The Shadow Man

A catcall interrupted her thoughts, and she turned her head towards the man who’d issued the unwelcome quasi-compliment. Other men surrounded her as she made eye contact with the one who’d expressed an interest. A cloud of alcohol fumes assaulted her nose, and she breathed in beer and cheap liquor freshly deposited into the stomachs of the twenty-somethings who were obviously suffering a high level of drunken delusions.

‘You on your own then, love?’ the catcaller asked.

The accent was English rather than Scots. She’d spent enough time in London to recognise the East End vowel sounds.

‘I’m meeting someone. Excuse me,’ she replied, keeping it light but icy as she tried to take a step forward.

‘You’re American. Should’ve known with an arse like that. Don’t see many that tight where we’re from.’

He moved clumsily forward and Connie sidestepped him, pushing her shoulder between two of his mates to exit the group.

‘Don’t be a bitch. We were just having a laugh,’ one of his companions added.

She allowed herself a private eye-roll and kept walking.

‘Stupid cow. Can’t take a joke,’ he insisted when she didn’t retaliate.

Keeping her gaze forward, she neither rushed nor slowed down.

‘Think you’re better than us, do—’

His hand was on her right buttock for no more than a second before she’d grabbed it by the wrist, wheeled around, and dug her thumbnail hard and deep into the half-moon lunula at the base of his index fingernail. Connie released him as his scream hit the air, and he leapt backwards, clutching his hand.

‘She bloody tasered me or something. Shit.’ He clutched his hand to his stomach, eyes watering.

Connie turned and stood her ground.

‘The pain’s already gone,’ she said. ‘It only lasts while the pressure’s on. You assaulted me and I’m entitled to defend myself. I’m going to walk up the road now, and none of you should follow me. I have a tendency to overreact when someone touches me. Next time, the injury won’t be so transient.’

There was a group shuffling and some muffled swearing, but no one seemed keen to take her on. Connie nodded, turned and continued towards Gayfield Street. She was expected in the gardens at Gayfield Square imminently, and she didn’t want to keep the man waiting.

She left at a regular pace. Running would have been a mistake. Showing any level of fear always was. Predatory men were no different than mountain lions – that was how it had been explained to her in the self-defence classes she’d attended religiously in her early twenties. A mountain lion could be fooled into thinking you weren’t lunch if you stood your ground, made yourself look big and stared it down. Turn away, run, show weakness, and you were a walking entrée. Ordinary testosterone-fuelled men were rarely intimidating to her now, though. Drunk idiots threw punches. Icy-cold restraint was much harder to fight.

Connie turned a corner and realised that the word ‘gardens’ after the name Gayfield was something of an overstatement. The grass had withered in the exceptional heat. A couple of forlorn benches were available as seating, and there were trees around the edge of the flora that had been preserved in the midst of the rectangle of buildings, but that was it. Cars were parked all around the edge, and there wasn’t a square yard that escaped being overlooked by some building or other. It wasn’t somewhere she could feel relaxed as she read a book on a blanket, or picnicked with a friend. It was a walk-through more than a venue to stop and smell the roses.

‘Are you waiting for someone?’ a man asked.

He stood a short distance behind her, taller than her by a head at well over six feet.

‘Did you know it was me, or do you randomly walk up to women at night and say that, because it’s likely to get you in trouble?’

‘God, yes, stupid of me. I should’ve simply introduced myself. I just assumed …’

‘That’s okay.’ She held out a hand for him to shake. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Baarda, right?’

He was in his late forties, tall with curly brown hair, broad shoulders, and a physique that shouted former sportsman who’d recently begun to lose the will to exercise.

‘Right.’ He shook her hand enthusiastically. ‘And you’re Dr Woolwine.’

‘Connie,’ she said. ‘Let’s walk.’ Dropping his hand, she led the way off the grass and into the road, looking up at the surrounding buildings as they went. ‘Not much in the way of obvious CCTV, in spite of all the buildings. Do the police have anything at all?’

‘Little if any that will help. Sunset was eight thirty-eight on 20 August. Elspeth Dunwoody disappeared at around nine thirty p.m. She was seen entering the gardens at five past nine from another road, and her car was caught on cameras two roads away at nine twenty-four p.m. After that, nothing. Most of the CCTV is focused on doorways and the pavement areas. There’s a distant shot of her climbing into her car, but nothing close up.’

