He got little sleep, checking the phone periodically between dozes, watching the icon moving inexorably away, wending its way north until at two-thirty next morning, it stopped in Glasgow. He fought the urge to get up and jump into the car straight away, conscious that his power for rational thought was at its lowest ebb at this time of day. His original logic still held true. It was more than likely the package had one or two more journeys to make to get to its final destination. He would be far better driving up there after a few hours’ sleep with a clear head and some breakfast inside him.
The strategy was sound, but its execution seriously flawed as after another three hours tossing and turning, he gave up and had a hot shower. He decided to wait half an hour for the adjacent McDonalds to open and, suitably replete, pointed the Range Rover north. His sat-nav told him he was four hours from Glasgow, but he guessed he could do it in less time by cruising over the legal limit and assuming there were no serious traffic hold ups, he’d be there before eleven.
The Range Rover quickly ate up the miles and once he was north of Manchester the traffic eased again but the weather turned grey and gloomy. He decided he’d better let Charlie know he’d gone away.
“Hi.” It was cursory and to the point. She was either in the middle of something or didn’t need him at the moment.
“Hey sweetheart. How’s it going?”
“Why?”
“I’m just wondering how the house is progressing.”
“Oh. Okay, I suppose. Why does it take so long?” His daughter was obviously in one of her irritable moods so he would keep it brief.
“They say three of the most stressful things you can do are buy a house, move jobs and get married.”
“Who’s getting married?”
“Well, you and Gavin are as good as; you’re buying a house together.”
“We’re not getting married!” Her tone said it all. Her father was an imbecile who understood nothing.
“Okay. Good.”
“Why good?” Change the subject Jack!
“How about the new job?”
“I’ve decided not to take it.”
“Why?”
“Because I can get something better.”
He was beginning to regret making the call; the sands were already shifting on the house transaction and he could guess which way it would go. He didn’t need to have this on his mind right now, but he would have found out anyway sooner or later. “By the way, I’m selling the house.”
“I know.”
He waited for some embellishment or qualification, but none came. “Are you okay with that?”
“It’s your house.” Not okay then.
“I need somewhere smaller.”
“Whatever.”
“By the way, I’ve had to go away for a couple of days. If your man Clive wants to get in to take some photos can you give him your key?”
“Where have you gone?”
“Scotland.”
“Why?”
“Long story. Can you do that for me?”
“No worries.”
“Love you…” but the phone had gone dead. Duty done, he tried to put Charlie’s frustrations out of his mind. Mercifully, or otherwise, he had something else to occupy it.
The road began its ascent towards Shap summit and snow appeared on the hills, adding to the bleakness of the countryside. There had been no more activity on Siobhán’s phone, and he was curious as to why there had been no response from Louise Harrison. It was possible she wasn’t a friend at all, just a rarely used contact from the past and given her experience with the hacker maybe now particularly cautious about giving away personal details. If they had been in regular contact, she would have returned the message immediately, but then if they were that close, it was unlikely her friend Sineád would have lost her number in the first place. He hadn’t even worked out what to do if and when Louise did respond. He would have to lie and that didn’t come easily, but if he could be satisfied they were indeed friends, then purporting to enlist her help when a mutual friend was in trouble was not an unreasonable request. What makes you think you’re a friend, Jack?
But it was also possible Louise was actually part of the conspiracy to find Sineád; after all, the tracker virus had come from her, and Sineád might have been suspicious of her immediately. It all depended on how well they knew each other, something he couldn’t possibly know. But if Louise was trying to find Sineád, for good or ill, then she would surely respond immediately to any email asking for her number.
He thought again about the two Irishmen. The tracker virus had been active on Siobhán’s phone right up until the point he removed it, so they would know his last location was Milton Aston. Over the last few days, he had kept an eye out for two suspicious characters in a black BMW but had seen nothing. Either they were keeping a low profile in the hope that he would lead them to Siobhán/Sineád/Caitlín, or they had lost the trail. Maybe they had given up now they realised she had a protector of sorts? He smiled ruefully at the thought he was her protector, yet that was the role he’d assumed, and he had to prepare himself for the likelihood that, even if he did manage to make contact, she would send him away with a flea in his ear; the whole business, fuss about nothing, the Irishmen, not really hard men, just playing at it.
He also, reluctantly, considered the likelihood she was really a con-artist who’d cheated those nice Irish boys out of something or other, and they simply wanted it back; in which case their intervention had saved him from suffering the same fate. She had read about him in the newspapers and learnt of personal triumph swiftly followed by personal tragedy. How could she have guessed Natalie had taken her own life unless she already knew? She had stalked him, tracked him down, fabricated a chance meeting on the beach, made herself enigmatic and irresistible and softened him up enough to pour his heart out, while she studiously avoided giving anything away. Siobhán had been preparing a sting on a rich widower and had been playing it slow and subtle by not appearing too keen until her plans were rudely and unexpectedly interrupted. He felt the pit in his stomach. He was two hours from Glasgow chasing a ghost; someone who didn’t have a name, and was probably, in Barry’s words, ‘trouble’. He really had no idea why he was doing it, other than a strong hunch that, rather than ‘being trouble’ she was ‘in trouble’ and didn’t deserve to be. It was a flimsy assumption; he was letting his heart rule his head, something he would never have done in business.
