about a route you drove just over a week ago.’

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  Wright weighed up her response. If she told the truth, that his wife had told her, would it go badly for Mrs Cobb? She thought not; the man seemed amiable enough. And yet she chose caution. ‘Colleagues,’ she lied. ‘Mr Cobb, Davie, I need to talk to you about a passenger we understand you picked up on the North Berwick to Edinburgh X5, early afternoon on the Friday before last. It was at the Archerfield stop, between Dirleton and Gullane.’

  He frowned theatrically, his face twisting in a show of serious consideration. ‘A woman?’ he said at last.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘American?’

  ‘She may have sounded so, yes. Can you remember anything else about her?’

  ‘Absolutely. She was in a . . .’ He stopped abruptly as a collective moan erupted in the stadium. ‘Shite,’ he muttered, ‘that’s us one down. Aye sorry, she was in a right state. She asked for Edinburgh; I asked her where; she said, “As far as you go.” Then she tried to pay with a card but the machine either couldn’t or wouldn’t read it. She tried again, same no result. I told her I could take cash, but she said she didnae have any. In the end I took pity on her on. That’s something I wouldn’t normally do, but I had this feeling that she was running away from something or someone. “Battered wife?” I asked myself. I think she might have been.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’ the DS asked.

  ‘Not until we got to Edinburgh. She took the single seat behind me, out of the mirror’s line of vision so I never saw her until she got off. When she did though, she asked me where the airport bus left from. I was pulled up in Frederick Street . . . that’s where the X5 starts and finishes . . . so I told her she’d be as well walking down into Princes Street and getting a tram. I hope her card worked there, mind; those monstrosities have got no soul.’

  Another collective moan, louder than the first, exploded within the stadium. ‘Aw no,’ Davie sighed. ‘Two down. I think I’ll go back to the Diggers.’

  Eighty-Four

  ‘How long has this been here?’ Lottie Mann wondered aloud, as the rack railway climbed upwards on its single track towards the Vall de Núria.

  ‘Over ninety years,’ Lita Roza said, ‘and it has always been powered by electricity. These days it’s solar generated; before, it was probably hydro. Sustainability, that’s the buzz word now. As well, for it carries over a quarter of a million people every year.’

  There were rock faces on either side but on the right, very close to the track, there was a ravine with a sheer drop. Lieutenant Prat had a window seat facing the two women: his eyes were closed, tight.

  ‘From Ribes de Freser to Núria the track is twelve kilometres long,’ Roza continued. ‘Over that distance we rise another of your Munros above sea level. If you like you can add two more to Dan’s record.’

  ‘He’ll want to do it himself,’ Lottie said. ‘My worry is that he might want to walk up the other road.’

  They were silent for the rest of the way, until the train entered a tunnel cut through rock. ‘Almost there,’ Prat whispered, with evident relief.

  After a minute or so they emerged into sunlight; unexpectedly, on the left, there was a lake. ‘A reservoir,’ he volunteered. ‘You can do everything here; ski, hike, canoe, even fish, I guess.’

  Finally, the train rolled up to the buffer at the end of the line. As they stepped out of the carriage, at least fifty people were waiting on the platform to take their places on the downward journey.

  ‘Follow me,’ Roza commanded, leading the way out of the station. In the open air, she looked around the wide green valley. ‘The fucking helicopter is not here yet,’ she complained. ‘I told them it was a priority. Never mind; for now we will check the hotel.’

  ‘Is that the only place she could have gone?’ Mann asked. She would have liked a moment to take in her surroundings but she understood the urgency.

  ‘No, there’s a hostel not far away, but we’re here so we’ll do this first. I’m hoping that she stopped at all. She could have got off the train and just started climbing.’

  The hotel and station were part of a single complex, essential in the depths of winter, Lottie assumed, when days would be short, the snow deep and temperatures sub-zero. It was a large four-storey building, with its imposing entrance overlooking the lake.

  ‘Lead on, Josep,’ Roza said as they entered the reception area. ‘You’re on a roll. Let’s see if your luck holds.’

  Roza, Mann and the corporal stood back as Josep approached the counter. As he did so they heard the sound of an approaching helicopter, drawing a sigh of relief from the comissari. They looked on as Prat engaged with a balding man behind the reception desk. He seemed to have a habit of nodding at everything that was said to him. It continued as he moved to a computer screen, studying it with apparent concentration. ‘His head’s on a spring,’ Mann muttered. It was only when the nodding stopped that he showed any sign of resolve, his mouth tightening into a line. Abruptly he turned, reached behind him and handed the lieutenant a key. Prat took it, shook his hand formally and returned to his colleagues.