‘You’ve seen the footage?’ Connie asked, standing centrally on one particular parking spot and taking photos of the 360-degree view around it on her mobile.

‘Not yet. I only arrived from London this afternoon. I checked in with the Major Investigation Team, looked through the file, then checked in at my hotel and came here. Apologies, I should have made it a priority to view the CCTV. Careless of me.’

‘You don’t have to apologise to me; I’m just the hired help. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here at this stage. It’s not my usual kind of case. Here, stand with me. I want to know which of these flats are residential and which are business.’

‘Um, should we not perhaps wait until a more social hour for that sort of—’

‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Now, look around and give me a percentage idea of the curtain-twitching response we get.’

‘Sorry, what exactly are you about to—’

Her scream was an arrow through the midnight air, piercing the fiercest double glazing and the thickest of curtains.

‘One, two, three, four … There we go,’ Connie muttered as the first onlooker peered out, followed by the flicking on of lights and the opening of windows.

‘Someone will phone the police,’ Baarda said quietly.

‘Good. I’d like to know precisely how long before there’s a reaction to an incident around here.’

A door opened and a man walked out sporting a plaid dressing gown. Connie couldn’t suppress the smile.

‘Do you need assistance? Is that man bothering you?’

‘Thanks for checking on me. And he’s a police officer, so we’re good.’

‘Well, then you’ve woken up the entire square for no reason. Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself.’

He exuded the attitude that only the truly monied managed to develop and a loudness of voice that was designed to indicate superiority. Connie ran a distracted hand through her hair and shoved her hands in her pockets as she stepped closer to the male.

‘Were you at home between nine and nine thirty p.m. on August 20th?’ Connie asked, ignoring the request for an explanation as if she simply hadn’t heard.

‘I suppose I must have been. I rarely go out in the evenings, but I don’t see the relevance of the question.’

‘Did you hear any screams that evening? Anything that made you look out of the window or feel concerned. Perhaps your neighbours mentioned a disturbance to you the next day.’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s a quiet square most of the time, but certainly when most of the traffic has left the city at the end of the day.’ He pulled his dressing gown cord sharply and smoothed his hair. ‘I should go in.’ He looked up at the neighbouring windows, many of whose frames were now filled by curious faces.

‘Of course,’ Connie said. ‘Appreciate the help.’

Baarda stared at her as the man walked, head held high, back into his home. Connie smiled as he disappeared. She couldn’t get her head round dressing gowns.

‘Do you have one of those?’ she asked Baarda, a slight lift at one corner of her mouth.

‘I, er, suppose I do. Could I just ask …’

‘You can,’ she said. ‘But please feel free to stop asking if you can ask something before you actually ask it. Kind of a waste of time. It’s not as if I’m ever going to say no.’

Baarda’s phone rang.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘No need to send units. We’re in that exact location. No incident here. Righty-ho.’

‘Righty-ho?’ Connie laughed. ‘Holy crap, it’s like I joined the cast of Downton Abbey. Where did you go to school, Eton?’

Baarda’s darkening cheeks were visible even in the poorly lit square.

‘You did! Wow, I thought Eton was reserved for royalty.’

‘Popular myth,’ Baarda murmured. ‘You do know we’re still being watched. We should probably relocate somewhere more discreet.’

‘Probably,’ Connie said in her best British accent, standing her ground and staring back at the onlookers. ‘Elspeth wasn’t disappeared from here, though. She went willingly. This is a high-end residential area with people who respond to noise, so it’s unusual. Scream in New York and people just turn up their TVs. Here, the residents actively object. There were what, twenty, maybe even thirty eyes on us? At nine thirty in the evening, someone would have taken a look, and Elspeth would have screamed a lot louder and longer than me if she were being abducted.’

‘And yet she’s gone,’ Baarda said.

Connie folded her arms and leaned against a lamppost, face turned towards the stars.

‘People disappear every day. They can’t cope with the stress of their job or discover they’ve got a terrible illness. They suddenly see their face in the mirror and decide they hate themselves. I could give you a thousand reasons. I may not be able to tell you yet why Elspeth’s gone, but I can tell you that no one forced her into a car here against her will.’

