Missing For Good

  Missing for Good

  Alex Coombs

  To Constance

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  More from Alex Coombs

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  1

  Jamie McDonald was waiting to kill someone. He looked again at the display on the dashboard – it read 18:55 Mon 24 Jan. It didn’t seem to have changed in what felt like an hour. The temperature outside was five degrees Celsius. About the same as a fridge. He was tense; time was dragging, moving so slowly.

  ‘So who’s paying for the hit?’ he asked the man sitting next to him.

  ‘What?’ Jordan McKenna replied, having been lost in thought.

  ‘I said, who’s paying for the hit?’ McDonald said. The two of them, he and Jordan, were parked up in a small white van by the side of the road in Howe Street in Edinburgh’s New Town. It was a dark night and a fine rain was falling.

  Jordan shrugged. ‘Some guy,’ he said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to talk about it. ‘You don’t need to know.’

  Bet it’s Millar, thought McDonald. He looked out of the window away from Jordan and checked the side mirror. That was all he was going to get. It didn’t really matter. He knew it was Millar. Jordan was Millar’s man in Edinburgh.

  He glanced at Jordan, medium height and build, hunched in his puffa jacket behind the wheel. The orange street light outside shone on the two of them. He was a handsome guy, thirty-five, but the years and the lifestyle were starting to catch up. In this light he looked ten years older. You could see the lines. Now he took a tobacco pouch out of his jacket pocket and started to roll a joint.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Jordan?’ said McDonald irritably.

  ‘What does it look like?’ Jordan glared at him in an aggrieved way. ‘It’s only a joint, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Put it away.’

  Jordan shook his head irritably but did as he was told. Nominally, he was in charge, but the reality was that the man sitting beside him called the shots. Jordan didn’t want to offend the man he had hired – he had a terrifying capacity for violence and Jordan was frightened of him.

  Numpty, thought McDonald. Here they were in Edinburgh’s elegant Georgian New Town, just a short, five-minute drive along the cobbled streets from Bute House in Charlotte Square where the First Minister lived. It was quite probable that the police would be patrolling round here and what did Jordan want to do? Smoke weed. Two men in a small van. And not just two men. They looked like criminals. They were criminals. Why don’t we just put a sign up saying ‘up to no good’? he thought.

  He put his hand in his inside pocket and felt the gun there. It felt reassuring.

  McDonald was a formidable guy, his pecs visible through the dark blue jumper he was wearing. The huge muscles of his biceps bulked out his jacket. Hard, defined jail muscle. Jordan had met him at HMP Addiewell, at the time McDonald was due for release on license, eight years for a bar room stabbing.

  When Jordan had been given tonight’s job and heard McDonald was available for hire, he’d asked him immediately. McDonald wasn’t the kind of guy to fuck up. What he hadn’t factored in was McDonald’s new-found tetchiness caused largely, in Jordan’s opinion, by him giving up his five-gram-a-day coke habit.

  ‘Run over again what we’re going tae do?’ Jordan said.

  McDonald said wearily, ‘When we see the girl, I get out and open the back doors. When she reaches the van, I stop her, get her in the back and off we go. You drive, I restrain her. Simple. She won’t cause any trouble; she’ll be too frightened.’

  ‘And if there’s someone with her?’ asked Jordan. His tone was insistent. McDonald’s nerves were taut, he could really do without this pointless questioning.

  ‘One person, they get in the van with the girl. Two people…’ He shook his head irritably. He was tired of this. There could be endless permutations – what if she arrived riding a camel? ‘Fuck it, if there’s two or more with her, we dinnae do anything.’

  ‘OK… and then, if there’s just her?’ Back to the original scenario.

  ‘We drive out to Muirhouse. I deal with the girl.’ There was a yard that Jordan rented there. Even if anyone heard a gunshot in Muirhouse, they wouldn’t bother too much about it. It was that kind of place. You minded your own business. McDonald carried on.

  ‘We put her in the other van and I take her away. You torch this van. We meet up tomorrow at Morris’s bar in Partick, twelve noon.’

  ‘How are ye going to dispose of her?’

  ‘My business.’ McDonald’s tone shut down any more questions.

  Jordan checked his watch.

  ‘Here she comes – guid, she’s alone.’

  Lit by the orange street light, her long legs striding up the steep hill towards them, she wore jeans and Ugg boots and a woollen hat with a bobble of faux fur pulled down low over her face.

  ‘Sure?’ This was her. He took a deep breath. This was the girl he was going to kill.

  ‘Absolutely sure,’ Jordan said.

  Now was the moment. He got out of the van. Cold rain and a bitter wind. Now the adrenaline hit him as the coke used to. Now his heart was pounding as he psyched himself up for dealing with her. Now he felt a mix of panic and excitement and then his eyes widened in recognition.