He took a break at the border and had some coffee, checking her phone again and the position of the new one on his own. He expanded the map and saw the package had actually moved a few miles from Glasgow Central to another location, which he assumed to be a sorting office, but could well be her address. He thought of ringing the phone immediately but held his impatience in check. If she now had the phone, she might call him herself. He was just ninety minutes away. He’d be there well before noon.
***
It didn’t matter whether it was a sorting office or not. An accident on the M74 south of Glasgow brought traffic to a standstill and it was three hours before he was on the move again. During that time, he’d watched the icon go north then skirt around the west bank of Loch Lomond, wending its way west around the top of Loch Fyne to Inveraray then south again before turning west and coming to a halt in, apparently, the middle of nowhere. With the road now clear, he pressed his foot down as far as he dared, circumnavigated Glasgow and arrived on the outskirts of Inveraray by mid-afternoon. Visibility in the murky conditions was made worse by the darkness that was already consuming the day, but he followed the app, heading south-west for six miles. He turned right off the main road onto a country lane and then onto a single-file farm track which snaked up a gentle incline in the hillside.
From the brow of the hill, he could see a dark shadow in the distance which he took to be a small loch with several cottages dotted around its banks. A single, white painted cottage lay ahead of him the icon flashing over the spot on the map. He stopped the car and turned off the lights, suddenly apprehensive. He had been chasing the damn package for over twenty-four hours and it had brought him to some idyllic, yet extremely remote spot in the middle of Scotland, and to what end?
He imagined strolling up to the door to be greeted fondly by some red-bearded jock in a kilt and piped in like a haggis on Burns Night. What would be his explanation? I must have taken a wrong turn. Could you possibly tell me the way to Milton Aston? It was inconceivable she lived here, yet this was where her mail was redirected. And how did she end up house sitting on the Isle of Wight; you couldn’t get much further away than that? And even if this was her real address, there was no certainty she would even be here, if, as he had assumed all along, she was on the run from someone or something. He should be stimulated and excited, yet he felt tired, dejected and filled with foreboding. There was more chance of this going wrong than right, but he had come this far, he had to see it through.
He snicked the car into gear and with the lights off, let it coast down the hill towards the cottage. It appeared to be in darkness, but he soon realised the curtains were drawn, a small chink of dim light peeking through a gap in the centre of one window. Faint whisps of smoke drifted upwards from the single chimney. The place was occupied by someone. He stopped the car in a passing place fifty yards from the cottage and walked towards it, looking from side to side as if expecting to be ambushed by two Irishmen wearing black. He dismissed the notion as fanciful, but it didn’t dispel his nervousness. He felt a chill in the damp misty air and thought about going back for a heavier jacket but carried on, judging whatever happened next, he wouldn’t be outside for long.
A grey Ford Focus was parked at the rear and he stopped at a wooden gate which opened on to a path leading to the front door. He still couldn’t be sure that, even if she were here, she had opened the package, but the phone inside was still transmitting so at least he knew it had survived the journey. Equally, he couldn’t tell how long ago it had been delivered. There was only one way of finding out, but two ways of going about it. He chose the simpler, but less direct, dialling the number on his own phone. It rang four times.
“The person you are calling...” He cancelled the call. It came as no surprise, but knocking on the door was the only other option and he didn’t feel brave enough, so dialled again. It was answered on the second ring with silence and some background noise before it went dead. He dialled again, and again, there was a noisy silence.
“Hello?” he said, his own voice echoing in his ears. “Siobhán?” An almost interminable wait, lasted five seconds.
“What do you want?”
“Siobhán? It’s Jack.”
“I know who it is. What do you want?” There was both fear and aggression in her voice. He couldn’t tell which took precedence.
“I was worried about you.”
“Sweet. What do you want?”
“I want to see you.”
“You can’t.”
“Did you see the video?”
She left a gap long enough to confirm she had. “What do you want?” She was running out of patience, but she’d had plenty of time to hang up, yet hadn’t. There was nothing else for it and he was cold and tired. He pushed open the gate and walked slowly towards the door.
“I just want to talk. I know you’re in trouble and I want to help.”
“You can’t. Go back to your life and stay there.”
“I can help you. I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He imagined her inside, arms folded, severe, no-nonsense expression, more than a match for him or anyone else. He reached the door. It was fitted with a spyhole. He took a breath and rapped it with the knocker. “Shit!” she said. “I need to go.”
“What is it?” he said taking two steps back. “Siobhán?”
“There’s someone at the door!”
“Then open the door. It’s fine. Trust me.”
“I don’t know you! Why should I trust you?”
“Because there’s no one else.” He rapped the door again. “Siobhán?”
“Hold on,” she said, anxious and impatient.
He waited. He saw movement in the spyhole and eventually, the door opened. She stood there, just as he remembered, tee shirt and jeans, long curly red hair, face set, determined yet wary, phone pressed to her ear. She opened her mouth a little and lowered the phone to her side. He did the same, stepping forward, instantly bathed in a delicious blast of warm air that swept over him. She took three steps back into the cottage as if to keep her distance. It was the first time he’d seen her afraid. “It’s okay. I promise.” He watched her studying him closely, unsure of what to do, looking for the catch, the flaw in his presentation, her chest moving visibly with the exertion of simply breathing. He grinned at her, relieved, nervous and weary. “You stood me up.” She stood stock still, like the heron before the strike, then without warning, launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck, gripping him tightly, pressing her body against his and he wrapped his arms around her.