‘Because she didn’t scream?’ Baarda asked. ‘They might have been holding a knife to her throat or a gun to her back. Silence isn’t necessarily indicative of acquiescence.’

‘It’s not,’ Connie said, pointing at him. ‘But modern media’s done us a few favours that have changed our behaviour. Women in particular understand that once you climb into a car with an assailant, you’ve given away the power. You’ll most likely be raped, probably killed after that. Most women would risk a bullet or a knife wound rather than get into a car, well aware that the journey would likely be their last.’

‘And if her abductor had threatened her children? Not difficult to do – say their names, ages, the home address, perhaps their school. What mother wouldn’t comply to protect her offspring?’

‘Offspring?’

‘Children,’ Baarda said.

‘I know what it means,’ she said. ‘It’s just kind of clinical. But I agree, that’s a much more effective way to manipulate a woman. Her abductor would have to have been stalking her for some time. If it were me, I’d have tried to leave a trail. Dropped my bag, slipped off my watch or a ring, tripped and left blood droplets on the ground. Anything to say I was here and now I’m gone. I’m in danger. I take it the area’s been forensically searched?’

‘Apparently so. Nothing found,’ Baarda said. ‘So what’s your competing theory?’

‘That you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Why threaten a woman and make her skittish when you can present yourself in a perfectly believable way? Fake IDs are easy to get hold of – pretend to be a police officer. Tell her that she’s needed at the scene of an accident, for example. Get her out of the city into a dead-end road. From there, it’s pretty simple.’

‘Her car hasn’t been found,’ Baarda noted.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Tell me something, what are we doing here?’

Baarda gave a fleeting smile and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Police work,’ he said.

‘I’m a forensic psychologist. I help work up profiles on serial killers. Yet here I am, paid for at the taxpayers’ expense. You’ve even been drafted up here out of London.’

‘Edinburgh’s MIT are flooded. They have officers out of the jurisdiction working with Interpol and others missing owing to ill health. They needed cover,’ Baarda said. ‘No mystery there.’

‘Except this isn’t a murder case. It’s a disappearance with no sign of foul play or a struggle. Come on, you know more than you’re telling. Share.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘You shrugged. A shrug is an affectation. It’s rarely involuntary, like widening your eyes when you’re shocked. You were trying to appear casual and deflect. It’s a dead giveaway.’

Baarda sighed. ‘I was given the heads-up that she’s someone’s daughter-in-law.’

‘Businessman, celebrity or politician?’ Connie asked.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Only if you want an accurate profile of her abductor. If she disappeared for political reasons, it’ll be a different personality type to someone who’ll kidnap for financial reasons. If it’s someone prominent in lawmaking or enforcement, it could be a revenge scenario. I could list endlessly, but it’d be faster to summarise with yes, it matters.’

‘Head of a global tech company, widely known for his philanthropy, more political contacts than I could name … and I take your point.’

‘But somehow that’s been kept quiet so far. Not even a hint of a media leak.’

‘My guess is that everyone involved believes this is an extortion attempt and that a leak could mean a sudden and tragic end to Elspeth’s life. I was as surprised as you that I was paired up with a profiler. As far as this being at the taxpayers’ expense goes, I’m sure contributions will be made that far outweigh the actual cost to the country, but this way we have the entire police facilities and intelligence at our disposal.’

‘I see,’ Connie murmured, moving closer to him and lowering her voice. ‘You know, I can’t profile someone we’re not sure exists. Sounds to me as if Elspeth was living a high-pressure life. The sort of life where you might just hop on a train then hitch a lift somewhere until you’re well and truly lost.’

‘Do you think that’s what she did?’ Baarda asked.

‘I’m a forensic psychologist, not a psychic. I’ll need to meet with the family tomorrow if I’m going to help. Can you set that up?’

‘Sure, but not until morning.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s too late to call anyone now. I hired a car. I can give you a lift back to your hotel if you like?’

‘That’d be good,’ Connie said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all. There wasn’t much choice of vehicle left, I’m afraid. I had no option but to take the bright yellow monstrosity over there.’ He gestured to the far side of the square.

Connie stared blankly. ‘No one warned you?’ she asked.

Baarda frowned.

