Final Cut

CONTENTS

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Lin Anderson 2009

The right of Lin Anderson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Epub ISBN 978 1 848 94543 2

Book ISBN 978 0 340 92244 6

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

An Hachette UK Company

338 Euston Road

London NWl 3BH

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Dr Jennifer Miller of GUARD, DCI Kenny Bailey (retired), Andy Rolph, R2S CRIME Forensic Services Manager, Tom Smith of Arboga, Sweden, stained glass artist and member of the Larkfield Gang (www.tomsmith.se), and the staff and regulars of the Beechwood, Glasgow.

To Detective Inspector Bill Mitchell

1

‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,’ he murmured.

It had been the recent televised Remembrance Ceremony that had prompted him to return. Watching five hundred primary-age children walk behind the British Legion flags, their poppies as bright as their little red mouths.

There was nothing to see now, especially in the winter twilight, but he knew they were there.

He smiled.

They were his.

They would always be his.

It was dark when he left the forest. Out of the sheltering trees, an icy blast met him head on. Snow swirled round him in a frantic dance.

When he reached the road he turned for one last look, promising himself he’d return soon. He braced his body against the wind, enjoying the pleasurable heat of memory as he stared back at the maddened trees.

2

‘It’s fucking freezing.’ Private Fergus Morrison cupped his crotch, where his testicles had shrunk to the size of marbles. He’d have to get out of this wind soon or frozen balls would be the least of his worries.

The entry to the civic dump loomed out of the darkness, lit by a single high-voltage beam. To his right a wall was graffitied with a Toryglen gang slogan,
You are now leaving Toi land.
In the distance, across a strip of darkness, rose the lighted mound of Hampden Park, graveyard of so many Scottish football hopes.

The gates to the site were closed, the vehicle barrier down. He slipped underneath it and took a run at the gate, easily hoisting himself up and over.

He landed with a dull thud and stood upright, listening. A rusty sign on the fence had told him CCTV cameras were in action. He doubted that. Who would bother protecting Glasgow’s rubbish?

He narrowed his eyes against the thickening sleet. The nearest skips were for metal, wood and household waste. He glanced in at the pile of bursting bin bags. It would be warm in there, but he couldn’t stand the smell. He wasn’t that desperate.

When he located the skip he wanted, he climbed in, cursing as his shin caught the metal edge. He fought his way through the layered piles of flattened cardboard boxes to the back wall, glad to be out of the wind finally.

Once he’d built his cocoon, he settled down to drink the last can of strong lager. OK, he’d secured a place to sleep safely and something to drink. No food, but the six-pack had taken the edge off his hunger. Hey, two out of three wasn’t bad. It was better than Afghanistan. There would be no one taking potshots at him here and any shit that smeared his face wouldn’t be his mate’s guts.

The memory of sudden death made his hand shake on its way to his mouth. He took a slug of lager, then wedged the can between his knees and lit a fag.

The arrival of a car didn’t bother him. No one would be dumping at this time. He knew that prostitutes from nearby Govanhill brought their johns here. If it hadn’t been so cold he might even have spied on them and jerked off alongside.

He took another mouthful of beer and blew lightly on the end of the cigarette. It was the nearest he would get to the warmth of a fire tonight.

3

‘Is Granny going to die?’

‘Yes, Granny’s going to die,’ said Claire, more sharply than she intended.

A small, choking sob came from the back of the car. Despite her stressed state, Claire felt a stab of guilt.

‘I don’t want Granny to die,’ Emma wailed.

‘Neither do I, Emma.’

Claire knew she was being blunt, but she couldn’t pretend any more, even for the sake of a nine-year-old girl.

‘Will Granny go to heaven?’

Claire didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she flicked the wipers to fast mode and peered through the sleet-splattered windscreen. The road was pitch black, her beams the only lights for miles, but she knew this route like the back of her hand. Since her mum had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, she’d travelled it often enough.

The sobs in the back had dissolved to an occasional whimper. Claire felt a rush of pity for her daughter. Just because she was beside herself with worry didn’t mean she had to take it out on the child.

‘Of course Granny will go to heaven,’ she relented.

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

There was a contented sigh as though a weight had been lifted from the small girl’s shoulders.

‘Why don’t you have a nap? When you wake up we’ll be home,’ suggested Claire.

Silence descended in the back. Eventually Claire heard the soft sounds of sleep. Relieved of the need to worry about her daughter, she concentrated on the road and the worsening weather.

She turned on the radio, keeping it low. The local station was playing country music, interspersed with warnings about the wind and snow. According to the presenter, the Forth and Erskine bridges were already closed and all ferry sailings had been cancelled until further notice. Travel was not being advised.

‘Too late for that now,’ Claire muttered to herself.

As if in response, a sudden gust caught the car broadside, throwing it towards the left-hand verge. Claire yanked the wheel round, narrowly avoiding hitting a fence post.

‘Shit!’

She would have to slow down, especially on the more exposed sections. When she’d regained her composure, she checked the rear-view mirror. Emma, thank God, had slept through the drama.

Claire consoled herself with the thought that they would soon be off the moor and in the shelter of the woods. She could speed up then and get them home as quickly as possible.

She entered the forest, the looming shadows of the trees swaying and creaking above her. Claire peered ahead, seized by a sudden fear that one of the creaking giants might come down and block the road or fall on the car.

A murmur from Emma brought Claire’s head round.

‘OK, sweetie?’

She waited for an answer, suddenly craving the sound of another human voice, but Emma was fast asleep.

Claire turned her attention to the rapidly whitening windscreen and tried to see through. The whirling snowflakes looked like fast-moving stars in the full beam of her headlights, so Claire dipped them.

Then she saw a figure standing in the middle of the road. She slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel.

Too late, she remembered that you were meant to turn into the skid. The car was on its own journey, ignoring her interference, slithering towards the steep embankment that dropped to the forest floor.

For a tortuous moment the car balanced on the edge, then Claire’s world turned upside down.

Approaching consciousness brought a series of nightmarish images: an old woman; a sobbing child; dark shadows of trees bending and swaying above her. Then Claire’s eyes flicked open and she stared into utter darkness. She realised she had no idea where she was, or even who she was. Her head was empty of everything except a searing red-rimmed pain.

She tried to shift her body, suddenly aware that the reason she could not draw breath was because of a seat belt biting into her chest.

The seat belt’s sudden release sent her tumbling into a couple of inches of freezing water. A wave of panic hit as she imagined the car submerged and her trapped inside. There was air, but for how long? Taking a deep breath, Claire launched herself at the driver’s door.

Air escaped her lungs as her shoulder met the inside panel. The door groaned in its frame, but shifted only marginally. Claire waited anxiously for the sound of incoming water. When she heard none she braced herself and tried again. This time it worked. The door jerked open and she heard the howl of the wind and the tortured creaking of trees.

Thank God. The car was upside down but it hadn’t landed in water.

Claire inserted one shoulder into the narrow gap, realising almost immediately it would be too tight a squeeze. She retreated and struggled out of her jacket.

This time her exit was easier. She manoeuvred her upper body through. A sudden moan and shudder of the car sped up her efforts. She freed her hips to land with a grunt on a boggy bed of moss and heather.

She lay there for a moment, catching her breath, then struggled to her feet. Out of the partial shelter of the car, a gust hit her head-on. She gripped the door to stay upright and stared into the darkness, listening for the sound of traffic, hearing nothing but the wind and the trees.