  ‘When I get back to Ripoll I am buying a lottery ticket,’ he exclaimed. ‘You were right, Comissari Roza, I really am on a lucky streak. Geraldine Black is here, and has been for three days. At this moment, she’s hiking, but the manager says she told him, “See you later” when she went out an hour ago. He gave me her key; she’s on the third floor.’

  You’re a lucky boy, Mann thought. The second-in-command arrives in town and you get to show off. Great for your career prospects.

  As they climbed the stairs, in the absence of a lift, she was aware of the clumsiness of her new footwear, and reminded of the cost. Hiking boots from a shop with no local competition were never going to be cheap, she had realised, but it had been teeth-sucking.

  The third-floor corridor was forty metres long; Black’s room proved to be all of that distance away. Prat unlocked it then stood aside, allowing Roza and Mann to enter. There was only a sheet and a light cover on the bed; they were crumpled, a sign that the housekeepers they had passed outside were moving in that direction. The comissari opened the wardrobe; only one garment hung there, a dark red jacket. Leaving it on the hanger, she felt each of the pockets in turn but they were empty. She was about to close the door when something caught her eye. On the inside of the right sleeve, near the cuff, there was a mark, a smear. She took the jacket from the rail, crossed to the window, and held it up in the light.

  ‘Lottie,’ she said, ‘what would you think this is?’

  Mann emerged from the bathroom and took it from her. Awkwardly she took her phone from her pocket, switched on its torch and focused its beam on the blemish. She whistled. ‘Blood’s a real bastard to get off, isn’t it?’ she murmured. ‘You do your damnedest but it never quite goes away. It’s worse than red wine. You can run on all the white vinegar and Fairy Liquid you like, but it never quite goes away.’

  She returned the garment and began to open drawers. ‘Empty,’ she announced. ‘Every one of them. We assumed she’d be travelling light but this is invisible.’

  ‘Where’s her cabin bag?’ Roza asked. ‘The shopkeeper in Ribes mentioned it to Prat.’

  ‘There,’ Mann replied, pointing to the luggage space beside the door.

  ‘Then where is her rucksack? The one she bought.’

  ‘Not here. Lita, she may have said “See you later” to the hotel guy but I don’t think she’s coming back.’

  ‘And this may prove it.’

  She turned, and saw Roza holding out a metal bin for inspection. An attempt had been made to burn the contents but it had not been completely successful. Among the ashes were a plastic rectangle, melted and distorted by the heat but still recognisable as a bank card, and something else, scorched, light red in colour, bearing a crest, two lions flanking a shield. She took it out and flipped it open. The crucial page was still legible. ‘Geraldine Black’s in that bin,’ she said. ‘She’s destroyed the identity and she’s running.’

  ‘No,’ the comissari countered. ‘Not running, she’s climbing. And if she left only an hour ago, we may still catch her. Come on, Lottie, we need to get into that helicopter and go after her.’

  Eighty-Five

  ‘Wait here till I get back, Marcia,’ Jackie Wright told the driver of the patrol car as it pulled up in front of Edinburgh Airport, ‘and take no shit from anyone who tries to get you to move, not even our guys.’

  She stepped out of the passenger seat and bustled into the terminal building. Looking around, she saw a general information desk and headed for it. She flashed her warrant card at the smartly dressed man on duty. ‘I’m looking to trace a passenger we believe flew to Barcelona from here on Friday of last week. She may have had a ticket or she may have bought one here.’

  ‘That’s most unlikely,’ the young attendant said. ‘People nearly always have a ticket when they turn up here. It’s not a bus station, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘But it is possible?’

  ‘Yes,’ he conceded, ‘but . . .’

  ‘Let’s just stop at Yes,’ she sighed, forcing a smile. ‘Who flies to Barcelona from here?’

  He paused, then seemed to commit himself to being helpful. ‘Just about everyone, madam, if you don’t need to fly direct. BA will take you there via London, Air France via Charles de Gaulle, KLM via Schiphol, Lufthansa via Frankfurt . . . you don’t want to do that, though. I did, and it was a terrible experience. Only Ryanair fly direct from Edinburgh, but they can route you through other cities as well. Start with them and see how you get on.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’

  The Ryanair desk was a few yards away; an obviously anxious couple with a small child were having a heated discussion with the blue-blazered man behind the counter. As Wright moved across she picked up the end of the conversation. ‘There’s a pass for family fast-track security,’ the attendant said. ‘Leave the item with me and I’ll make sure it gets on the flight.’

  ‘Can you do that?’ the father asked.

  The man smiled and gestured behind him, towards a young woman in airline uniform. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘because my colleague here’s one of your cabin attendants. She’ll take it on to the aircraft and give it to you on board. Now go on, catch your flight.’

  As they hurried off, looking only marginally less stressed, he turned to Wright. ‘Don’t tell me. You’ve had security problems too.’