‘I’m an achromat. A head injury when I was eighteen resulted in a bleed in my skull. When they operated to remove the haematoma from my brain, I was left able to see only in black and white, and shades thereof. I’m afraid you’ll have to learn to do better with your descriptions where colour’s concerned.’

‘You literally can’t see any colour at all?’

‘I remember colours, but not as abstracts. I can place colour linked to an object, a place, sometimes even an emotion. You’ll get used to it.’

‘Have you?’ he asked.

Connie paused. ‘I find it easier to read facial expressions accurately, landscapes are somehow more beautiful, sunsets are disappointing, and I may appear in clothes that clash. That about covers it.’

‘I doubt that,’ Baarda said. ‘I can’t imagine a world without colour.’

‘This isn’t a world without colour,’ she corrected softly. ‘It’s a world where I have to paint the colours in with my mind. You’d be surprised how much more you notice when you have to work this hard at it.’

‘Is that why you began to specialise in profiling, because of your perspective on the world?’ Baarda pointed his keys at the line of cars, and lights flashed back at him.

‘No,’ Connie said, walking to the passenger side. ‘I became a profiler as a matter of survival.’

Chapter Three

The cherry-red BMW sat in the sweeping driveway, abandoned. Connie had her back to it, hands on her hips, staring instead at the police officers who had arrived at the scene first.

‘Retrace your steps in your mind,’ she told them. ‘Each one of you. From when you drove in and first saw Elspeth’s vehicle, to getting out of your cars and walking towards it. Which window did you look through? Who touched which door? Think hard about what you saw.’

‘Respect, ma’am, but I don’t see how it’s going to help even if we can remember …’ one of the bolder Police Scotland officers attempted.

‘Call me ma’am again, and see how much I like it,’ Connie said.

‘It’s an expression recognising authority over here,’ Baarda intervened.

‘When an American police officer calls you ma’am, he’s either about to arrest you, or he wants you to shut the fuck up and move away. I’m guessing this situation is the latter. So listen up and think. Were all the doors properly shut when you arrived?’

There was vague nodding.

‘Because if they weren’t, it suggests a hurried exit, or that she was surprised when she was exiting the vehicle.’

‘Um, the driver’s door might have been open a wee bit,’ another officer stuttered. ‘I grabbed the handle to open it and I can’t be certain if it was properly secured.’

‘Well done, that’s the detail we’re looking for.’ Baarda’s comment covered Connie’s obvious sigh.

‘And the keys?’ Connie continued.

‘Still in the lock, ma’am. I mean, miss. We haven’t moved them.’

‘The neighbours have been spoken to,’ Baarda explained. ‘Looks as if the car’s been here a while, although there’s no precise timeline.’

‘Whose house is it anyway?’ Connie asked.

‘Elspeth Dunwoody’s best friend. The family is currently away sailing in the Caribbean and has no idea why the car would have ended up here. No one had spoken to Elspeth for a couple of weeks before her disappearance.’

‘Public or private best friend?’ Connie asked.

‘Is there a difference?’ Baarda looked confused.

‘Some best friends you only speak to occasionally, never get round to seeing in person because the bond is strong enough to withstand little contact. They’re difficult to trace unless you’re on the inside. If, however, she’s an “out on the town” best friend, or an “always standing at the school gates together” best friend, then someone would have noticed. It would have been easy enough to find this address and to come up with an excuse to get Connie here.’

‘Check that out straight away,’ Baarda instructed the uniformed officers.

They scuttled off, looking relieved to be going.

‘She’s not inside the property; it’s been thoroughly checked. Her mobile isn’t in the car, but her handbag is,’ Baarda said.

‘No keys, no handbag. No clothes missing from her wardrobe, and a genuinely distraught husband and kids. It doesn’t look good.’

‘Best will in the world, it doesn’t take a forensic psychologist to figure that one out.’

‘Why do people say that?’ Connie mused, working her way around the vehicle and looking it up and down. ‘Best will in the world. It always precedes an insult. Not a big, in-your-face kind of insult. Just something slipped in sideways.’

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that it seemed obvious.’

‘You are institutionally apologetic. Seriously, you’ve got to get past that.’ She knelt down by the passenger side door and looked more closely at the paintwork. ‘There’s something on here. Tell me what you see.’

