Dark Flight (10 page)

She had phoned ahead and explained the purpose of her visit. The library was manned by volunteers two days a week, Monday and Thursday. The seriousness of her quest had brought in a volunteer just to see her, despite it being Wednesday.

It took forty-five minutes to reach the Edinburgh ring road. Even Edinburgh’s outskirts were tidier than Glasgow’s, the ring road enclosing Scotland’s capital city like a curved arm. To the right, where the slopes of the Pentlands housed the longest dry-ski run in the UK, flashes of light marked skiers weaving their way down the artificial surface.

She had printed out a route map from the internet before leaving. It seemed pretty straightforward. The first major roundabout after the Lothian Junction. The Victoria Colliery was well posted in brown-and-white tourist signs. Three miles on from the roundabout, she swung right into the Visitor Centre car park.

The library and offices were across the road in what looked like an old primary school or village hall, a big red colliery wheel outside the front door. Mike Davies, volunteer and ex-miner, was waiting for her in the library. A dapper man in a tweed jacket, his fresh-faced complexion belied his years. Behind thick glasses, his eyes were friendly and concerned.

‘A bad business,’ he muttered when she offered her thanks. ‘I’m glad to help.’

He’d already laid out photocopied maps pinpointing former mines in the Glasgow area, and a set of books on the mineral make-up of each.

He left her to it, bringing her a mug of tea and a slice of cake five minutes later. ‘We get well looked after here. The cafe in the visitor centre sends over home baking.’

‘Just what I need.’

The rich tiffin cake tasted delicious, especially since she had missed lunch somewhere along the way.

Few people realised the previous extent of mining in the Glasgow area. Going back as far as the nineteenth century there were literally hundreds of working mines. By the 1970s there were nearer half a dozen. Each had its specialisation – household coal, splint, Drumgray, Blackband or Virgin.

A walk along the River Kelvin with her father when she was a child had always included the scary story of the young army officer who had tripped and fallen down an abandoned mine shaft in the grounds of a big house, and was stranded there for ten days before being rescued. Children playing in the woods heard him calling, imagined it was a ghost and ran away. By luck or the grace of God, someone out walking their dog found him before he died. Dounane Gardens was built over that eighteenth-century mine. Like hundreds of others it was long forgotten.

Rhona’s blood ran cold at the thought of a terrified Stephen, like the young officer, dying alone in the dark.

Or not alone.

The thought focused her on the map. She knew the
make-up of the coal dust and she highlighted any area that came close to her mineral analysis.

There were still too many.

Most species of bugloss preferred sunny, well-drained soils. So not natural citizens of Glasgow. But one did grow here: viper’s bugloss or
Echium Vulgare
. Rare but beautiful, a striking blue, it had been identified in four locations. Three on bings at Gateside and Bardykes, to the south of the Clyde, and Kenmuirhill to the north. But the biggest concentration was recorded near Kenmuirhill, on the rubble waste ground at the derelict site of the former Hallside Steelworks. In 1989, it had provided a stunning display in the solidified slag, reminiscent of Tenerife.

All four locations were close to one another, but the Kenmuirhill pit had the closest mineral make-up to their sample.

She called Bill to tell him what she’d found but his mobile was either off or he wasn’t answering. So she phoned the incident room and was immediately put through to DC Clark.

‘You’ve found something?’

Rhona rattled off her list of possibilities with Kenmuirhill at the top. ‘I’ll have to collect soil samples from all the areas for comparison. But I’d recommend a search of any abandoned or derelict buildings around Kenmuir.’

‘Right.’

‘I can’t reach Bill.’

‘Neither can I, but I’ll speak to DCI Sutherland.’

Mike was hovering at Rhona’s side when she came
off the phone. ‘Another mug of tea or some proper lunch?’

‘Thanks, Mike, but I have to go.’

The old miner was examining her with questioning eyes. She had to give him some reason for hope.

‘We have a place to start looking.’ That was all she could say.

He appreciated the reason for her reticence. ‘If there’s anything more I can do, just get in touch.’ He swept his arm around the carefully catalogued shelves. ‘I’m the search engine around here.’

