I paused for one second. I could see a shadow moving. A flicker in the near-darkness.
Silently, I ran to the edge of the bothy and slipped around to the back, immediately spotting a woodshed which was only twice as big as me and already full of logs. Hardly a great hiding place. Trying to keep control of my breathing, I moved towards it, wondering if it was worth trying anyway, if I could squeeze in, but I skidded, just managing to stay upright. Looking down, I saw I had slipped on something plastic and crouched to inspect it. It was a sheet of tarpaulin, covered with an inch or two of snow. I guessed the tarpaulin must have been on top of the woodshed but had blown on to the ground.
I had no time to think about it. I got on to my hands and knees, then lay down and gently pulled the tarpaulin over me until I was completely covered. My hope was that most of the snow would stay in place, providing camouflage. I lay asflat as I could. The rifle lay across my belly and I realized I’d made it extremely hard for myself to shoot him. If he knew I was beneath the tarpaulin, all he had to do was fire a few bullets into it. But it was too late. I could hear, or perhaps, sense him come close.
I kept my breaths shallow and waited, praying he wouldn’t guess I was under here. It was so cold I couldn’t feel my body. I said a silent prayer. Please. Let him give up.
And then a mobile phone rang.
It took a moment for me to realize it was mine.
Oh fuck.
In one motion, I sat up, like Nosferatu emerging from his coffin, pushing the tarpaulin to one side, snow cascading over my head, blinding me, and I pointed the gun straight ahead of me, into the darkness.
‘I’ll shoot!’ I yelled. And I don’t know if I meant to do it or if it was a tremor that went through me, but I squeezed the trigger and the rifle made a cracking sound, but there was no cry, no sound of a body hitting the ground.
‘Drop it!’ commanded the voice, stopping me in my tracks before I could fire blindly again.
Holding the rifle in one hand, I wiped at my eyes and looked up at the person standing over me.
It was PC Williams.
She had her palms up. No weapon of her own.
‘Patrick,’ she said, not sounding particularly calm. ‘Put the weapon aside.’
I did as she asked, tossing it to my right, and she scurried forward to snatch it up. I expected her to point it at me, but instead she unloaded it, dropping the magazine into her coat pocket.
‘Get up,’ she said. ‘On your feet.’
I did as she asked.
‘Okay. Put your hands behind your back and turn around, slowly.’
I did this, too. I was dizzy, my clothes damp. I felt something on my wrist, then on the other, and realized she had snapped handcuffs on me.
‘What the hell?’ I tried to turn around, but she had hold of my upper arm and told me to walk, pushing me back the way I’d come, past the bothy.
We passed Morag’s body, and Susan said, ‘Keep going.’
‘Wait, you don’t think I did that, do you? It was Zack. Miranda’s husband. He shot Morag then threw the gun to me.’
I could hear how unlikely it sounded.
We reached Susan’s car. She yanked the rear door open and shoved me inside, then slammed it and locked the vehicle. Through the window I saw her go over to inspect Morag’s body, her phone to her ear. I wondered who had been phoning me when I’d been lying beneath the tarpaulin. Holly, probably. After making her call, Susan went to the boot of her car and took out a roll of crime scene tape. She tied one end to the handle of the bothy door then wrapped it around a couple of fence posts that were already sticking out of the ground, until the tape surrounded Morag’s body. The snow was falling so hard now that by the time she had finished this task and returned to the car the footprints– including Zack’s– were covered. Any tyre prints on the road were erased, too.
I slumped back against the seat, momentarily exhausted, then sat upright again, struggling to breathe, as if I’d been stung by the reality of my situation.
I’d been found holding the weapon that had killed Morag, with no evidence that Zack had been here.
I had taken a shot at a cop.
I was in deep, deep shit.
31
Susan escorted me into the visitors’ centre and instructed me to take a seat on one of the wooden chairs. There was an electric heater plugged in, glowing orange, and the room was stiflingly hot. Not something I was going to complain about.