  Christ, it was her!

  ‘Jamie!’ She smiled, her eyes sparkling with delight at seeing him. His right hand tightened around the gun in his pocket.

  ‘Hello, Aurora,’ he said quietly.

  2

  To understand the present, we have to revisit the past. Hanlon thought of her therapist’s words from eight months previously. Do we, Dr Morgan? Do we really? Speak for yourself, Doctor. I’m in the here and now.

  The target appeared in the cross-hairs of the telescopic sight, the barrel of the .22 rifle resting motionless on her old folded Barbour jacket. A cold, February afternoon. The gentle chilly breeze tugged at her hair. She could smell the damp of the turf under her body, kept short by sheep grazing, and the tang of salt in the air from the sea. Clouds scudded across the hard grey Scottish skies.

  Her breathing was steady, the bull’s eye at the centre of the concentric rings of the target motionless in the centre of the cross-hairs. She gently squeezed the trigger, feeling the rifle kick. Hanlon glanced down at the dog beside her, waiting with good-natured patience.

  She ruffled the soft fur on
Wemyss’s head and stood up, slinging the rifle over her shoulder, and walking over to the paper targets she’d been shooting at. She pulled them away from the old wooden fishing crate she’d gaffer-taped them to. Looking at the holes in the paper, she nodded, satisfied. It was good marksmanship. She stretched and looked down from the hillside where she was standing.

  It was a spectacular view. Below her was the rocky coastline of the east side of the Argyll peninsula and the very blue waters of the Gulf of Arran. The island of Arran itself rose up majestically from the sea, its huge craggy hills dominated by the largest of the peaks, Goat Fell, its summit a crazily jagged assembly of rock, like nature attempting a futurist modern art sculpture.

  Hanlon and the dog walked down the track that led to the road by the shore and the cottage she was renting. The land was frozen and cold. Dead, brown bracken, the few stunted birch trees ghostly and skeletal. About half a mile away, she could see the roofs of the village of Skipness. Even village was pushing it – there was a church, a shop, a small school and a village hall but there was just a small handful of houses there. She shook her head in wonder as she looked at it. She was a Londoner; she could never have predicted that she would end up living in such a small place.

  West of the village, accessible by a rutted track, was the tumbledown one-bedroom cottage she was renting. Its main attraction for her was the isolation. That and the price. It was hers until the holiday season started in May, just a few weeks away now, then she would have to move on. She didn’t mind. She had no roots.

  She could access her property by a path that led up into the hills as well as by its drive that ran up from the road. She was walking down this track when she saw the car, slowly bouncing its way along the potholed road towards her house.

  Hanlon immediately dropped down into the bracken so she would be hidden from view, got her binoculars out and focussed on the vehicle. The dog, obedient as ever, crouched by her side. The car was a black Audi estate. She didn’t recognise it. She knew most of the cars in the village by now and it wasn’t one of them.

  The Audi parked in front of her cottage, the driver’s door opened, and a man got out. He was tall, wearing a charcoal suit and tie, dark-haired. It wasn’t someone she knew. He walked up to the door, knocked, and waited. When no one answered he calmly walked back to the car and got in. Even from this distance she could sense his self-possession. She saw him take a briefcase from the passenger seat, open it, remove some papers and start to read, making notes with a pen. He did not look threatening. Hanlon had made more than a few enemies in her life; she was always looking over her shoulder. This guy looked harmless.

  She stood up and walked down the track. As she drew nearer he noticed her, put his paperwork down, opened the door and got out of the car. He looked very out of place in his suit and highly polished black Oxford brogues standing outside the grey pebble-dashed cottage in the middle of the countryside. She walked up to him. He was tall, as she had surmised from a distance, and slim. She guessed he was about forty. He had a long, saturnine face and heavy dark eyebrows.

  ‘Hanlon?’ he asked.

  She nodded and watched as he ran an appraising gaze over her muddy walking boots, rifle in one hand, army surplus combat trousers, old cracked Barbour jacket. Wemyss, her dog, stood by her side, regarding the man suspiciously.

  ‘And you are?’ she said.

  ‘My name’s James Gillies.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his tailored jacket and removed a business card. His suit was tailored and looked expensive. She took his card and glanced down at it.

  ‘A lawyer.’

  ‘A lawyer.’ He gave her another appraising look. ‘My employer asked me to meet you and bring you to him for a meeting.’

  She frowned. ‘What, right now?’

  He nodded. ‘Right now.’

  She looked at him, perplexed. Right now? True, she wasn’t the easiest person to get in touch with. But surely an e-mail wouldn’t have been too difficult? He had managed to find her physical address, after all. Whoever Gillies worked for must know her name, so they could have given her some kind of advance warning.