  ‘I like to think I am security,’ she said, grinning as she showed her police identification. There was something familiar about him, but she could not pin him down.

  ‘Ah,’ he murmured, archly, ‘that sort. Can I assist with your enquiries, if that’s the correct phrase?’

  ‘It’ll do. I’m trying to trace the movements of a person of interest. Friday before last, I believe she came to the airport. She’d have been looking for a flight to Barcelona. If she came here would you have any record of it?’

  The sudden curve of his eyebrows made her warm to him even more. ‘I can do better than that. I remember her. Late afternoon, it would have been; woman thirty-one years old, American accent. She came up to the desk all in a flap trying to get on a flight to Barcelona that had left ten hours earlier. She was in a proper state, poor soul; a family emergency, she told me. Someone close had died and she had to get back; she was babbling about the Spanish giving you forty-eight hours after a death to have the funeral.’

  ‘But you couldn’t help her,’ Wright said. ‘Did you see where she went next?’

  ‘Ah, but I did help!’ He beamed and she placed him; he had a striking resemblance to Alan Cumming, the Scottish Broadway star. ‘I was able to route her to Barcelona Girona, through London Stansted. She was able to fly to Stansted that evening. She probably had to sleep in the airport but she’d have been in Girona before ten next morning. Okay, that isn’t actually Barcelona itself . . . it isn’t even Girona . . . but there’s a connecting bus service.’

  ‘Excellent, Mr . . .’

  ‘Cumming,’ he replied. He sighed at her instant reaction. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I get it all the time.’

  ‘You wear it well,’ she told him. ‘Just to confirm,’ she continued, ‘was this her?’ She showed him the store image that Skinner had sourced. ‘Bad picture, I know.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s her. Her passport photo wasn’t much better.’

  ‘A Singaporean passport, yes?’

  He stared at her, frowning. ‘Why would you think that? No, it was American. I remember everything; she was definitely a US citizen and her name was Ruby Goldstein.’

  Eighty-Six

  Mann stated the obvious, shouting above the engine noise as the helicopter rose from its stance, the downforce from its rotors rippling the grass beneath. ‘Those are big mountains up there. How are we going to find her in all that territory, even if we are in a chopper?’

  ‘We’re going to have to get lucky,’ Roza yelled back, her voice crackling through the headset, ‘but we have some on our side. She can only be going to France,’ she continued, her voice modulating as the aircraft gained height, ‘and that’s on the other side of that ridge. If she’s just climbing blind, with the compass on her phone, she’ll head due north. But if she does that she could be in trouble. The terrain is treacherous and it’s a stiff climb. It’s much more likely that she’ll take a hiker route. They’re marked on all the maps. The nearest and the most logical is the cami leading to Puigmal. It’s the highest peak on the ridge, but it’s accessible. Once she’s past it she’s on French territory and I can’t go after her. The EU open borders only count for so much. There’s a ski resort no more than twenty minutes away. Even at this time there will be people there. She’ll get a taxi and be gone, maybe for good.’

  ‘She’s had an hour’s start,’ Mann said. ‘Are we stuffed?’

  ‘No, because it’s like the railway; uphill all the way. Puigmal is three kilometres high; she has another Munro to climb.’

  The Scot looked upward through the helicopter’s window, towards the mountain. ‘That thing’s more than two Ben Nevises high? Will I get to stand on it?’

  ‘If we spot her, we’ll have to, or pretty close to it. There’s no helipad up there.’

  They hung on to their seats as the helicopter soared due north towards France before turning in a great sweeping arc, heading westwards for Puigmal. They had been flying for fifteen minutes when the pilot’s voice sounded in their ears.

  To Mann it was unintelligible, but Roza was elated. ‘He can see her, about four hundred metres short of the peak. He’ll put us down as near the top as he can.”

  ‘But he can’t land, you said!’

  ‘Ladder descent. You’ll have to drop a few feet.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  The side door of the aircraft slid open. Clinging to a bar, Roza kicked a rope ladder that lay on the floor, sending it tumbling. She grabbed it, secured her foot in a rung and slid through the exit.

  A few days later, Lottie told Dan, ‘I had no time to be afraid. If I had, I’d have been scared shitless.’ In the moment she followed the Catalan’s example.

  ‘Let go,’ Roza called from below, ‘it’s only a few feet. I’ll catch you.’

  Good luck with that, she thought, and let go.

  She landed on one foot and rolled sideways, her bulk taking the other woman with her, but the pilot had chosen a good spot for the evacuation. Within seconds they were both on their feet.

  The person formerly known as Geraldine Black was fifty metres below them on the cami. ‘You realise,’ Mann whispered, aware suddenly of the oxygen deficit at their altitude, ‘that if she runs, you’re going to have to fucking catch her, because I’ll be no fu . . .’ She stopped to catch her breath.