‘Probably quicker than a computer, too.’

‘I have six grandchildren, you know.’ There was a catch in his throat. ‘They’re my life.’

Rhona knew what he was trying to say. ‘We’ll find him,’ she assured him. The words
dead or alive
hung in the air, unsaid.

THE WOMAN IN
the wheelchair resembled an old lady, but when you got up close you realised she wasn’t. Her body had simply shrunk inside its skin. Most of her hair had gone, leaving only a wispy brown down. A clear tube descended from her right nostril and disappeared inside her sweater. She sat very still, like a fine piece of china that any slight movement might knock over and shatter.

She sensed Bill’s eyes on her and turned. Something resembling a gargoyle smile seized Bill’s face.

She acknowledged his attempt with a small smile in return. She was obviously used to his sort of pity.

‘Can I help?’ A smart middle-aged woman called from the reception desk.

Bill stumbled his way through the words
Breast Clinic
.

‘You’ve come in the wrong way. This is cardiovascular.’

Bill stood stupidly, still in shock at the image in the wheelchair, half listening to the receptionist’s instructions.

‘Breast Clinic is next entrance along.’

‘Thanks.’

His legs felt like water. Outside, he leaned against a pillar.

What if Margaret got to look like that woman in the wheelchair? So still and fragile and ill? His body shook with unimaginable horror. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life before. And had more self-loathing.

This wasn’t about him or how he felt. Who the fuck cared if he was afraid? The one who counted here was Margaret. Not the silly bastard she married thirty years ago.

He found himself reaching in his pocket for the cigarettes he’d given up on their marriage day, because Margaret asked him to.

‘I don’t want to be a tobacco widow,’ is what she’d said.

He didn’t want her to be either.

And who got the cancer?

Anger flooded his veins. Who got the fucking cancer?

Shut up!
He said the words out loud and a woman passing with a kid gave him a dirty look.

He didn’t know that yet, he told himself. Except he did. He knew it with the same certainty that he’d known the sex of his kids before they were born. With the same certainty he’d known the moment he met her that Margaret would be the love of his life.

Margaret had cancer. He just didn’t know how badly she had it.

He saw her emerge from the neighbouring entrance.
She stood and glanced about her, searching for him.

‘Margaret!’ he shouted. ‘I’m here.’

They sat in the car in the car park. She wanted to tell him the facts before they got home. Her hands were clasped in her lap. He knew it was to stop them shaking.

‘They’ve taken a biopsy. They’ll contact me as soon as they know.’

Bill realised he was holding his breath and had been since they got in the car. ‘How long before we know?’

‘A week.’ She drew herself up. ‘Right. What about the missing boy?’

‘Still missing.’

‘Alive?’ Margaret had been a policeman’s wife long enough to know that statistically speaking Stephen was dead as soon as they crossed the twelve-hour threshold in the search for him.

‘I hope so.’

‘Drop me home,’ she told him. ‘And get back on the job.’

They drove back in silence. She wouldn’t let him come in with her.

‘Let me know when you’re coming home to eat.’ She pecked his cheek and whispered, ‘I love you.’

He waited until she was inside and the door shut before he turned on his mobile.

‘Wait for back-up before you go on site.’

There was silence at Rhona’s end.

‘Did you hear me, Rhona?’

‘I’m almost there, Bill. I’m only taking soil samples and checking for viper’s bugloss.’

‘What if he is keeping the kid there? You might alert him.’

She thought about that. ‘I’m less likely to alert him than a police unit.’

Which was true. Still, instinct told him that someone who could kill so easily wouldn’t like anyone sniffing around. A woman on her own was easy prey.

‘DC McNab is on his way. He’ll meet you at the end of River Road next to New Carmyle Park. Wait for him there.’

Rhona reluctantly agreed.

The M74 dropped her just north of the train station. Carmyle had retained its village size and character by being confined to a triangle of land flanked by the M74 motorway, the River Clyde and the A763.