  ‘Who is your employer?’ she asked. The tone in her voice was questioning, suspicious. Why not just call?

  Gillies’ face was impassive. ‘He’s a prominent businessman.’

  Really? she thought. A prominent businessman. Does he not have a name? Do you have to be so mysterious? A buzzard wheeled lazily in the air high above them; in the distance on the grey loch, a fishing boat was visible on the horizon. She could hear the whine of a chainsaw in the wood down the road. Life was going on around them while the two of them stood like some odd still-life tableau, Gillies out of place in his sombre suit and highly polished wing tip shoes.

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘where does this prominent businessman want to meet me?’

  He ignored the sarcasm in her voice. ‘Near Oban,’ he said.

  Hanlon thought, That’s going to be about a two-hour drive, north, up the Argyll coast. Two hours there, say an hour’s meeting with the mystery man, then back. Five hours. She wouldn’t be home until after dark.

  ‘If you tell me what it’s about, I’ll consider it.’ There was no way she was going on a four-hour journey without knowing why.

  ‘His daughter’s disappeared,’ Gillies said.

  Missing persons, she thought. That sounded good to her. She looked at Gillies; no more was going to be forthcoming. She pointed at the dog.

  ‘He’ll have to come too.’

  ‘Fine.’ Gillies didn’t miss a beat.

  She nodded at the rifle. ‘I’ll just put this away.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Gillies said. He seemed a man of few words.

  She let herself into the cottage, left her boots on the mat by the door and pulled on a pair of Air Max training shoes. Wemyss looked at her with interest and his tail swished on the floor. Training shoes meant a run and he loved running.

  ‘Not today, boy.’ She ruffled the fur on his head. ‘We’re going to meet a client.’ The dog looked at her and she kissed his head. He sensed her excitement and wagged his tail. ‘That’s right, a client.’ She grinned at the dog. ‘Our first one!’

  The two of them left the house and she locked the door. The taciturn Gillies opened the hatch and the border collie jumped inside. Hanlon got in the passenger seat and Gillies climbed in. He started the car.

  ‘What’s her name?’ she asked. He turned his head and looked at her, frowning. ‘The missing girl,’ she prompted him, ‘what’s her name?’

  ‘Aurora,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Aurora.’

  3

  The black BMW 4 x 4 drove slowly towards a block of flats in Clydebank in the west side of Glasgow. From the living room window on the sixth floor, Calla Lennox looked at the car with a growing feeling of unease. Drug dealer, had to be. Nobody with money would be coming here otherwise. Especially in a car like that. Calla had been born on the estate – she knew just about everyone who lived here. Aside from a couple of years in care homes and a period across the river in Port Glasgow, it had been home for most of her life. She was dyslexic; she couldn’t write the word, but she knew a vehicle like that spelled ‘trouble’.

  ‘Drew, come here,’ she said to the man sitting with his feet up on the sofa. He was short and muscular with a round, pleasant face and spiky dark hair. He was wearing a Celtic away jersey and a heavy gold chain round his neck.

  He looked up from his phone. ‘What now?’ he said in an exasperated tone. The baby had only just gone to sleep.

  ‘Come and look at this.’

  The 4 x 4 was pulling up outside their block. She stared at it with troubled eyes.

  Calla’s face was worried, her voice quiet. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered to himself, putting his phone down.

  He went over to the window.

  ‘What?’

  She pointed at the car. They exchanged looks. They were both concerned now.

  Drew thought frantically. Had he had issues wit
h anyone recently? Home, pub, small deals of Charlie and weed here and there, all local, all above board – these were some of the things running through his head. He didn’t owe Frank – his supplier – any money, he hadn’t cheated anyone, he was a reliable dealer, he didn’t short-change customers. Maybe it was nothing. Or if it wasn’t, maybe it was nothing to do with him.

  Had someone fitted him up? Surely not?

  The BMW parked. They stared down at it, far below, pulling up by the front door, the light glinting off its bodywork. It was like waiting for the curtain to go up before a show. Who was going to get out?

  Calla and Drew watched, holding their breaths, hoping to be able to release them in relief. Then the doors opened, four doors, all in unison as if choreographed, and four men got out. Three pairs of trainers and one pair of highly polished black brogues hit the dirty tarmac outside the front doors of the tower block simultaneously. Three men in bomber jackets; the one who had been sitting in the front passenger seat wearing a tan mac. He was much taller than the others – you could see that even from up here. He pushed some of his floppy dark hair back from his forehead and lit a cigarette. He suddenly looked upwards towards them. Calla knew it was impossible for him to be looking at her directly, but that was what it felt like. He took a few drags on his cigarette and then threw it to the ground, half smoked; three of them headed inside, one stayed behind, leaning against the bonnet of the car.