Chapter 30
Zack was wearing a long parka and a woollen hat, snow clinging to both, and in his arms was a hunting rifle. The snow was in my eyes, on my lashes, and I was half blinded.
‘I didn’t tell him anything, I promise,’ Morag said. ‘You said you just want to talk to him, right?’
Zack stood there, silent, like an apparition.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I said. ‘Zack?’
He seemed to be thinking about what to do. I suppose I should have been more scared of the gun, but I knew him. I’d just been talking to him in the pub. We were staying in the same house; part of the same family. Surely he wouldn’t hurt me?
He pointed the rifle at my chest.
I immediately put my hands up. ‘Zack?’
He still didn’t speak. Snow landed on my tongue, stuck to my face. It had slowed a little while we had been standing here, but it only added to the air of unreality, as if the world was grinding to a halt, everything happening in slow motion.
Zack kept the rifle pointed at my chest for several long seconds.
Then he jerked it towards Morag and shot her in the chest. Once, then again.
I think I gasped as she fell. I don’t remember. All I recall is the look of shock on her face as the gun swivelled towards her.
And then Zack tossed the rifle to me.
Instinctively, I caught it. But, of course, he knew I didn’t know how to use it. Before I could even think about turning it on him he had retreated into the darkness. By the time my wits had returned, he was back at his car, starting the engine, driving away.
Leaving me with the body, and with the gun that killed her in my hands.
I dropped it like it was burning my palms and knelt beside Morag, who lay on the path, blood sprayed across the snow.
There was no doubt that she was dead. There was a hole in the front of her coat and more blood on her face, pooling in the corners of her mouth.
Her eyes were still open in that shocked expression.
I stood and stared at her as the flakes settled on her body.
My second corpse today.
Zack. I still couldn’t believe it. Zack had murdered her.
But why her, not me? I was in such a state of shock that I couldn’t think straight.
None of what had just happened made any sense.
It was like coming out of a loud rock concert, ears ringing, hearing muffled.
I needed it to fade so my senses would work properly again.
My senses and my brain. My body was so full of adrenaline and cortisol that I was like my animal ancestor, all reason subsumed by instinct.
Then I heard a car engine behind me.
Oh God, I thought. He’s coming back. He’s changed his mind. Decided to finish me off.
I picked the gun up. I had never even held one before, let alone fired one.
I didn’t know if it contained any bullets.
Zack had shot Morag twice, but if he’d used this gun while hunting they might have been the last bullets left.
On top of that, I knew that to hit him, especially in this weather, he would have to be extremely close.
Like, a metre away from me. If he had Charles’s rifle, or any other weapons, I was dead.
It was better to hide and hope he came close without seeing me. Then, if I thought it was necessary, I could shoot him at close range.
Shoot someone. At close range. I could hardly believe such thoughts were going through my head. But even in my panicked state I knew one thing: I would flee, I might fight, but I would not freeze and allow myself to be killed like Morag.
I ran towards the bothy. The door was still wide open and a glance inside confirmed there was nowhere to hide inside that little building.
I would be the proverbial fish in the barrel.
I looked to my left. I could possibly make it to the caves, I thought, but if I ran in that direction I would be exposing myself if Zack had another rifle.
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 as flat 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.