Once inside that triangle, city life seemed far away. Even the distant coal bings didn’t detract from the neat street of red-brick terraced houses with bright yellow-painted doors. Carmyle Avenue headed downhill towards the Clyde where it became River Road. On one side was typical local authority housing with well-kept gardens and patios with tables. Across the road stretched a wide expanse of cut grass and paths to the river. There were a few mums about, walking kids in prams and chatting to neighbours.

Not the sort of place to house a child abductor and murderer. But it wouldn’t be the first neighbourhood in Scotland to wake up and find it had a convicted
paedophile living in its midst. And usually after a child had gone missing.

She parked the car and got out for a look. After Carmyle Park, River Road gave onto the former Kenmuir Road. The street sign was rusted and indicated a dead end, its original route to London Road sliced by the M74 extension. On a street lamp was a warning notice that no tipping was allowed. The threat of hefty fines suggested that the local authority was serious, as was the statement that they were monitoring the area with CCTV.

Rhona stepped her way around muddy puddles and walked under a disused railway bridge that began the boundary of no-man’s land. Beyond it the road was still visible, but fast disappearing under creeping vegetation, piles of old tyres and rusting household goods. Either the CCTV set-up wasn’t working or the council had failed to enforce its threats.

In the distance, low sandstone buildings clustered in a rough circle suggested an abandoned farm, its existence pre-dating the eras of mining and steelworks.

A sudden movement in the surrounding bushes startled Rhona and she jumped aside as a chocolate-coloured whippet shot out and bounded towards the river.

She waited, already conjuring up a story should the dog’s owner ask why she was here. He eventually appeared, panting from his exertions in keeping up with the dog. At a guess he was in his sixties. His difficulty in breathing wasn’t age, Rhona judged, but advanced lung disease.

He stopped to wheeze for a bit then managed a whistle. The dog reappeared seconds later, ran around him and took off again.

‘Wish I had half his energy. Not a bad day for walking the dog.’ He glanced at a glowering sky. ‘If the rain keeps off.’

He waited for her contribution. If she wasn’t walking a dog, why was she here?

Rhona decided to tell a half-lie. ‘I’m from Glasgow University botany department. I heard a rare plant is growing on Kenmuirhill.’

He was impressed. ‘Aye, it’s funny the way poisoned land can produce beauty.’ He coughed and wheezed a bit more.

She pulled out a picture of viper’s bugloss and showed him. ‘This is the one.’

He examined the coloured printout with interest. ‘I’ve seen it. Lovely blue colour, but it stings you if you try to pick it.’

‘Can I ask where?’

He pointed beyond the derelict buildings. ‘Site of the old colliery. You’re too early for the flowers, but I expect you know that already.’

The whippet had returned. It bounded around them both, barking excitedly.

‘He doesn’t realise I’ve no breath.’ He made his farewells and left, the dog’s sharp bark echoing from the archway of the bridge.

Now she knew she was right about the location, Rhona was impatient for a look, but there was still no sign of McNab.

She decided to risk going on her own.

The distant rumble of traffic on the motorway only served to highlight the silent abandonment of the farm ruins. A scattering of discarded syringes and condoms looked recent and the air smelt of burnt rubber and rotting garbage, yet the remains of the old farmhouse retained a stately air in the midst of such modern desolation. Only one full gable end remained of the original stone structure. Halfway up was an arched window, above it a carving, worn smooth by the weather but still distinguishable as a Clydesdale horse.

Rhona began searching the rubble looking for the telltale rosette of leaves. The plant liked to spend its first year close to the ground gathering energy and growing a long black tap root. When summer arrived it would bolt, growing a central header, which became a mass of blue flowers. The rubble housed a sprinkling of weld and wild mignonette but no bugloss.

When she turned the corner of the building, two boys in their teens were sitting against the wall, smoking joints, an empty bottle of strong cider on the ground between them. Both were dressed in white tracksuits, regulation checked caps pulled low. They slowly stood up, feet splayed for balance.

One pointed a tattooed hand at her. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Rhona suspected they were high and drunk, a bad combination, and probably no older than sixteen, despite the feral look. She could either run or stand her ground. Rhona decided on the latter.

‘I’m a botanist,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. ‘I’m looking for rare plants that grow around here.’