Baarda joined her, the two of them on their knees in the gravel staring at the door.

‘It’s red and has formed a droplet, but it hadn’t dripped very far when it dried, so there isn’t much of whatever liquid it is. But that’s red on red. How did you see it when you can’t make out colour?’

‘It’s easier for me, actually,’ Connie said. ‘Your brain fools you. It sees a patch of red against a mass of other red information and it’s hard to differentiate. My brain only deals in shades. The additional liquid on top of the red paint made a denser shadow. The usefulness stops there when I have no clue what the liquid might be. Could have been engine oil or mustard for all I’d have known.’ She took out her mobile and photographed the spot. ‘We have scenes of crime incoming, right?’

‘We do. I’m guessing if that’s Elspeth’s blood then we’re either waiting for a ransom call, or looking for a corpse.’

‘Not enough evidence to assume that, even if it is her blood,’ Connie said. ‘Don’t tell her husband yet, but get this rushed through the police labs – and I mean rushed like fast food, not rushed like passing new legislation.’

‘Point taken. I’ll chase it up personally. I should be able to get next-day DNA results if I make a couple of calls.’

‘That’s impressive. What squad were you with in London?’

‘Met Operations. I have a few years’ experience in what used to be called the kidnap unit. I suspect they were perfectly happy to pack me off up here. I don’t think I quite fit the Met Ops’ new cool, slightly unshaven, three hours a day in the gym, alpha-male type.’

‘Are there no women in Met Ops?’ Connie asked.

‘They’re also more alpha-male than me, I’m afraid,’ he smiled.

‘Actually, recent studies have proved that the alpha typing is often a handicap when it comes to higher-ranking promotions and long-term personal partnerships. Management wants quiet calm and diplomacy with an analytic brain, and relationships require longevity with warmth and humour.’

‘Sir!’ The shout came from near the driveway entrance in some bushes.

Connie and Baarda made their way towards the officer calling them, standing far enough back not to corrupt the scene.

‘What is it?’ Baarda asked.

‘Shoe, just the left one. Definitely female, and it matches the description given by the missing person’s husband.’ The officer held up one gloved hand.

From her fingertips dangled a pale slip-on sports shoe with little scuffing or wear. It was fairly new, and it hadn’t been in the dirt long, Connie concluded.

‘Any blood spatters on it?’ she asked Baarda, who stepped forward to inspect it.

‘Nothing visible. Can you point to where exactly you found it?’

The officer pointed about a metre from her feet, approximately two metres into the undergrowth.

‘So either it flew off her foot when she was kicking and resisting, or she was sufficiently aware of what was happening to make sure she left us a sign that she’d been taken against her will and threw it in there. Her assailant couldn’t let her go and risk wasting time searching for it,’ Connie said.

‘So we set up camp in the husband’s house and wait for the ransom call then,’ Baarda said quietly.

‘If she’s lucky,’ Connie said. ‘That really depends on what her kidnapper wants from her, doesn’t it? Drive me back to my hotel? I need to write up my notes.’

‘Now? Shouldn’t we be reporting back to the family and going into the police station for a briefing? I usually leave note-taking until the evenings.’

‘You’re a policeman, DI Baarda. You follow procedure, have meetings, share information, chase up leads. My job here is not the same.’ She walked to the passenger door of his car and climbed inside, clicking her seat belt securely and double-checking its reactive lock mechanism by tugging on it firmly as Baarda got in next to her.

‘I just assumed you’d want to be as involved as possible. You know, the more information the better, make sure no one’s missed anything.’

‘I’m here to paint a picture of the man or woman who currently has possession of Elspeth. I’m assuming it’s a he, but there could be a she behind this if it’s extortion, a revenge kidnapping or an attempt to distract from a different sort of offence. That could be anything from insurance fraud to corporate manoeuvring given her connections.

My task is usually much simpler. When you have a string of dead bodies there are patterns, victim similarities, situational similarities. Even then, I can’t be distracted by processes, procedures and police politics. Here, I’m throwing darts at a profiling board almost blindfolded. So I need to go back to square one, and see if I can do justice to the fact that I’m being paid. I can’t do that in the middle of probable chaos in a police station. You’re my filter.’